Eulogy for My Mother

On the day before Mom died, she asked me what Mike and I decided about her funeral. I told her we were going to do everything the same as we did for Dad. She was to be buried next to him, the only love of her life, and that we were going to have the wake at my house. Murphy volunteered to cater the food. She said "Bless his heart". We talked a little while longer about inconsequential mother and daughter things. I sat with her through the night and just before dawn it was all over. She didn't have a church affiliation. We are spiritual people, but not religious. So, I decided that my brother and I would give a service for those who attended. He said, as I call them, the "official words" from the bible and I spoke about her life.

Here is the eulogy I prepared for her funeral.

Jesus spoke of his death as he comforted his disciples by saying words like - I go to prepare a place for you. - He spoke to them as a father speaks to his children. In the same way our parents prepare the way for us. They show us the path as they precede us by their steps and mis-steps. She has shown us the way with her courage and dignity. As I watched my mother take her last steps along her path, she was illuminated by the light that guided her. I could see my father at her side and behind them Heavenly Father. As we wish the best for our children, so He wishes the best for us and we wish the best for our children. When I speak to my own son as he watches my steps and mis-steps along my path I am often speaking in my Mother’s words which often were - “While I may not always approve of your every action, I will always love you.” Though I often erred, her love for me and for Mike never wavered.

She was prepared for this final step, and left among her things little markers for me and Mike to find. In her address book, tucked in along with little notes next to names she found important Carlys, her daughter-in law, found this account hand written on coffee stained sheets of the same note paper she used to write her grocery lists. I assume this account was for some sort of weaving or spinning newsletter. I quote verbatum from that note . . .

“Here are some news clippings, photos, etc. that you may or (may not) want to include in your history. I joined T&C [Town & Country Hand Weavers] in 1967 at the invitation of Bessie Lowry. I bought an antique spinning wheel in Indiana while on a trip celebrating our 35th wedding anniversary and then began to seek out someone to teach me how to use it. I found Bessie Lowrey’s Phone # in the Yellow Pages and called her. She didn’t know of anyone but suggested that I learn to weave while searching. Thus began for me a whole new highway to travel. I went full speed ahead on that road. I joined the T&C (Town and Country) guild and served as secretary, treasurer and president. I also joined the Detroit Hand Weavers Guild and then the Michigan League of Hand Weavers. I helped organize the first conferences held by the MLH. I became a charter member of the Michigan Hand Spinners Guild. I helped with the first Spin Around which was inspired by the Ontario Hand Spinners Guild and the Thistledown Hand Spinners Guild of Norwalk, N.Y. I cannot remember the exact dates, but all of this activity occurred in the early 70’s.

My husband, Dick, decided that he could build a spinning wheel better than the antique I was using.

[Note: there is one here today lovingly restored by her grandson, Frank. The flax on the spindle is the flax she tied and the thread on the bobbin was spun by her. The lily is there to represent her.]

This launched him into the formation of Tromp ‘n Treadle and the manufacturing of spinning wheels that worked.

[Note: For a while, my brother, Mike, worked with Dad, but his life moved on as the responsibilities of fatherhood required his time. My son, her grandson, Frank, using Dad’s tools still makes wheels from his patterns.]

While working as the crafts interpreter at Greenfield Village I had the opportunity to work with flax and the spinning of linen thread. This led to some research and ultimately became my specialty.

Town and Country participated in several guild exhibits at the MLH (Michigan League of Hand Spinners) conferences . . . one was an exhibit of kitchen stuff – I did the curtains. The other one I remember was an artist’s pallet. Dick made it and we each wove three scarves to place on the pallet. I attended the Thistledown Hand spinner’s conference in Norwalk, N.Y. and the Ontario Hand spinners conferences. I became involved in the formation of the Michigan Hand spinners Guild and promoted a state-wide conference of hand spinners . . .”

The note trails off here. I don’t know what became of this or whether she prepared it for this day, but it seems appropriate.

