By Jeff Guy
It was a light 79 outside yesterday when I rode my bicycle to Worthington Public Library to check out a book and shoot the breeze with my librarian friend, Amber.
“Glad to see you open again,” I said, loosening the chin strap from my bike helmet.
With Biden’s vaccination goals getting real in America, the local library, like the Donut Palace in my hometown of Jett, Kan. (pop. 4,000 in the ‘70s) is open shop again. But, man, it was deader than a 14th century European town in that library.
“We put in on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram,” she said. “But word must not be getting around. I know you’d promote it if you were still at the paper.”
I left the Worthington News six months ago. Sure I feel guilty about leaving the town a news desert, but I had to take a bigger opportunity where I could find it. Had to do what was best for Jeff. My mother would understand that. Her life was all about survival.
“I don’t wanna be a sell-out,” I once told her.
“Sometimes you have to,” she said. And as I realized years later, she was right.
I checked out a book, detailing how all those Beatles songs were composed. I was fascinated to learn McCartney lifted the hook from “Lady Madonna” from a jumpin’ jazz bluesy tune from the ‘50s -- “Bad Penny Blues” by Humphrey Lyttleton and His Band.
“Lady Madonna,” along with being a great old time rock n’ roll style tune, was a great tribute to the survival skills of all mothers. It was in lyrics like, “Baby at your breast, wonder how you manage to feed the rest.”
I remember one morning, my mom on her way to work, wearing her Walmart vest, driving my sister and me to school at Jett Junior High School. I was at that age where I didn’t want to be seen with my mom. Anyhow, I’d just discovered she was getting alimony, child support and DCF assistance.
“If we had to make it on Walmart wages alone, we’d be lucky to live in a tent,” she said.
Mother - you had me
I think about a girl I knew in school -- Danielle. She’s a business woman now, president of the Jett Chamber of Commerce and a member of the local school board. When she was in fifth grade her mother confiscated the Steve Martin comedy album she and her friend, Suzanne, used to laugh hysterically at -- A Wild and Crazy Guy.
The satirical, ironic humor was lost on Danielle’s mother, who took literally the profanity she heard coming from record playing behind the closed door to her daughter’s bedroom. Her mother had been a business woman and city council member -- she and her husband, raising five kids in those days.
Danielle posted on her Facebook yesterday:
“I remember all those afternoons after school when we’d have Cokes at Fountain’s Favorites. She’d ask how my day went and what I was doing in class, what I played at recess and who I sat by at lunch. She knew what our principal, Mr. McCalla's nickname was. Mom, I lost you this year. It’s been a tumultuous year and I could’ve used your guidance and words of wisdom, but you gave me the tools to carry on.”
My mother’s descent into dementia unraveled and came to its end after about eight years. Her case wasn’t like that of her brother, who got it, declined fast and was gone after around two years.
Most of my life, I’ve battled depression and suicidal thoughts. Mom would tell me, “You have to stick around. You have more writing to do.” My path looked bleak. I can get by now, but I don’t know how I would’ve survived so many years of unquietness and uncertainty if she hadn’t been around. I thought if there was a God, he hated me.
We were sitting in the kitchen there on Sunflower Street. “Would you like to talk to my pastor or Al Bergen (an elder in her church; he’d been my elementary school principal)?” she asked me.
“No, I can’t,” I said.
And I never did. But talking to her and hearing her voice somehow, if only momentarily, made me feel better.
Years later when I suffered a horrible wave of mid-life regret and one of the worst depressions of my life, I tried to talk to her. But it was too late. As I’d sit in my car, about to hang up the iPhone, she’d say, “Call me back later.” But I knew she wouldn’t remember.
Really, it was my turn to take care of her then and I did the best I could. I’m actually glad she was oblivious, that she didn’t see how everything turned out between the world and me. Getting divorced. Losing my family. Jobless. Homeless. Trump getting elected. Toxicity on social media.
It all turned okay in the end. I didn’t lose my kids, I just feared I had. I’m still glad she didn’t see all the bullcrap.
One night, before she passed, I was talking to Corrie -- one of the aides at the nursing home where Mom lived.
“It’s like she’s already dead,” I said.
“Don’t say that,” she answered.
