William Martin
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For Mom

2/18/2014

5 Comments

 
A Eulogy

I hope at least some of this is coherent.  Some of what I say I may be saying strictly for myself.  Some of it may reflect the feelings of others --feelings for a mother and for other loved ones you’ve lost and still miss.  I’ll leave it for each of you to pick and choose…

No place for a better start than with the obvious: Alzheimer’s sucks.

And it was a final, cruel, life-test for a woman who had been tested time and time again throughout her life. A woman who demonstrated a quiet strength and dignity with each and every test she faced.  As much as the disease would allow her, she continued to demonstrate that strength…that dignity…clear up until the day she passed away.

I’d like to think of mom now…I will think of mom now…as sitting beside dad and smiling, with my oldest brother, Byard Lee, close beside them; all their differences, all their conflicts, all of life’s emotional baggage gone, replaced with an overwhelming sense of love and understanding. Real or not, that’s the image I will keep forever in my mind.

I once gave mom a note, shortly after I finished going back to school and moving to Roseburg, Oregon for a teaching job.  In that note I tried to express what I could not say face to face: that whatever good I have in me, whatever level of decency that might be there, I believe I received directly from her.  I gave the note to her at a time in her life that, in looking back, I don’t know whether or not she was able to read and understand it.  But I’d like to think she could and that, even if she couldn’t, she still knew the depth of love and gratitude I tried so lamely to express. The love and gratitude that each of us feels for a mother who worked so hard, who tried so hard, who loved so deeply, despite every external and internal obstacle that might have been stacked against her.

If she were here with us today I would say thank you.

I would thank her for her gifts:

* The subscription to Dr. Seuss books when I was very young, that started a life-long
    love for reading and books.

* The candy bars brought home from the grocery store –just for me and no one else
    knew.

* The electric typewriter she gave me for graduation, the biggest symbol of her
    confidence in knowing that her youngest loved to write.

* The beaters from the mixer, dripping gooey and good with chocolate cake mix.

I would thank her for her protection:

* The automatic seat-belts she employed, her arm slamming against your chest if she felt
    the need to brake a bit hard –which was fairly often.

* Her covering my back when it came to dad and I knew I was really in for trouble and
    probably well deserved it.

I would thank her for her discipline (or her attempts at discipline):

 * The times she wore herself to a frazzle with a belt while we wondered what it was that
     was patting at our butts and legs.

 * The time she bought “Mom’s Helping Hand,” a plywood paddle she used to try and
     keep Gary, Glen and I in line on our vacation through Oregon. (She quickly found out the flat side 
     had little effect, but using the edge was much, much more effective).

Her’s was a tender heart:

* A heart that often may not have known how to deal with the conflicts it faced, but never wished 
   for harm to any she knew and loved.

* A heart that showed itself –along with about four pounds of butter— in the bread she made.

* A heart that worked hard to raise five kids and the emotional turmoil that kids bring without even 
   being aware they bring it.

* A heart that stood solid in a marriage that, like most marriages, had more than its share of 

   challenges.

* A heart that found joy in children: a joy that I hoped my own children would feel, recognize and            make their own.


* A heart that instinctively knew how to take a boy –who often felt lost, confused and alone— and 

   make him feel special and unique.

* A heart that each of us holds so very closely. A heart uniquely human.

I will always remember and miss that tender heart, that decency, that underlying strength.  I only hope that I’ve been able to reflect a small part of the goodness that was in her to my own kids, so it will continue to radiate out and touch the lives of others.

I will be forever grateful to you mom. 

Through you I know…I am certain…there is goodness in the world.

I will always miss you. 

I will never, ever stop loving you.

And I will always be proud to say you were my mom.

Thank you.

5 Comments
Kathleen link
2/19/2014 12:14:42 am

Three words. FIX YOUR SUBSCRIPTION. Your work needs to get read. If your FB page isn't linked to your Twitter feed…link it.
That was more than 3 words so here's some more…this was beautiful.

Reply
William link
2/19/2014 11:43:59 am

I think I got it. People will probably need to resubscribe though. Thanks Kathleen,

Reply
Marcia @ Blogitudes link
2/19/2014 02:54:45 pm

Beautiful! Just beautiful, William! My dad had Alzheimer's. Both he and my mom passed away last year (2013) within 3 months of each other. Everything you wrote here .... awesome and truly beautiful. I can so much relate! :D Thank you!

Reply
William link
2/20/2014 07:03:38 am

Thank you Marcia. It's a tragic disease --probably harder on the family than the loved ones afflicted. I've heard it called the longest goodbye. I hope you get a chance to read my poem "A Good Visit" also on this site. It kind of goes hand-in-hand. Thank you again for your kind words. They are very much appreciated.

Reply
Suzie
2/20/2014 11:24:09 am

Everything that my husband wrote is so true. Dortha was a beautiful person who didn't think she was. I had the good fortune to be great friends with my mother-n-law. I miss and think of her often. Wonderful tribute hon.

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    William Martin

    Just observing, sometimes remembering, often shaking my head, then writing.

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