In the final weeks of her life, my mother shared a special disappointment in our last deep mother-daughter talk. In the previous five years she had spent most of her time in bed, with her brain ravaged by a series of strokes. The strokes had damaged her memory and her verbal capacity and changed her personality. Mom told me how sad she was that her strokes had deprived her of the joy of singing. They had destroyed her perfect pitch and she could no longer carry a tune. She felt that was her biggest loss.
In this late tribute to Mother's Day (May was a bad month for my family), here is a scrapbook memory of my mother. She was partially sighted -- legally blind. One of her eyes was a glass eye, so her eyes don't track together for the camera. She was always game for photos, though.
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| Quick drop template and elements from The Blues, May 2015, ClubScrap |
For her memorial service, I focused on the gifts she gave as a mother.
... Today I'd like to remember Mom through the unique gifts she gave me: gifts that arose from her own interests and passions, gifts given with a full measure of her love, gifts that are uniquely from Molly.
My Mother gave me the empowering gift of words. Mom was a writer and an avid reader. I remember how the words of Talking Books filled our house from the time she woke up until the time she went to sleep. She listened to novels and biographies, science fiction and news magazines. By the time I started school, I was privileged to have heard the words of authors such as Pearl Buck and Isaac Asimov. Talking Books were Mom's ticket to the universe, and her family was fortunate to share her journeys.
Mom also read books and magazines by holding the page close to her face and using a magnifying glass. Her example inspired me and I asked at about age four to learn to read. Mom acquired a reading primer and she patiently taught me the alphabet and phonics. With her limited vision, it must have been very hard for her to share a book with me — a squirming child, yet she spent the time and effort to give me a strong start.
Mom's old manual typewriter stood always at the ready for writing letters and articles. As a child, I marveled at how fast she could type, although she could not see the keys. She had learned to touch type as a young child, when she first started school at the Arizona School for the Deaf and Blind. In turn, when my hands grew large enough to type, she patiently taught me touch typing, though I was a most reluctant pupil.
Mom also taught me writing skills by example and instruction. She was on the writing staff of her high school newsletter and continued to write for newspapers and newsletters throughout her life. When she wrote, she asked us to review what she had written. Mom used those times as a teaching tool, to discuss the structure of sentence and story.
She taught me to love words, to acquire a broad vocabulary, and to use words correctly. She taught that words have the power to inform, to entertain and to provide escape.
My Mother gave me the gift of inquisitiveness. I remember going on a family outing so Mom could research an article on the local reservoir. As I played at the water's edge, she talked about finding the answers to the "W" questions: who, when, why, where, what and how. She used those questions throughout her life, not only as a writer, but also in her personal life to draw people out and expand her world. She made sure I knew the right questions to ask.
My Mother gave me the gift of self-sufficiency. She was a child of the Great Depression and came to young womanhood during World War II. She watched her Mother and other women struggle to put food on the table and keep a roof over their heads. She knew true hardship. I was a child of the 50s and 60s who idolized the TV fantasy of June Cleaver. Mom lectured me many times on my foolish attitude. She knew from experience how important it is for each adult to be able to support themselves and a family. She encouraged me to study, to go to college, to learn a skill, to establish a career, and to know that marriage and family are an option, but not the only option.
My Mother gave me the gift of music. When the Talking Books weren't playing, music filled our home. At nap time and bedtime she played classical recordings. On Sunday mornings, as we got ready for church, she played religious music. Sometimes she played old American folk songs and patriotic songs. She made sure that her children were exposed to fine music, as well as to the music that is our nation's heritage.
Mom had a beautiful voice: a clear soprano with a wide range. She claimed to have perfect pitch. She played piano and had at one time experimented with Hawaiian guitar. She wanted her children to be musicians, also. I must have been quite a challenge to her, since my musical abilities are merely adequate. Yet she patiently taught me basic piano skills and how to read music. She gave me her old guitar and helped me restring it as a Western guitar. Since my pitch is so poor, I struggled to tune it, so Mom taught me how to tune by resonance, rather than frequency.
My worst musical challenge was when my voice deepened and I could no longer sing the melody. I despaired of ever being able to harmonize. Mom used her wonderful talent to rescue me. We played records and sang with the organ for many hours and many weeks. She patiently guided me along the alto part. In church, she would sit next to me and would guide me by singing the alto part an octave higher, her clear, pure soprano soaring over the other voices.
When she was a senior in high school, she wrote a poem for her school newsletter that reflected her love of music. I'd like to share with you the last verse of that poem:
School is what you make it. / Life is what you do. / Music adds a richness / All your long life through.
I am not sharing personal details at this time, as I am still keeping a certain level of privacy for my parents, though both have passed.
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