There was no feeling of sadness. It was acknowledgment more than anything else. She was here. Now she is gone. Forever. Mom’s last place of residence. Her stand-alone casita where she retained her sense of independence even after her mind began to betray her. Bouncing in and out of lucidity. Anger and humor, side by side, second to second. Those eyes, lost at times, but knowing she was lost. It must be haunting. In and out of the knowing.
The moments in between becoming commonplace. Nothing left but questions.
The last time I saw her she was razor sharp, looking up at me as I walked out the door knowing it was the last time she and I would lock eyes. “I’m going to miss you,” she said. “Come back and see me again.” Her face the face of an excited child. So small and so frail and so scared. She knowing that I gave her something no one else did just as my brother and his wife and their kids gave her something I did not. We each connect like jagged puzzle pieces, the edges distinctively our own. . There was nature and hunting and literature and the garden, and most importantly coffee at sunrise.
Those hours before dawn when neither of us needed to speak. A quiet dance of repetition. Candles lit, the rounded snap of the antique radio coming to life, and the tick, tick, tick of the electric stove as the coffee began to boil. Her heavy whipping cream and handmade cup. The creak of the screen door and our falling into the darkness and quiet. Sounds of the new world, refreshed, as it once again made itself ready for the great unveiling. The spiderweb of trees slowly emerging. The contours of the land. Twin Sisters. The soft movement of deer and owls and feral cats shifting from day to night and back again. Silence was and is a thing. An essential thing for she and I. Unspoken. Enveloping. Nourishing.
Her black hat still sits at the top of the closet. The same hat she wore in Wyoming in the 1970s. She and I with a Weatherby .22, canteen, and rain poncho striking out for the south spring or north rock pile. Binoculars scanning for furry or featured creatures. Misidentification was her specialty. “That’s a Red- tailed,” she would say. “Or maybe a Swainson’s, or Sharp-shinned.” There was never certainty, only curiosity. Guide books and battered silver cases with Pentax and lenses. Always the cases. Truck to tractor and back again. Recording the world around us.
Life was dusty, wet, sun-baked, and sandy. We were not on but of the world. That’s the gift she gave us. Go. Just go. And know that all surfaces and textures and loves and pains and joys are all essential to living. Cuts and scrapes and bruises and hurt feelings and cheeks with wind blown tears. Sibling rivalry. The big game each and every night. Passivity leads to death. Untimely and unforgiving. No backs. Jinx, double jinx.
She reserved places for each of us, like moms do. Private kingdoms. Each dressed and designed to match our needs. Handmade books, handwritten and read to us as the Sandman crept from our ears and slowly crawled to our centerpiece, dropping sand a grain at a time over our drooping eyes. Impossible to fight off. Guaranteeing our departure into the realm of dreams and nightmares. Sleigh bells on the rooftop. Cracking cold of deep flake winter. Cold tones of blue and green. Lights reflected off windows. Faces red from effort.
She knew I would leave. The second I got my chance.
“I was never worried about you,” she said. “Uncle Lester died in China.” (A world-class rifle shot.) Her way of saying I would strike for the horizon line for the rest of my life. Unsettled perhaps but more tied to that same trace of rabid curiosity passed on through blood and pulse. No need to set the alarm. The first rays of a new day enough to propel us fast and forward. Go until you drop.
She lived as the leader in an Alpha-male world. Hats and boots and branding irons smoking and hissing with claim. Fly rods and insect repellent. Roll casts and top water action. “Here comes Annie Oakley with fire in her eye,” they would say if anyone pushed a boundary a bit too far. Hats off, heads down. Submissive. Apologetic and respectful. “Won’t happen again.” Regular, expected, normal wasn’t good enough. She brought books and good espresso and organic things to a world obsessed with the mundane. She grew her own. Pulled it, planted it and sauced it up just right.
Now she still serves. As a reminder. No time to waste. Don’t settle. Why fly coach when there is a seat open on the Concorde. (How she got back from her last trip to Europe after injuring her leg.) Why eat shit? Pack an apple and some cheese and make new friends. There are no strangers only those you have yet to meet. There is no good excuse for laziness or corner cutting. None. Ever. Earn your respect. Practice and get good.
