Mom's Hugs from Beyond

It's the year 2000 and I have run away from my life and everything I hold dear.  My marriage of 31 years is over, the family hardware business has crumbled after 97 years of operation, and my only brother has taken his life.  Nothing makes sense to me anymore.  My three sons and one daughter are all grown and on their own, and I am unable to financially keep my hundred year old cottage on the lake I love so much.  My father has been gone for 15 years having passed away at the age of 65.  He has left me to deal with my mom who has become more and more demanding over time.  She has continued the pattern of moving from place to place that started years before he died, thinking a new home would give her something to think about other than the depression that has haunted her most of her life.  She seems finally settled at the age of 80 in a posh retirement community nearby and oddly enough has become less self absorbed.  She spends her days making friends there and comforting those who seem to need some extra loving care.  It's a side of her that I have never seen.  Her health is good and she never leaves her room without being fashionably dressed, a habit that has been of utmost importance to her all of her life. 

My life been completely about raising my children, working at our hardware store, fitting in some time to paint and since my dad died, trying to keep up with moms demands.  I have never learned boundaries.  I realize that I am precariously ready to fall off the edge of sanity when I find myself in the basement of my cottage throwing every piece of stoneware from a large set of dishes against the basement wall.  As I clean up the mess while sobbing uncontrollably, I know that I must make some changes. 

A month later, I have sold my precious cottage and packed up my two dogs and everything I can fit into my red Dodge Dakota to move to the mountains of New Hampshire over 1000 miles away.  It has occurred to me that I have possibly lost my mind, but I don't care.  I have never lived anywhere else or traveled much, and I have no idea why I am doing this, but there is nothing that can stop me at this point.  I have made a halfhearted attempt to invite my mom to come with me, but I know that she won't.  She has never traveled and is completely bewildered by my decision.  Again, I really don't care.  I am tired of everyone and everything.

The next year is an adventure beyond my wildest dreams.  I build a log cabin on the side of a mountain, learn to heat and cook with wood and spend countless hours exploring the forests, climbing mountains and learning a new way of life.  I am in my element and the fog of sadness and desperation has slowly lifted from my soul.  When I speak to my mom on the phone, I feel a slight sadness.  She sounds so far away, but she never berates me for leaving her behind.  I make the trip back to Wisconsin once or twice to visit, but each time I cannot wait to return to my cabin on the mountain.  

I have lived there for a year when I receive a phone call from the retirement community where mom lives.  She has had a massive stroke while making her daily rounds of visiting her friends and I must come immediately.  I quickly pack in a fog, find someone to care for my dogs and hop on the next plane home.  When I reach the hospital, she is in a coma that she will never awaken from.  My four children join me and we maintain a vigil for the next couple of days never leaving her side.  We talk to her, hold her hands and share stories about her.  Even though she was a quirky and unconventional grandmother, my children love her very much.   On August 15, 2001, we are all there with her as she takes her last breath and I feel an unexpected sense of peace and joy for her at that moment.  

There are certain things that will always remind me of my mom. She had a beautiful set of cranberry cut glass goblets that she started collecting as a young woman even before her marriage.  She used to buy one goblet at a time when she could afford it, and bring it home on the streetcar to save for her life as a married woman.  As a child, I remember looking at them in the china cabinet and thinking how awesome they were.  To be allowed to drink from one on a special occasion was almost a sacred experience to me.  My daughter now has them and I travel back in time whenever I see them.  Mom also loved butterflies, so much that many of her lovely things had images of butterflies on them. 

The next couple of days are busy with her funeral and moving her things out of her apartment at the retirement community.  I must get back on the plane and return to New Hampshire because my oldest son and his girlfriend are leaving to drive across the country to my cabin for a long planned vacation with me. 

I arrive back at my cabin a day before they do and the next few days are a flurry of visiting different spots that my son and his girlfriend want to see in the area.  I am exhausted but strangely exhilarated for some reason.  We travel to the coast of Maine for a couple of days, and I bring my camera to take some reference photos for future paintings.  I cannot shake the feeling that my mom is next to me.  Despite my overall dissatisfaction in my relationship with my mom over the years, I do understand that she was the greatest supporter of my art over the years.  She saw my passion for it as a small child and provided me with a constant supply of art materials and encouragement.  I am feeling such an unexplainable rush of creative energy that I am literally buzzing with it.  The photos from that trip become undeniably the best paintings I have ever done up to that point.  

