As most of you know, my grandmother passed away January 7. I am still struggling with my grief. I thought it would be "cut and dry": she's in a better place, this is a good thing, rejoice in the fact she is finally back with Grandpa. There was so much I didn't and still don't know about her. I spent so much energy, worrying about getting my mom to places she "had " to be, the wake, the house, etc. In that time, I forgot to do my own grieving and remembering. So, now it is catching up with me.
Oops, again, not able to cut and paste in the blog...please see comments for the story of my grandma.
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I sent a letter to my parents as my sophomore year at college was coming to a close. I had a plan. In the Kirby family, you had to work over the summer and contribute your earnings towards your tuition. I did not want to work over the summer. I wanted to travel. Here was my plan: I would hitch-hike to New Orleans with two of my friends. We would make our way down into the Delta and we would find jobs as roustabouts on an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico. One month of work, triple shifts, I was told, would earn more money than I needed. My best friend’s friend, had a friend who did this all the time. Guaranteed. Reasonable? Right? Then, we would hitch-hike to San Francisco for a reunion with my college friends in August. I informed mom and dad of the plan in the letter.
Week later I get a phone call. Dad and I want to come up and take you out to dinner. A not too subtle variation of Dad and I need to speak to you, alone, in our bedroom because you are in big trouble.
At the time, I was studying the Latin American Poets. A poem by Cesar Vallejo got to me, and so, as I did quite often, I shared it with mom at “The Dinner”, before my plan was even discussed. I slid a copy to her. The poem, in part, read:
There is, mother, a place in the world called Paris. A very big place and far off and once again big
My mother turns up the collar of my overcoat, not because it is beginning to snow, but so it can begin to snow.
…
My farewell[s] set off a point in her being more external that the point in her being to which I return. I am because of the excessive time in my return, more the man before my mother than the child before my mother
I say to her then until I hush
There is, mother, a place in the world called Paris. A very big place and far off and once again big
Mom fights back tears, pushes the poem back to me, and whispers its beautiful. That summer, I hitched to New Orleans and SF.
Mom loved and respected Literature and Poetry. And because she did, I did. Within it, we found a way to express our emotions. And although Mom and I did not always find ways to acknowledge these things….I love you. I feel your joys and your disappointments… I spoke to her as I shared poems, and stories with her. And this is why I knew that, amid the heavy lifting that she did in raising a family of seven… amid the anxieties she felt and expressed to us as she tried to guide us… and in her desire to be mother and protector, amid the difficulties and conflicts one experiences with a mother, I knew about her heart. We all began to see her heart as she aged… Quicker to show emotion and a softer side; and in her difficult final years, her grace and patience shone through – never complaining; smiling at us when she could not speak; reaching for and holding our hands when we stayed with her.
When I look back, I realize that mom was a do-er. But quietly. She did things that at the time may have slipped by unnoticed.
This is what she did: when Dad was struggling at work, putting in impossible hours. No doubt feeling the pressure of his burgeoning family of seven kids, barely making ends meet – he worked retail and he worked and worried around the clock, she took things into her own hands. She said “We’re going on vacation period”. She had our bags sent ahead of us, we packed into the car and headed east. We ended up here, in Sag Harbor.
This is what she did: she made sure that every night there was dinner for all of us – four courses (to our dismay – most of us absolutely hating vegetables and trying to find ways not to eat them); but that we were all there, at six o’clock, sitting together… noisy, sometimes fighting, but together. And on Sundays – out comes the good china; the roast, the golden potatoes.
This is what she did: she made sure that we said the family rosary. All of us kneeling on the floor, our faces buried in the couch, or the chair. A family rosary is a very long affair, believe me, when you’re eight years old and would rather be playing outside.
This is what she did: when a neighbor of ours in Queens, a young woman with a family, was sick with cancer, was scared of what was to come. When her friends could not face visiting her and comforting her, mom (with the seven us still to care for) had the courage to walk the half a block every day and sit with this woman. Listen to her. Hold her hand.
This is what she did: when my brothers and I first took up surfing and in fact were obsessed with it, she would drive us, every day to the ocean. I remember bemoaning the fact that we would get a late start (forget about making lunch ma); the morning calm was about to turn into the afternoon’s southwest wind rendering the surf into a messy chop. We pushed … lets go. I remember that. But, then I also remember that we surfed just about every day during the summer thanks to her.
This is what she did: when I was in HS at St. John’s in Bedford Stuyvesant here comes mom in our Pontiac station wagon with a handful of women from the rosary society, one day a week, to work in the newly started primary school for the poor kids from the neighborhood – she tutored them in reading.
This is what she did: when Belinda and I decided to “live” together before we were married I figured, well, hell, I’m going to have to tell my parents – eventually they’ll call when I’m not home and Belinda will answer the phone. So I called. I told them that I was in love with Belinda and we decided to live together. Dad: “Oh, my lord!”. Mom: “Now Bill, be quiet. Lets hear Frank out.” She knew the decision was made, so she decided then and there to accept it rather than fight it. The Interfaith Marriage pamphlets began arriving the next week. She wanted to help in her way, and so she did.
Do not get me wrong: I did not like all of her efforts to raise and guide our family. I may have been annoyed at times with her, I may have felt that she did not always approve. But what she did do, was to continue to be a mother. And her efforts succeeded. This is why we, her sons and daughters, did not have many disagreements about what to do with mom when she began to fail after Dad’s death. We all participated as we could, taking alternate weekends to help in her care. We all were able to say good-bye as she slipped away. And here is the thing – mom died. But the ‘things she did’ did not die with her. I loved her.
There is, mother, a place in the world called Paris.
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