I talk to her from time to time. Just she and I. My moments in between. This world and that. A medium comes to give a friend a session. The medium says “Your parents are here.” They talk. The medium knows things that nobody is supposed to know. My friend calls to explain. His parents are in the spirit world and claim to be having a grand old time. “Don’t worry about us,” they say. “Stop stressing and have more fun,” they add. I can see mom doing the same. Entertaining. Her famous “Tequila Funeral” cocktails flowing. Fajitas with homegrown heat. She once fell down in a Chinese restaurant parking lot after two glasses of plum wine.
There is no way I can repay. At least no way I can imagine. I have no kids of my own. And those of my siblings are formed of their own clay. No amount of heat or pressure can mold them in any shape other than their own. What I will do is continue to record. And I will continue to laugh. At all of this, and us, and all the things we make so brave. I will laugh at spectacle because it’s just that. She gave me marrow. She gave me real, and for this I can’t ever thank her enough. No bullshit. And she gave me the profundity of the absurd. I would say she will wait for me, but that isn’t true. She has gone on her way. If she is waiting up there, for anyone, she’s waiting for Tom Cruise. She and I conducted our business and have gone our separate ways, but we reference each other in notes and indexes. Acknowledgments.
Years ago, in a small town in South Texas, she and I bought a raw chicken, some bailing twine, and a six-pack and drove out to a rough cut tank flanked by scrub and cactus. We tied the chicken to the twine and flug the dead bird out into the middle of the tank in an attempt to lure a rogue alligator chose enough to shoot. From the time we left the store till the time we cracked a beer to begin the wait, we never said a word to each other. We sat in silence. A Winchester, lever-action, .22 Magnum with a Redfield 4x scope in my hand. Stock on my knee, muzzle pointed toward the sky. A retriever tied to the scrub to our left. An hour passed. Nothing. She could sit for days without anything. Just watching and waiting. Paying attention to the most minute of details. We looked at each other and began to laugh. The laughter built and built and built until we were crying and holding our sides. “This is arguably the most redneck thing we have ever done,” she said.
These are the moments I miss, but I can’t dwell. She wouldn’t want me to. There are new memories to be made. New redneck ventures to undertake. Lean forward, not back. Check to see what lives around the bend. Try a new fly. We are here for a blip. Make the most of it. She would recite poetry at times like these. Summoning pages of script with no effort at all. None of us knew where she first memorized the lines, but there was a poem for almost all situations. The poems would force us to pause. Take a moment. Appreciate. Which is what I’m doing now. There will never be another.
Comments 34
Daniel-san: what a beautiful tribute to your mom. Sounds like she was one of a kind. Thanks for sharing.
Author
She was a stem-winder.
Beautiful real-ness. I hear your respect and love for her in your words. And from your words, I can tell she was a living embodiment of commanding respect without needing to announce the expectation. I admire women like that.
Author
Every protagonist has a tragic flaw, and she had many, but overall….a gem.
Thank you, Dan…lovely tribute to your Mom, my Mom is 94 and nearing the close of her journey here, I’m already dreading it. J
Author
It’s never easy. Time slows down.
Danielsan, Made me think of these words. Quote: “Few (people) will ever truly love you. Think fondly of those who have, or those who still do.”
Author
It’s true. When you boil down the real, there ain’t much left at the bottom of the pan.
Thanks a lot for getting me all misty eyed 2/3 through my day Dan. Geez!
Very nice writing sir.
Author
That’s my goal Mike. I want you emotional…..so you can buy my action set!
Beautiful, Dan.
I lost my mother a few days before you lost yours, as you know. I’ve been journalling about her all year, but the memories are fractured, incoherent. My mother also knew I’d leave at the first chance I got. I spent most of my childhood dreaming of places and lives very different to where and how I was raised.
(I couldn’t read until I was 7 or 8, and then I couldn’t stop reading – all the things that were well outside the curriculum. So the folks always worried about waywardness…with good reason!)
