Mom at 100

I've been thinking about my mom a lot lately. Today would have been her 100th birthday, a number perhaps not significant, but providing an opportunity for reflection.

While a photo cannot capture a life, I think this one's a good start. It was taken behind our house in Gettysburg. Mom is seated on what we called "the rock"--exposed granite too large to excavate--surround by flowers she had seeded into myriad cracks. How like her to turn the mundane into something beautiful. In the background is an outbuilding which served as her studio, a private space filled with morning light in which, during hours stolen from domestic tasks, she made art of another kind.

Like a Buster Brown shoe, there's a dog there too. Mom loved animals, she was a pet magnet. In her mind there was divine order that paired critters with humans and she was a willing participant. Pets were not purchased, they just arrived. The pairings produced love, consistent and reciprocal. In the home of a family often absent, she was never alone.

What can be only implied by the photo is space, privacy. No neighborly surveillance, no need to chat idly. Mom was a hard-core introvert. Few would guess this, as visitors were always welcomed graciously. They would not see the consternation of adding a plate just before dinner, of routines disrupted, personal time lost. The angst that everything might not be perfect.

I think it is a great tribute to my mother that for much of her life she existed in environments that prevented the feeding of her inner self. Being a pastor's wife in both traditional church and academic settings. Giving up the country to move to a larger town, a busy street corner with pedestrians and cars and sirens and the homeless knocking on the door asking to be fed. Going from leaving doors unlocked at night to being locked in a closet during a home invasion. Meeting with the faculty wives book club rather than working on the latest painting. Stoic. Strength, deep and broad, even if unseen.

I recognize that it is dangerous to go into, "what if," especially when alternatives preclude my existence. And, I've often wondered how mom's life would have been different had she not left art school to get married at age 20. Had she known her father. Had she not given up singing with the band. Had she been able to stay in the country, not moving so often. What music was unmade, what beauty left unenhanced, what creativity not released? What paths would she have taken if freed from the weight of domestic servitude? More sculpting, less scrubbing. More time at pianos, less in pews. I don't know. I didn't ask and I wasn't told. To the end, mom remained quietly complex.

To the end.

Perhaps it is fitting that someone who treasured private time should pass in private, alone, due to COVID restrictions. The day before, she had been outwardly unresponsive to the last "I love you," the last touch of hands, a scene I'm sure I'll replay frequently. But in terms of remembering who my mother was, what made her heart sing, I'll go to a different place and time, where and when a lovely young woman sat in the sunshine, amidst flowers, with her arm around a dog.

I smile at the rightness of this.