Seven Memories Ten Years Later

Today would have been my Mom’s birthday. Last week we gathered to mark the 10th anniversary of her dying. Over the years the tone of that gathering has, understandably, evolved. It is certainly much less raw now. A decade passes.

I’m an atheist. I have no belief in the afterlife… but I still feel a connection to Mom in my memories of the experiences we shared. As my brothers, my dad, and I were wrapping up our graveside visit last week, I said, “I think about her every day.” 

Here are seven ways I thought of my mom over the past week.

Mom enjoyed getting rid of us. I remember (infrequently) catching her having a late breakfast on a weekday. She would wait until we were all out of her hair, then she would make toast and munch it in front of the TV. She also got into the habit of never having a shower while we were home, especially in the morning time when the War of the Water Pressure was on. If you accidentally flushed the toilet while Mom was upstairs in her shower, you’d hear her shouts of rage as the cold water drained from the system and she got scalded. If you knew what was good for you you’d be out of the house by the time she came down those stairs.

Mom liked lilacs. I have memories of them from my early childhood. Mom may have had them growing in the yard in Calgary back in the 1970’s. They would be cut and gathered in a vase in the living room, smelling sweet and strong. Years later, when I was a teenager, my friends and I were hiking around Lily Point in Point Roberts. There was a lilac bush there, some remnant of inhabitants long gone. I cut some blooms with my Swiss army knife and brought them home to her. I feel warm today when I remember her genuine happiness at the unexpected gift.

Munch like no one is watching.

Mom liked a good wine gossip. Once I was old enough to enjoy the effects of alcohol, I was gradually permitted entry into the realm of the Aunties. Mom’s nearest and dearest would gather, sometimes under cover of night… sometimes day drinking… and destroy a bottle or three of affordable white. Did the discourse veer into the the catty? Perhaps. Did my mother have a capacity for hilarious and cutting assessments? Certainly. Was I always delighted at the privilege of participating in such home truth and laughter? Absolutely.

Some party in Regina...

Mom purposely did not teach me how to read a clock. I never learned until it came up in my grade two classroom curriculum. Up until then she would often send me to bed hours before bedtime. I mean… how was I to know? Also, in retrospect, how could I blame her? That’s evil genius.

Mom could make delicious mushrooms. When I was little I would smell them from my bed as she and Dad cooked their Friday night steak dinner, having ditched us. Have I mentioned she didn’t teach me how to read a clock so she could send us to bed early? I think she basically fried white button mushrooms in butter, soy sauce and Lee & Perrins. Hot pan. Delicious. A forbidden childhood aroma.

Mom loved tea parties, but not with me. She bought a vast set of many teeny tiny dishes and would have tea parties with her grandchildren in the sunny back yard of her home. Oh… there was high-pitched chit chat. She was also an enthusiastic customer at the Preschooler Restaurant of Plastic Food. Imaginary money was paid. Imaginary tips were generous. I feel warm today when I remember her genuine happiness in our children, her grandchildren.

Mom did not have a driver’s license until the mid-seventies. So, by my math, she did not drive until she was over thirty. She was a young mom in the suburbs of Calgary, with four children, no car, and a need to buy groceries. I recall a sunny winter’s day when she undertook the project, getting all four of us in our skidoo-suits and boots and scarves and mittens and toques. She put my two youngest brothers on a  toboggan, leaving me and my brother Pat to shamble alongside. She hauled it all to the mall several blocks away, then bought groceries with us at her heels, distracting her like a pack of puppies. We always wanted, but did not get, the sugary cereal. After an arduous hour of thrifty choices and childish petitions, she loaded the food, and the two smaller children, back on the toboggan and dragged us all home in the snow. I am weary just thinking about it. 

She was a hero. I also imagine she was channeling her ancestors. Although mom didn’t identify as Métis, that strikes me as some seriously frontier Indigenous mom stuff. She was, definitively, a loving and magical prairie mother. I imagine there were mushrooms and steak, and wine, in those bags on the toboggan. It was entirely likely we’d be sent to bed by six pm.

There. That’s seven. I will never run out.

Back when we were just getting started...