My mum was also tough as nails – like so many orphaned women in postwar Southeast Asia, she was a woman of few words and much practical action. Grit aplenty. Pay attention. Get shit done. Something went wrong? Well, sort it out. Whinging about it wastes time and makes everything more tedious. A life of service is hard but necessary. She was made of iron, half my side and even in her last days, a grip that a wrestler would be proud of.
In her final few weeks at the hospital, she was teaching the nurses how to do an ECG properly (she was a 45-year nursing veteran). I have a photo of her tubed up — various monitors and morphine — in the hospital bed, assessing the work of the attending nurse.
“Hmmmm,” she said, surveying her heartbeat rendered linear on the printout. “My heart is very strong. Not going to die today.”
Wry till the last.
She was initially amazed (and not a little embarrassed) at the fuss everyone made over her when they found out she was so gravely ill. My mum hadn’t had a lot of tenderness in her young life, and she never knew what to do with it. But in the end, she understood without a doubt that she was loved, that her life had value to an enormous number of people. And I think she was happy about that.
Author
I always wanted to meet you mom. I felt like she would reprimand me for fun, but that it would be an enjoyable experience. And those tougher childhood years made her a survivor, and survivors do what they need to do. Action. There you have it. Point A to B, no fc&^%^% around.
She would have teased you, Dan. She had a great sense of humour.
“Point A to B, no fc&^%^% around.”
Spot on.
Author
NO time. Live your life in the real world, not online. Do stuff.
Beautiful tribute. I am grateful to still have my aging mom around. I’ll be giving her a big hug this coming holiday.
Author
Yes. Do it while you can. It means everything.
I remember your Mom, Dan. You and I had been attending South by Southwest in Austin, and you suggested I come with you after the conference to her house/cabin to meet your Mom. Having lost my Mom to brain cancer shortly after graduating from high school, I was all in on meeting your Mom. I hadn’t been around any “Mom-ness” in many years… On the way, I suggested we stop somewhere and pick up some food/drink/cake/whatever to the house. You laughed and said, “You don’t understand. You’ll see when we get there.” When we arrived there were sandwiches, chips/salsa, cake, salad, cookies, beer, wine, sodas, plus something else cooking on the stove. She was everything I had imagined and hoped for…and then some. Mom meets Annie Oakley. One of a kind.
Author
I remember that trip like it was yesterday! She was still her at that time. And the trip after when she stood in the yard in her Yoda pajamas and shotgun threatening to blast a raccoon that was trying to get into the bunkhouse.
I am so sorry. Thank you for sharing.
Author
Thanks for reading!
Powerful words for a powerful woman Dan. Mom’s are special, each in their own way. Somewhere she’s smiling at you and tipping a beer.
Author
Yes, she is flicking my ear….
What a great story, with excellent photos to go with it. You have such great memories with your mom.
Author
Yep, we had a good relationship. I was fortunate that way.
What a great tribute to your mom! I lost my mom more than for years ago and I still think about her every day. Especially when Thanksgiving rolls around. Into her eighties she was still making dinner for more than ten people! They don’y make people like our moms anymore.
Author
Her last year at TG we had to carry her from the casita to her house. But she had her dark beer, and her turkey and got to be around the kids.
The intimacy in these kinds of photographs used to be stunning. I can imagine how your mom lived in that room. Thank you, Dan.
Author
Yes, she spent a serious amount of time here. There is the rest of the casita but this was her final place.
Thank you for sharing. Like so many others that I’ve only witnessed through the eyes of others your Mom is someone who I wish I’d met.
Author
I wish I would have interviewed her more.
Wonderful memories written and photographed. My Mum spent her last capable years researching genealogy and family stories; putting it all together in scrapbooks, for which I am grateful. She still remembers some of the people in the photos and the names from the past. So much has been lost in recent years, including the ability to play the piano by ear after hearing a song on the radio. She also had an ear for languages and learned a little before travels abroad, the thing my parents saved for; their one indulgence.
I am glad you had the opportunity to know your Mum and all her quirks and talents.
Author
Your family sounds like my family. So many of the same things.
We all experience strong authentic moments in life, but not all of us are able to express them in such raw precision and emotional depth—they way you do is healing for everyone, and your sharing is a gift. Thank you.
Author
Luca, you can do it too. Anyone can, but it might take a bit of practice.