Hardly a day goes by that a thought or question doesn't come to mind which will lead me to think.."I'll just call Mother and ask her." Of course it doesn't take long for reality to remind me that I can no longer do that. Nor will I ever be able to do that again, as I had so many times in the past, it had become second nature to me. Mother's unexpected death had brought about changes. So many changes with so many different faces. Ironically, the book she had been reading, which now lay beside her bed, beside was entitled "Changes." I have not read the book and probably won't for some time, but I wonder if Mother ever thought about the changes that would come into our lives when it was time for her to go. And I am not comforted by empty words such as "it was time for her to go," because it wasnt.
Perhaps I will never accept "this time" for I had things I wanted to do with my Mother. I wanted her to get well so we could spend time together, sharing these new babies, my Grandchildren, which were coming into the world. New life, that was so wonderful to me. Life that carried traces of her blood as well as mine, and we could share this miracle. And I had unanswered questions to which only Mother held the answers. Questions that probably hadn't seemed as important to me in the past, but now with Mother gone, my world had profoundly changed. I suppose I thought that my daughter growing up and having babies, simply meant I was growing older, but Mother would not. She would be the same. But now everything had changed. Not just time and circumstances, but my Mother as I knew her had changed. At first it was so subtle, I guess I did not see it, or hoped that it would pass, or somehow change. But regretfully, this was not to be. She had battled so much, including breast cancer and numerous surgeries completely without complaint, and I realize now she was tired. Tired and weary from fighting the hardest battle of all for her.. loneliness. Since the death of my step-father, loneliness seemed to wrap around her as snug as her little winter coat which she had worn long past it's period of popular style and fashion. Going through Mother's personal things after her death was one of the hardest mountains I have ever had to climb. It was a mountain with no valleys. This responsibility was left to me and her house just would not seem to empty. I went there everyday working as hard as I could, but when I returned the next day it seemed to be full again. Recently she had begun to dispose of many things via garage sales and charitable contributions. There was not a lot of anything..but just enough of every- thing. And everything seemed to be in such good order, which was not characteristic of Mother's housekeeping traits. Why did I not realize this? Was she getting her house in order, preparing to leave on her journey? These personal things were my Mother's memories. There were feelings of guilt, as though I was looking into a part of her that was private, belonged only to her, and no one had the right to do that. Somewhat "ashamed" I tried so hard to treat this part of Mother with the greatest care and respect. I didn't want to do this, yet I couldn't stop. I was looking for my Mother.
But something was happening here. I was finding little pieces of my Mother I never knew existed. I had always felt my Mother and I were nothing alike, holding absolutely nothing in common. I'm sure she felt the same way. But one thing was mutually known and accepted between us. Although we may have felt our lives shared nothing in common, we knew each other very well...or so I thought. But here I was going thru her personal things and not only finding fragments of my Mother...but of me. And in the most unlikely things...
The one thing which had the most profound effect on me was a card which she had received from my biological father, while he was away in the Army during the war. It was a lovely card with a poem inside, and on the front read.. "TO MY WIFE.." Keeping in mind that Mother had married my step-father some forty plus years ago and raised a family of four. But here was this little momento from my Mother's past which was signed simply "Pete" on the back. Pete was the nickname for my father, John Andrew. But on the front of this card, for all others to see, it was signed; "from your loving husband. I love you, Pete." But this had not been written by Pete... it had been written by my Mother. My link to this story is that I, too, had received a little gift from my Daddy, at about age four or five. It also had a lovely poem beginning TO MY DAUGHTER.. Mother saved it and gave it to me when I was about 10 to keep as my own. It was very special to me, and I still have it today. But my little "pretty" had no signature at all. This was understandable for it was made of a satin type fabric and wasn't meant to be signed in ink. But at a very early age I had taken a pen and had scrawled the word, "daddy" on it, making it> appear as though he had done it. I hid my gift so carefully from Mother all thru the years, for I knew she would not approve of deception in any disguise no matter the reason. I didn't want her to know, that I had "fixed" it. When all this time, she had "fixed" hers long ago. Did we do this because we wanted the world to believe we were loved by this man? Or was it because we felt like that was the way it should have been appropriately signed? I don't know. It had always been a well known fact in Mother's family that Mother had loved him deeply. She loved him so much, she married him twice. I think she loved us children so much she divorced him twice. Knowing he, for whatever reason, would never help her make a home for her and their children. The last memory I have of him, he was walking off down the street, when I was six years old, never to be seen or heard from again. So there are no real and lasting memories of that link to my geneology, but even today I still wonder.
But on this day, while going thru Mother's things, all I know is I was finding my feelings in my Mother that day....or rather hers in me.
With each little "find" the hurt grew deeper. Why didn't I know these things before? How much more of my Mother did I not know? How many songs had I listened to and never heard? I began to read a "family tree" of her family which had been put together by her cousin. It had new meaning to me now. There was a copy of a letter in the book which was written by my Grandfather's aunt, in the 1800's An excerpt.."the world is full of beauty, when the heart is full of love, and mine is you know.." I wanted to know about this relative. I think I would have loved her very much. But I knew I would never know, for any knowledge or feelings Grandpa had for her went with him; ....just as now there were pieces of feelings which belonged to my Mother which were lost forever. And I wanted them back. They should have belonged to me...
And thus, the main reason for the journals relating to my childhood and it's lasting effect on my life. With the introduction of the internet these have now become"Smerelda's Front Porch." This attempt is in the hopes that my children might share a glimpse of me that possibly they did not see. They will, no doubt have their own stories of events to tell, but these will be interpretations thru their eyes. But I don't want them to feel as I do now. If they feel "they knew me very well"...I want that to be true. I want them to know me...before they knew me. If I can convince them there ever was such a time..... I love and miss you Mother, For my children and their children, the only part of my life which keeps me..
from regretting past choices and wrong turns made by me... and dwelling on mistakes made by others, causing grief and pain for me...
and dreaming of, or wishing for, the brass ring called "might have been," and clinging to the belief that "my life would have been better if things had been different...."
for to have been different would have meant they would have never blessed my life.
Love, Mom 1998 
A dear Internet friend, Pat, made this for my daughter and me. I think it is ironic, for she knew nothing of this webpage I had done remembering my Mother.