Sorting Out

The hardest part about the sorting out at Mom's condo is all the
decisions. It takes so long to go through everything. I have to decide
four things for each item: keep, throw away, give away or sell. Like the
letter opener that is a Samurai sword in miniature in a garish red and
formerly gold wooden scabbard. It was made in Japan. I suppose it is a
trinket from some tourist shop. It's not worth anything but it was my
grandmother's and has been around forever. It's been in "the desk" all
these years. I kept it after some agonizing over it. No problem deciding
about the fur coats. I don't like the fur of dead animals no matter how
luxurious. I would never wear any of the coats. Those I'll sell. They
will bring maybe $50 apiece, maybe not. I gave Mom's everyday dishes and
most of the kitchen utensils to Melissa, my granddaughter, who remembers
lots of holiday dinners with those plates. She's setting up housekeeping
in December when she graduates from college. All of the spinning and
weaving things go to my son for his new shop "Tromp 'N Treadle". The
quilt making things are more difficult. Some of Mom's projects are half
finished. There are boxes of scraps all arranged and cut into shapes for
a quilt. I have always wanted to try that. Should I keep them? I have no
idea what the project was or how to do it. The knitting stuff I kept as
well as the embroidery and crochet. The basket weaving things are
untouched in a box. I suppose I'll donate them to the white elephant
sale at St. Pats. My extra bedroom is bursting at the seams with all the
sewing notions and one magnificent Bernina sewing machine with matching
sewing table. There are pictures, pictures, pictures. Slides, 8 mm film,
negatives, old Polaroid's, aging brown pictures of ancestors, wrinkled
snapshots carried lovingly in wallets - you name it. I have all the
collection of three generations in boxes all over the place. I'll be
sorting those out for months - maybe years. I see some scrap booking and
photo scanning coming up this winter. I think I will have to retire. I
have so much to do and no time for working and other trivia like that
LOL !!!

Today is boxing up stuff to donate to Purple Heart. In the process I
will generate more sale items, keepers, throw-aways and
give-to-some-ones for another sorting out day. Always there are things
that I haul home only to decide I don't want them after all and I haul
them back or throw them out. I am honing my skills. The day will soon
come when I have to do all this over again at my own house. I am not
going to leave all this "stuff" for someone else to do. I want to see
the pleasure on the face of a loved one when I give them some treasure.

It's sometimes a pleasant chore and sometimes I cry. After all, it isn't
just my mother's life I am reviewing - it's my own as well.

Beverly Doolittle

There is a big change coming here at MichiGlee. Murphy has a job – one that pays. He will be the Executive Chef at a nursing home in a neighboring town. Good news, Murphy has a job, bad news, he has to go to work (oh no!). I’ll be taking over more of the chores. He will be too exhausted to do them, and I only work about 20 hours a week where he will be working over 45-50. It will be quite an adjustment for both of us – but in a good way. He has big plans for all the money some of which will come my way as re-payment for all those months of no rent. The infusion of cash will be much appreciated.

As part of my new schedule, I will be responsible for the morning feedings and letting horses out. This means I have to get dressed twice – once to go out to the barn and then again to go to work. I also will have to get started about an hour earlier and early is not my thing. These are all small things, but big in my world. I went out this morning early (about 8:00 LOL!) to do the feeding. White horses stood in the lush green pasture against a backdrop of mock orange trees in full bloom backed up by midnight green pines. The sky was so blue and the sun was so orange that it looked like a painting. High overhead a hawk was circling. It was beautiful – like a Bev Doolittle painting.

I have a calendar that displays some of her paintings, but not the one that introduced me to her art. It was many years ago when I was younger and Pan Am was still alive – my chestnut trail horse. He was a great horse, and we had many adventures together. I was working downtown in Ann Arbor, and spent my lunch hour walking around looking in the art store and bookstore windows. Along Liberty Street up towards campus there was a small store and a painting in the window took my eye. It was an Indian warrior astride a chestnut horse with markings exactly like Pan Am’s paused at the edge of a pool of water with tall pines, birch trees and rocks forming the framework. High above soared a hawk. The Indian, the horse, the blue sky and the hawk were reflected in the pool of water. It is so typical of her work showing the interconnectedness of all things – man and horse and nature all part of the same fabric. She weaves images among trees and rocks and intertwines man and beast and plant and sky and water and rocks as if they are but elements of each other. The forms take place simply as an expression of shades or density of color. A stand of birch trees becomes the hides of painted horses and men. I love her work. Someday when I am rich I will collect it.

That day I stood transfixed in the window for a long time. That painting sent chills down my spine – not a common occurrence for me. I went inside to ask about the price and the name of the painter. It was only $35.00. Beverly Doolitle was unknown then. I didn’t have that much, so I promised to come back next week when I got paid. I should have placed a deposit on it and taken it off the shelf – but I didn’t. The next week when I returned it was gone. It is probably worth many times the purchase price by now. Someday I will see that painting again, and when I do, I will buy it.

Drama ! Drama ! Drama !

When it’s over is the toughest time. When it’s going on, you are immersed in it. You live and breathe it. You yearn for release from it, but you dread that same release. Maybe the hardest part is when your father is dying and you know it. You watch him draw within and you know that when the lights are on at night over there it’s because he has sundowners syndrome – the fear of going to sleep that the dying experience when they know their time is near. He is awake all night prowling the hallway and watching late-night TV as if staying awake will stave off the inevitable. Then the wrenching pain beyond anything yet experienced on the last day – the time of parting forever. There’s hope that when it’s your turn, you will meet again, but no-one knows that for sure. The thought of the abyss waiting for you is terrifying. Then there is the ceremony of the burial and business and his things to dispose of and relatives to notify. The business of the dead takes time, and you immerse yourself in it to stave off that terrible unknown time - the grieving. You think you escape it, but you don’t and the crying and fear and loss and then a long empty time of missing him and realizing that he will never be here with you again, and the anger about the universe being so cruel and the terrible down times. You cry and wail at the moon. You run far and fast trying to escape it. You will do anything to stop the pain, but it never stops.