Julie, my son's wife now.  Painted from a photo taken in Maine August, 2001

The last night before my son and his girlfriend were leaving, we went down the mountain from my cabin to a lovely little cafe in Bellows Falls,Vermont.  I don't remember the name of it or know if it's even still there, but it was small and intimate and the food was exquisite.  It had no more than a dozen tables and each small table had a white linen tablecloth and a clear glass goblet with a tea candle in it. I had been there many times and always enjoyed the food and atmosphere.  We were all exhausted from the past week of travels and emotions and had ordered our delicious dinner before I was fully aware of my surroundings.  As I looked up, a rush of goosebumps traveled over me as I speechlessly stared at the center of our table.  A lovely cranberry cut glass goblet with a tea candle flickering inside sat in front of me.  Tears filled my eyes as I looked around the little cafe and saw that every other table had the usual clear glass goblet and tea candle on it.  My mom was never one to give hugs, but I felt the most exquisite hug from inside that I have ever had in that moment.  Mom was letting me know that she loved me and always would.  That feeling was beyond description and I will never forget it. The next year I spent in the mountains would be filled with her presence as I painted like never before in my little cabin hideaway.  I would also go back to the little cafe to eat several times and never see the cranberry cut glass goblet again.

I left the mountains that following summer.  I knew it was time to go back to my family in Wisconsin.  I had accomplished what I set out to do.  I had discovered that I was far stronger than I realized and that I had a purpose beyond what I had ever imagined.  

My mom left me with one more wink from beyond.  I had moved back to Golden Lake and was earning some money by helping to rent out summer cottages owned by a friend.  It was also my job to clean them between renters and do a little decorating to make them more homey.  They had been built many years ago and were rather shabby by that time.  I scoured the local thrift shops for curtains, dishes and furniture to fix them up.  I also hung some of my old paintings in one of them.  

It was a warm summer weekend afternoon in August and I was sitting on my pier enjoying the sun.  I looked up and one of the cottage renters was walking down the road in my direction.  It was a middle aged woman who was there by herself.  She had been renting for many years and my immediate thought was that she had something to complain about since she was obviously looking for me.  I walked across the street and met her in my driveway noticing that she was carrying one of my old paintings from her cottage.  She explained that she really wanted to buy it and I smiled and said she could have it. She insisted that I take $50 and then she explained why she had to have it. The painting was of a little girl reaching out to touch a butterfly.

She told me that her father had loved staying in the little cottage that she was renting and that he had always loved butterflies.  He had died in the past year and when he died a butterfly had somehow gotten into her home and stayed for a day.  It was a beautiful Tiger Swallowtail and she and her daughters had put a dish of sugar water out for it.  The next day it left and she new it was her father telling her that he was fine and sending his love to them.  I loved her story and proceeded to share with her how much my mom had also loved butterflies.  I said that she had also died in the past year and that it was……..as shock and another hug from mom washed over me...............…"A YEAR AGO TODAY!"   I am embarrassed to say that I have never been one to remember dates but mom made sure I wouldn't forget hers. It was August 15th.   You can say it was a coincidence but I will smile and say that I know better.  August 15th was also one of my mom's favorite religious feasts from her catholic upbringing, the feast of the Holy Assumption of the Blessed Virgin for whom she always had a deep devotion.  Another coincidence?  Perhaps. 

My mom and dad are buried next to each other beneath a headstone that has the last 2 lines of her favorite poem etched into it. It was read at both my dad's funeral and hers.  Also etched into the headstone are dozens of butterflies flying up into the sky from a painting I did for her many years ago.

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there.  I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints of snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there.  I did not die.

Mary Elizabeth Frye

P.S.  One extra line was added to those two final lines on their headstone.  It reads,

Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there.  I did not die.
I just flew away.