It’s true. It’s never really death -- you’ve never really lost someone -- it’s not real -- until it’s done. For me, the reality came on November 11, 2019 -- a Tuesday. Deadline day at the paper. I was covering a Veteran’s Day tribute at the high school for the Worthington News. The mayor, a Vietnam veteran, was at the microphone, reading a poem before the packed auditorium. I felt the vibration of my iPhone in my jeans pocket. Read the name on the screen. Mom’s hospice nurse.
I walked outside the auditorium, into the Commons of the high school and answered the phone.
"Your mother is actively dying," she said.
"Okay," I said and slumped against the wall, then began weeping inexorably.
"Her feet are mottling."
"Oh God, no."
"I'm sorry," she said.
I immediately drove back to the office and told my co-worker, Jackie, what was happening and that I was heading to Jett. Then I took my daughter, Kenzie, out of school to come with me.
Upon entering the memory care unit of Homestead, the long term care home, I walked down the hall to Mom's room and heard laughter. Walking into the room, I saw it was my sister, her husband, my brother and the hospice chaplain conversing. Life going on. Mom was asleep in her hospital bed, breathing with the aid of an oxygen machine.
I handed the chaplain some paperwork. Amedisys Hospice plants a tree at the national forest of the family’s choice in honor of their loved one who passed away. A tree will be planted in Pikes Peak, Colorado in Mom’s memory. “She always loved Colorado,” my sister, Andrea, said.
After several hours in the room, I had to get Kenzie home. I walked over to Mom, lying in her bed, touched her arm, and said, “I love you, Mom. We’ll see you later.” Those were the last words I would speak to her. In the end, the call came from my brother, Jeremy at 4:15 a.m. Mom passed away peacefully in her sleep.
The next day I was back in Augusta with my siblings, meeting with the owner of Harley Funeral Home. We talked about making a video display of Mom’s life in pictures. The man asked what music we’d like at her funeral.
“She used to talk about how her high school glee club sang that song from the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical, Carousel -- “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”
“Is there a particular version of that song you’d wish to have played?” Joe Harley, the funeral home director asked.
“Well, the best version was by Elvis,” I said.
We could’ve had the chaplain from the hospice give Mom’s service, and it would’ve been free, but we went with the pastor from the Nazarene Church where she’d been attending services for years. He asked if there were any Bible scriptures we’d want him to read at her memorial service. I later texted him some verses.
For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. -- Romans 8-38-39 (ESV)
I said a few words at her service.
“The first memory I have of my mother is this young, beautiful woman tucking me and my sister in bed at night and saying our prayers with us,” I said.
Then I added, “And every day, she gave us our Flintstone vitamins.” That got a laugh from the audience, which I wasn’t expecting. I mean, it was true, she did give us those vitamins every day.
Recently, my friend Suzanne (remember? Danielle’s friend) contacted me in Messenger and apologized for not being able to make it to Mom’s funeral. Suzanne owed me nothing and I know people have busy lives, but she felt obligated because I went to her mother’s funeral in 2017.
“The only reason I was able to make your mother’s funeral is because I was unemployed and had no other place to be,” I said.
“I don’t care what the reason was,” she replied. “You were there.”
Actually, Suzanne showed me tremendous kindness. When Mom was on her deathbed, Suzanne actually offered to sit with her and hold her hand. I didn’t take her up on it, but I appreciated the gesture more than she will ever know. How can a person be so selfless?
Path guiding mothers
Amber had to leave the library early yesterday to go to her son, Noah’s, dance recital. She’s a mom, working three jobs, trying to give her kid the best life possible.
I know a lot of mothers like that. One night a week, I go back to my hometown of Jett and attend a meeting of the Core Community Collaborative, a service pathfinding group. I’m the only guy there. The rest are all women, most of them, single mothers. It’s all cool, there aren’t too many men at my workplace either.
Anyhow, the women of CCC are struggling to give their kids better lives. They work at jobs like teaching, running a register at a paint store, managing a dollar store, waitressing. One of the gals, Michelle, works at Walmart like my mother did. She’s often going to events like a kid’s band concert or soccer game. Her oldest son graduated from high school this year, will attend college this fall and wants to become a lawyer, which is cool, I guess, if you don’t dislike lawyers.
I hope these mothers get back a hundredfold what they’ve given.
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