Remembering Mom

The day after Mom died, Ellen and I sat at my kitchen table trying to write a eulogy for her funeral. We had written one for Dad 16 months earlier, but Mom's was proving difficult.

Ellen rejected every one of my ideas. I rejected every one of hers. I accused her of being bossy. She accused me of being passive. In the space of 24 hours we had reverted to the two little girls fighting in the back seat of a '57 Chevy during a family vacation. Except that this time we didn't have Mom in the front to act as our referee.

Dad's eulogy had come easily. He had some quirks, which made the writing easier. Mom was harder. She was a bit more straight-laced, a bit more serious--the one who cried the first time she cussed in front of us and who worried about us dating "fast" boys. The one who signed our report cards and told us to do our best and to brush our teeth. The one we thought we might disappoint. Not because she gave us any reason to think we could change her feelings towards us, but because we somehow knew that she saw potential in us--sometimes more potential than we saw in ourselves.

She was also the one who suffered from Parkinson's Disease for the last twenty years of her life and who never stopped worrying about us during all those years when we should have been worrying about her.

Because worrying about us was also her domain. She laughed when we teased her about it, but she never stopped. When we lived at home, she wouldn't go to bed until we were home safe--although falling asleep on the couch was apparently okay. When we went to college, she wrote letters every week, worried we might be lonely. When we moved away, she worried about our cars and the weather every time we drove home. When I had surgery for cancer, I woke up with her face two inches from mine, worried that I might stop breathing.

And now that she was gone, Ellen and I couldn't seem to write a eulogy, worried that we wouldn't do her justice.

The newspaper with her obiturary arrived the next morning. We had given the information to the funeral director, but hadn't written it out ourselves or seen the final draft. It was a relief to see that the cropped picture had turned out okay and that all the family names and history were correct.

It was at the second paragraph that we stopped. And laughed, together. Because there in that final printed tribute to our down to earth mom were words that didn't come close to belonging to her.

"She loved gold."

Mom loved sale racks and discount stores and a good bargain. She could stretch a small paycheck to cover prom dresses and cheerleading outfits and birthday parties and special Christmases, but the only gold she ever had or ever wanted was the gold stars that we brought home on grade school papers.

She did, however, like her golf, which we had mentioned. And thank goodness for that because, with just one misstep of a letter, it ended up giving us a eulogy.


"For those of you who knew our mom, you may have been surprised to read that she loved gold.....she also loved a good laugh..."

It was all we needed. A start. Mom had given us a good start at life, and she had somehow managed to give us a good start at the hardest part of that life--saying goodbye to her. The start was all we needed. The rest flowed smoothly.

Mom deserved gold. But what she loved was us.

Times Are Changing

In reading Facebook recently, I came across posts that noted that, for the first time anyone can remember, there are no taverns in Marshall.

What?! I remember when Marshall had more taverns than churches. It seemed like a perfectly okay balance all the years I was growing up. One that worked and that no one seemed upset about. I even thought it might make a good tag line--a little more colorful than the "highways crossing and porch lights burning" one.

Although I do remember as a kid being a little intimidated by all the taverns. I would sometimes peek inside when I was walking to the dime store or the library, and they were always dark and a little mysterious. And occasionally a man, slightly tipsy, would walk out just as I walked by and I probably ran. But overall, they were fine. Because I was a fast runner.

They were even a little fun--as I discovered when I got old enough to go in, or at least to have a fake ID. Not near as dingy as I thought. And beer was cheap. It didn't even bother me that they put ice in my wine.

So what happened? Sure, the town didn't much like the adult bookstore and got right to work on that. But the taverns seemed safe. The town seemed to leave them alone. So I was left wondering. I find it hard to believe that the whole town quit drinking.

And in all fairness, I guess I do need to note that the American Legion and the VFW are still there and still serving drinks. Maybe even bringing out those illegal slot machines on occasion. I'm guessing they're both going strong. Maybe even thriving. Parking could be a problem. It's probably not a bad idea to get there early. Because, like I said, I can't believe that people have just quit drinking.

Although I guess they could be drinking at the Iron Bridge or on the 8th green of the golf course. I seem to remember stories about some drinking going on in those places. Some other places too. But I don't want to give away any secrets in case those places are perhaps being run as private clubs or something. That might explain the lack of taverns, particularly with warm weather coming on.

Still, it's all had me a little worried about what's happening in my little town. What's going to go next? Could we lose the State Farm office? Is this some grand plot of Walmart? First they surpersize and then they open up a tavern? Followed by an insurance office? I was coming up with all kind of frightening scenarios. I even foresaw the possibility of a name change.

Until I went back to Facebook and read about a new place that opened up where the Corner Tavern used to be. I think it might actually be a tavern. Even though it's called a Bistro.

Times are changing.