Sally Jo Clawson
I've always had a sort of vague fascination with the awkward progression of secret-telling that comes along with new friendships. For me, especially, there's an added layer: the eventual coming around of new acquaintances to the question of my family history, and the absence of any mention of parents. Since my school district was pretty small, most everyone I knew growing up had learned about my mom's death when it was fresh, so I rarely had to tell the story. That obviously changed with coming to college, but I actually find I don't mind. There's no better way to honour and love her now than talking about her and keeping her memory fresh, after all.
I could probably write a whole other post about how bizarrely simple that whole discussion becomes, but I bring it up because tonight my roommate realised he didn't actually know her name and asked what it was. I was surprised I hadn't mentioned it, but it makes perfect sense; in what context would I not have called her 'Mom'? But in thinking about that I realised something myself: I only have two real, strong memories of my mother. For the sake of musing, and with the (hopeful) forbearance of the few people who actually read this, I wanted to share them.
In a way, that's a sort of exaggeration. The majority of my dim, early memories are suffused with a dark-haired, tortoise-shell-glasses-wearing, warm presence, seldom explicated but constant. I have no doubt that my mother was around (except, obviously, for the few clear memories where I know she wasn't) and there's a fuzzy emotional "slot" of vague sound/smell/sight impressions that has her shape. But there are really only two clear, strong memories where I can recall the scene, and they're both in a way boring in their simplicity.
The first is when my mom told me we were leaving Mike, her boyfriend at the time. I was probably around three or four. She was taking a bath, in the overwhelmingly yellow-orange-lit bathroom in the trailer where we lived with him. I can't remember the pretext on which she had me there with her, probably to help her rinse her hair or just keep her company, but I was sitting on the toilet seat while she soaked and shaved her legs. I remember the razor and how smooth and dusky her skin was, since the light was so dim. I remember her telling me that we were leaving him, and that I had to keep it a secret. We were moving to an apartment she'd gone and checked out, and Gramma was helping us move in. It was big, and painted green, and had a deck and a big yard, and I could have my own room. But we couldn't let Mike find out, she insisted on that. It was all a big secret. Probably too big a secret for a four-year-old, but my mom was generous with her trust. I remember being excited that we were going to live somewhere new, in a great big green house that she made sound so wonderful. And I felt awfully grown-up that she'd told me, although I was a little puzzled at how she'd managed to get all the arrangements made without anyone knowing.
There are gaps in my memory, of course. I don't remember anything around the move-in, when it was that we got our stuff together and vanished. I don't remember the words she used, only their gist and the tone, hopeful and insistent. Really it's more of a picture of the yellow light, the razor on her leg, and the surrounding bath and curtain, with associated ideas.
The second memory is even simpler. It was about a year later, in the spring or early summer of 1995, when she was starting to go downhill. When she couldn't get out of bed anymore my family got a hospital bed set up in the living room so she could still be involved in everything that was happening in our lives. I feel like the memory comes from those first few days, when it was still sort of a bizarre thing to have in the front room. I don't remember if it was day or night, if anyone else was around, or what the circumstances were. All I remember was that I crawled into the bed, on her bumpy-soft eggshell mattress and the white hospital sheets, and snuggled with her under the blankets. Nothing else, just that knowledge that I was wanted and loved, and that no matter what happened to her, I was welcome there.
To some extent, as much as I talk about her and reference things people have told me, my essential conception of her is rooted in those two pictures. After writing them out and looking them over... I think I'm okay with that.
I could probably write a whole other post about how bizarrely simple that whole discussion becomes, but I bring it up because tonight my roommate realised he didn't actually know her name and asked what it was. I was surprised I hadn't mentioned it, but it makes perfect sense; in what context would I not have called her 'Mom'? But in thinking about that I realised something myself: I only have two real, strong memories of my mother. For the sake of musing, and with the (hopeful) forbearance of the few people who actually read this, I wanted to share them.
In a way, that's a sort of exaggeration. The majority of my dim, early memories are suffused with a dark-haired, tortoise-shell-glasses-wearing, warm presence, seldom explicated but constant. I have no doubt that my mother was around (except, obviously, for the few clear memories where I know she wasn't) and there's a fuzzy emotional "slot" of vague sound/smell/sight impressions that has her shape. But there are really only two clear, strong memories where I can recall the scene, and they're both in a way boring in their simplicity.
The first is when my mom told me we were leaving Mike, her boyfriend at the time. I was probably around three or four. She was taking a bath, in the overwhelmingly yellow-orange-lit bathroom in the trailer where we lived with him. I can't remember the pretext on which she had me there with her, probably to help her rinse her hair or just keep her company, but I was sitting on the toilet seat while she soaked and shaved her legs. I remember the razor and how smooth and dusky her skin was, since the light was so dim. I remember her telling me that we were leaving him, and that I had to keep it a secret. We were moving to an apartment she'd gone and checked out, and Gramma was helping us move in. It was big, and painted green, and had a deck and a big yard, and I could have my own room. But we couldn't let Mike find out, she insisted on that. It was all a big secret. Probably too big a secret for a four-year-old, but my mom was generous with her trust. I remember being excited that we were going to live somewhere new, in a great big green house that she made sound so wonderful. And I felt awfully grown-up that she'd told me, although I was a little puzzled at how she'd managed to get all the arrangements made without anyone knowing.
There are gaps in my memory, of course. I don't remember anything around the move-in, when it was that we got our stuff together and vanished. I don't remember the words she used, only their gist and the tone, hopeful and insistent. Really it's more of a picture of the yellow light, the razor on her leg, and the surrounding bath and curtain, with associated ideas.
The second memory is even simpler. It was about a year later, in the spring or early summer of 1995, when she was starting to go downhill. When she couldn't get out of bed anymore my family got a hospital bed set up in the living room so she could still be involved in everything that was happening in our lives. I feel like the memory comes from those first few days, when it was still sort of a bizarre thing to have in the front room. I don't remember if it was day or night, if anyone else was around, or what the circumstances were. All I remember was that I crawled into the bed, on her bumpy-soft eggshell mattress and the white hospital sheets, and snuggled with her under the blankets. Nothing else, just that knowledge that I was wanted and loved, and that no matter what happened to her, I was welcome there.
To some extent, as much as I talk about her and reference things people have told me, my essential conception of her is rooted in those two pictures. After writing them out and looking them over... I think I'm okay with that.