When it’s over is the toughest time. When it’s going on, you are immersed in it. You live and breathe it. You yearn for release from it, but you dread that same release. Maybe the hardest part is when your husband is dying and you know it. He knows it, too, and you sit together holding hands and ponder the unknowable. How will it be? Does it hurt or is it the real end or is it the beginning of something else – another iteration of you in another dimension – somewhere unknown. Then the wrenching pain beyond anything yet experienced on the last day – the time of parting forever. There’s hope that when it’s your turn, you will meet again, but no-one knows that for sure. The thought of the abyss waiting for you is terrifying. Then there is the ceremony of the burial and business and his things to dispose of and relatives to notify. The business of the dead takes time, and you immerse yourself in it to stave off that terrible unknown time - the grieving. You think you escape it, but you don’t and the crying and fear and loss and then a long empty time of missing him and realizing that he will never be here with you again, and the anger about the universe being so cruel and the terrible down times.

You cry and wail at the moon. You run far and fast trying to escape it. You will do anything to stop the pain, but it never stops. The silence in the house is unbearable. At night you remember when you laid awake touching him afraid that this next breath will be his last, and when he pauses in his sleep and misses one breath, time is suspended as you wait for it to begin again and when it does you breathe again, too. After work, if you make it to work, you dread going home to that empty sad place. You want company because when you are among friends, you can put the pain aside knowing they don’t want to see it. Maybe a little drink will help you loosen up and go among the strangers- they think you’re aloof, but really, you’re shy – afraid of them and the pain they can so easily and thoughtlessly inflict. You know they can’t ever feel the way you do. You know they never “get it”. They simply don’t want to see it – the experience of death. Later, when you think about it, you realize they are there escaping the pain of their own grief.

When it’s over is the toughest time. When it’s going on, you are immersed in it. You live and breathe it. You yearn for release from it, but you dread that same release. You know this lover, this man who was supposed to be your savior is cheating with another woman. You know it, but you try not to. Then later, you try to be very sophisticated and tell yourself it doesn’t matter, but it does. He comes to you and the night is filled with joy. In the morning light you know with a certainty that it cannot continue. You decide it’s time and you break it off. You think you will escape the grief. After all, it’s your decision this time. You think you escape it, but you don’t and the crying and fear and loss and then a long empty time of missing him and realizing that he will never be here with you again, and the anger about the universe being so cruel and the terrible down times.

Finally, when acceptance comes, you realize that your mind is clear for the first time in forever. You wake up and find that you are yourself. Will the real Glee please stand up? She does, but there is no applause because the audience has long ago gone away. This day there is no drama. It’s an odd feeling to realize that you slept through the whole night. You want to tell someone - “Hey, guess what? I slept all night! I didn’t wake up even once! Isn’t that great?” It’s been years since you didn’t wake up wondering if he was still breathing this man you love as life itself, your best friend, your lover, your partner, your soul mate who is dying and you are afraid it will happen while you are sleeping and if you wake up in time you can stop it from happening. The middle of the night visits to the emergency room and then the next day returning to normal life, and going in to work as if nothing happened because it hasn’t - not yet.

All that drama is gone. It’s just a spring day and the birds are singing and the sun is threatening to shine. Time stretches out and you wonder what you should do today.

Lilly Lebowski

Once in an episode of Crossing Jordan, the boss, Macy, upbraided Lilly for trying to nurture him when he was having a difficult time. He claimed he didn't want or need her nurturing because that's who he is. She said "I can't help it. That's who I am." I did not like Macy very much because of that. Lilly deserves better. Lilly loved him, and he rejected her. He is a fool. The Lillies of the world have a tough road to travel. Nurturing, empathy, sensitivity, these are things that this world of ours tends to run rough-shod over. I often say that a lot of people confuse gentleness with weakness. I applaud the show for making Lilly such a strong representation of a very much under-appreciated personality.

I think nurturing people are strong because they can remain gentle in the face of adversity. They are resillient because they remain gentle even when they are treated harshly. They are able to cope with adversity because their focus is not on trying to get the upper hand, but on the task at hand which is to alleviate pain in others. Later, when it's all over, they may cry. They dry their tears and go on being gentle and nurturing.

I think they deserve our respect. They are to be treasured.

Glee