Remembering Mama...

Dear Aaron,

I'm down with Grampa and Aunt Maurie. It's weird being at Gramma's without her, strange for all of us, especially Grampa. Do you two hang out with us? Are you here, too? I found memories I wrote six years ago for her 70th birthday. Before she left, I shared it with my sisters and Aunt Liz read it to her. Oh, I miss her! I miss you!

I think everything I learned about love and tenacity and perseverance I learned from her and Daddy.

I remember…

I remember pressing noses up against a glass window in a hospital nursery, watching with Maurie as you lifted up our brand new baby brother for us to see the first time. 

I remember itching, and lots of moving boxes and movers, and not realizing you were doing it all on your own when we all had chicken pox 'cause Dad was TDY and no one wanted to watch kids with chicken pox.

I remember my “Becky doll” made so I would have a “pillow” on the overseas flight to Taiwan so soft, and all mine, and I slept with her all the way into college.

I remember the look on your face when you realized Maurie was missing in the airport, and you were alone with three little ones.  It was probably panic, but I wasn’t worried, ‘cause I knew you had it under control.

I remember waking up in the night on one of those flights hungry because I slept through dinner. You had the stewardess bring me some food, even though they had already cleaned everything up.

I remember Maurie falling and hitting her eye, Dad was out of town, and you just handled it.  I’m sure it was really hard, but I never knew that.

I remember comfort in the night when it was dark and the wind and rain were so scary. 

I remember you and Dad working together in the kitchen in the Philippines making fried rice for dinner, and trying to sneak onion and pepper, and realizing I really didn’t like them!

I remember being proud of my mom because you were far and away the most beautiful woman around, and we’d go on bike rides and play outside.  I remember you working with an old wringer washer  and putting our clothes through it.

I remember a birthday party at Sugarhouse Park (I think) with great big trees and a pinata.  

I remember figuring out what “c-i-r-c-u-s” spelled and yelling it out when you were on the phone and saying you hoped to be able to take us.  You did, and it was amazing!!  What I didn’t know was that it was the night before Tricia was born.  

I remember you bringing that same baby sister home and showing us, but telling us we had to wash our popsicle-sticky hands before we could touch her.

I remember you singing us to sleep with “Stay Awake” from Mary Poppins.

I remember a tiny apartment in Colorado where we would hide in the cupboards and play, but I didn’t realize it was tiny, or that we were “camping.” 

I remember cakes, lots and lots of cakes, with thousands of tiny frosting stars.  I remember a wedding cake, that I had no idea you were nervous about.  It was beautiful, and you could bake, cook, make anything!

I remember Brownie girl scouts, and learning the “proper” way to set a table.  

I remember the pain on your face when we tried to “run away”, and on the day you were making doughnuts, too!  (What were we thinking?)

I remember how you “mothered” so many cadets, realizing now that they really weren’t much younger than you were.  

And how you did laundry for so many missionaries.

I remember spaghetti for Sunday dinner because you could expand or contract it easily, since you never knew going to church how many you’d have at the table after. It wasn’t until many, many years later that I realized you were also trying to make the food budget stretch. You never turned away anyone from your table, money was never a factor in feeding anyone. 

I remember you traveling to Denver (which seemed forever away) to help take care of Grandma Organ, and how when we were there too, you would tend to her every need, but also making sure Grandma’s dignity was preserved.

I remember road trips, with lots and lots and lots of singing.  It never crossed my mind that you might get tired of singing.

I remember hot summer days in Texas at Nana and Papa’s pool, and your laughter with your sisters and brother.

I remember playing in the ocean, and horrible sunburns and you giving me Tylenol and cool compresses for the pain.  I remember you made our swimsuits for the trip, and they were the best ever.

I remember a quiet, dark, snow-filled night with another baby sister inside a hospital room.

I (vaguely) remember you were there, all day long after my surgery, talking to me, putting ice packs on my face, and how badly I wanted you once I truly woke up that night, and how upset you were with the corpsman who had refused to call you. You had made him promise that if I wanted you he’d call, but you’d been there all day and just left, and he wouldn’t bother you. 

