My Mother's House

Last night and most of today I stayed in the house I spent my first 22 years in, the one that my father and his brother built from the ground up, where my mother and father lived for 66 years, until my father died there, in his own bed, surrounded by his wife, his two children, his beloved granddaughter Jessica.

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The house has been empty for the past two years, since my mother reluctantly moved near me because she should no longer live alone. At first and often, and now, thankfully, only occasionally my mother asks me if I think she will ever be able to go home. Now when I tell her I don’t think so she nods ever so slightly, and I know she agrees that she is happy where she is, that she knows this is best.

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This weekend JB and I began sorting through 66 years of Rose's kitchen dishes and pots and pans and utensils; bureau drawers and closet shelves filled with summer, winter, casual, and dress clothes; slippers and shoes, toiletries, crucifixes and metals, jewelry, hummels, china cups, canned goods, special souvenirs and presents collected and given, postcards from the war, my father’s proud navy documents, two love letters written by my parents.

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We put twenty five or so large garbage bags in front of the fence for pickup on Monday. We filled my car with special remembrances to keep forever and things to show my mother: photo albums and so many pictures of family and friends, spanning a lifetime: her 11 brothers and sisters and 4 step brothers and sisters, her parents, friends before she met and married my father, their friends throughout their marriage, children—so many children: my brother and I at every age, Jessica and Chris and cousins and neighbors. I put aside certain things for my brother and sister-in-law to look through. I know it is important that they too go through this process of remembering, of letting go.

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My Jessica spent many a Friday night at her grandparents. My mother made her home made macaroni and cheese and chocolate pudding every time and my father dropped his gruffness so he could sit on the couch with this little sized love of his life, side by side while they watched I Love Lucy. I look at my father's small horse collection, this one in front of the fireplace he was so proud of, and I tell him as I often do that I hope I am taking care of "the best thing that ever happened" to him--his wife, my mother--well enough.
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These two days were not all work. Jess came with baby Drew and we sat and talked and laughed and played with Drew while we circled around at all these memories together. Hours before I had found the diamond ring that my mother had hidden three years ago because she was afraid the cleaners would steal it. We all had looked for it everywhere but last night I found it in a bureau drawer tangled with all kinds of odds and ends, and today Jessica took the diamond ring for her own. That is what my mother wanted. She also took the United States flag that draped my father’s coffin now 13 years ago. I was surprised that she wanted that flag. It is in safe keeping now.

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My godmother Marie, who live next door and is herself 93, baked us a hot apple pie; Joey, who I rescued when his parents died and left him alone, came by for coffee. I saw my special cousin Maureen for the second time in a week after years without seeing one another, and we talked about how open my mother's house always was, how there was always room at the dinner table for an extra plate and a needed hand.

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Jess’ friend Annie, due to deliver her first baby today, stopped by and laughed with us about the goofy trips and times she had with our family when she and Jess were in junior high school. JB and I did not expect all this company and it was just….lovely.
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I left my mother’s house late afternoon, I and it in a state of organized disarray. We made significant progress in the kitchen, bedroom, some of the dining room. We have the china spread out on a table, clothes in piles of keep-throw-donate. Books are everywhere. There is so much more to do the cellar, the garage, the yard, the bedrooms, the living room, the shed. But we will get there over the winter and in the spring we will rent out the house to help with my mother’s rest home. Besides, it's not good for a house that is used to welcomes to stay empty. The love in the walls has to be fortified and shared.

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This is bringing up all kinds of emotions and memories, but it’s all good. JB said I’m lucky to be doing this while my mother is still alive and she is so right.

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In the midst of all this, I called my mother to tell her we finally found her diamond ring. She didn’t remember it was lost, and instead she asked when she‘d see me next.

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“Tomorrow, Mom.”

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“Oh good” she said.

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She lives near me now. This is her home now. That is what is most important. I have spent two days in the house I spent all of my first 22 years, and tomorrow I will visit my mother and she will greet me with the widest smile. I will show her some of her memories that I’ve tucked in a sturdy box, and I will thank her for so many reasons, one of which is because I understand that home is where the heart is.