Visiting with my family last week reminded me of the joy my mother always seemed to find—in her living, in her living while dying, and even in her death.
Being with my brothers allowed me to see her in the ways we have all honored her: by growing into the people she hoped we would be.
Her blinding generosity cost her heartache many times over, as family and others she met along the way never missed an opportunity to take advantage of her good. She kept her joy abundant. That joy allowed her to somehow pick up the pieces when the 26-year-old woman my father was carrying on with (he was 58 at the time) locked my mother out of the family home—leaving only her purse on the front step.
She held strong when that same 26-year-old demanded that everything belonging “to the children” be thrown into a dumpster. We all received letters giving us two weeks to claim our items—or else.
I was doing a show in New York and couldn’t leave. My middle brother was deep into soccer season, and my younger brother was managing a band and unable to make it back. All of our childhood was thrown into a dumpster. Gone. What was salvaged was sent to my mom’s beach house and placed in the garage-which Hurricane Fran promptly took to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. Fragments of pictures tossed into the sea oats. Little baby Jesus from her favorite creche laid up on a sand dune. Everything else was gone.
My mom watched from afar as the 26-year-old proceeded to gut the house we had all called home, turning it into a tacky, tasteless, and expensive Bloomingdale’s showroom. My mother took the high road—how, I don’t know—when the 26-year-old forged her signature and sold artwork and property in an attempt to hide marital assets.
She never went back into the place she called home. She never again tended the gardens where the old pump house flowers grew-the ones she transplanted from her mothers back yard. She never again saw the Calla Lillies she grew because she knew I loved them. She never took with her the things she might have wanted—keepsakes, memories.
She navigated a hateful divorce and held her own as the 26-year-old and my 58-year-old father married, had a child, and then—just one year later—had their own nasty divorce. The 26-year-old, who grew older, bitter, and disillusioned, would call my mother long after my father had divorced her, taunting her, trying to bargain with her, laughing at her, asking her if she wanted to meet their child-the Greek “purebred”.Even as my mother was recovering from cancer, the calls would come. My mother would hang up the phone. We got a restraining order.
In fact, the now late-50-something-year-old is still locked in her hate. For a time she was running workshops to teach other women how to take everything from a divorce in the most uncommon ways. Two years ago, my father died broke-though he did find love, real love with a wonderful woman who was with him until the end. He was lucky.
My mother left that 26 year old behind that scorching hot Southeastern North Carolina August morning when all the locks were changed on the marital house.It took her longer to leave behind the pain from the divorce. She found ways to make light of something so dark. But on that scorching hot Southeastern North Carolina August morning, she left behind anything that resembled a marriage. She called a friend, figured out where to stay, and went to work, literally. Two weeks later, on the morning of her sisters oldest daughters wedding up in the Peidmont of North Carolina, my mom was served divorce papers while bridesmaids were getting their make-up done. From that day forward, my mom cared about two things: her children and her peace.
She recovered from cancer, and years later, she sat with the knowing that she was losing her ability to hold onto her mind and memories, as dementia ebbed and flowed. Still, she kept her joy abundant.
At 73, she died peacefully—exactly where she wanted to—with her wishes and her dignity intact.
She was the strongest woman I have ever known. She had the ability to love and plow through hardship, to plot out the exact ways she wanted to live while dying, and to hold true to the things that mattered most: her children, her beach, her morals, her integrity, and her joy.
It will be 14 years next week since my mom died. There are no more living members of her birth family. My Grandaddy and Granmama died years prior. A few years after my mom died, her brother died and two years ago her sister died.
While visiting family last week, we honored my mom by laughing, by looking deeply into the legacy she left each of us. She died broke. There were no dollar signs affixed to her legacy.Her legacy is far more valuable. The entire contents of my mom’s house, except for the memories and the keepsakes went to a local family that lost everything in a fire. We legally had to charge them one dollar. When the woman came to look over the furniture, the appliances, the ” you mean everything?”-she brought her daughter with her. Her name was Joy. We all cried.
I miss her every. single. day. I know she misses her children, her grandchildren, her beach, her books, her shells, and her feisty group of friends. A few have died in the years since she died. Fiesty friends in Heaven,I suspect looks a lot like her beloved Eleuthera. They are playing scrabble, walking the beaches and watching the ACC Tournament.
I wish I had her ability to find constant joy. I tend to be more discerning—more suspect—more unforgiving without regret, especially toward those who knowingly and willingly cause so much hurt.
She would tell me to let it go.
Walk on the beach.
Read a good book.
Lift your face to the sun.
Do what you love.
Cast your bread upon the waters.
Do what you can to help those who need it most.
Find the joy.