I remember driving back to Pennsylvania, and occasionally stopping so you could stretch.  There were seven of us in a six passenger Jeep and you were very pregnant with Michelle.

I remember you taking us to church in Pennsylvania by yourself (just like you’d always done when Dad was gone), to a tiny branch, when it would have been so easy just to stay home for a few weeks instead of wrestling five kids under 12 while very pregnant with a sixth. 

I remember another tiny apartment in Alaska, where it was dark and cold, but again, I didn’t realize it was all that small.  
 
I remember you gently washing my hand after a kid had been kicking it on the bus.

I remember seeing you curled up in your rocker, crying, when you learned Grandma Organ had passed away.

I remember you driving to and from a dance in an almost blizzard because it had been so important to me to go.  It was bad enough on the way home that you had me watching the blowing snow on the side of the road, trying to see the lines as the snow drifted, to make sure we were still on the road. 

I remember the many, many very early morning (4:45!) rides to seminary in Alaska, and then the somewhat later, but still early, rides in New Jersey. 

I remember you making my corsage for prom, and having someone come do my hair.

I remember telling you that a guy tried to pick me up and give me a ride when I was walking to work.  You never questioned whether or not it was true.  I’d fought you on having to walk from school to work.  But I also never, ever walked to work again.  Either I had a car, or you came and got me. 

I remember going to a cast party after a play.  You dropped Maurie and a friend and I off.  You wouldn’t have been more than a mile or so on your way back home when we realized we didn’t want to be there.  We called home (no cell phones then) and Dad told you and you turned around and came and got us.  There was no judgement, no recriminations, just help.

I remember you wallpapering the kitchen, our bedroom, painting various rooms in different houses, wherever we lived.  I remember the bright yellow in the smallest room in Colorado that really opened it up.  And then you had to repaint it to make it the boring white again when we moved.  

I don’t remember ever “living” in boxes, no matter where we lived.  I learned later that you would stay up all night long unpacking so that we could feel “at home” as soon as possible.

I remember you always tried to be at church, even when someone had hurt your feelings.

I remember telling you a friend had been kicked out of her home because she was pregnant, and asking what you would do if I was.  You told me you’d cry and love me, and cry and love me, and cry and love me.  I knew then that you’d never give up on me. 

I remember you telling me that I was beautiful when I was heartbroken over a guy, and that others would see me the way you did.  I knew you were wrong, but I also knew you believed what you were saying.  

I remember you coming downstairs and telling me that Grandma Brown had died, and how you held me as I cried.  

I remember the finals care package you sent me my first semester as finals week approached.  I was so surprised, and so touched.  I didn’t even know there was such a thing

I remember you flying back to New Jersey to talk to a family I wanted to nanny for.  It was important to me to go back, but it was important to you that I was in a good situation.

I remember your friend bringing me a dozen roses from you on opening night of The Sound of Music because you couldn’t be there.

I remember your comfort and counsel, and the bread and cookies you brought me in college when I was worried because I was losing weight.

I remember calling you when I was discouraged early in sales and telling you I couldn’t get anyone to buy from me.  You told me that if I was in it for myself, I needed to get myself back home.  But if I would focus on the people and how my products could help them, it would come, and even if it didn’t, I would still be touching people.  Do it for the right reason, or come home and do something else.

    
I remember the candy bars you would sometimes slip into packages you sent after you moved to Arizona.   

I remember you helping with each baby, you taking the girls in when I was in bed with David.  

I remember when 9/11 happened, all I wanted was to talk to you, to hear your voice.  I needed your grounding.  

Mom, you’ve always been there for me, whether right there by my side, or helping in the background.  You took over when Dad was gone on assignment, taking care of things, running the house and loving us. 

You are the glue that’s held us together.  

 
“I do not doubt my mother knew it.”

I love you, Mama.

I love you, Aaron.

Love,
Me

"An old family photo — this still moment in time, this moment when there was still time." ~Robert Brault