Remembering Bill's Mum

A week ago Saturday, we had two hours before leaving for the airport to fly to Utah when Bill’s phone rang.  He was in the shower so I answered it. 

It was that call you know will one day come.  Words that cross thousands of miles, making you retrace your life’s journey that took you so far away from home. 

Pam, Bill’s mum, had passed away.  After being bed-ridden for two years and in the care home for five years.  Following a stroke ten years ago and debilitating blindness and dementia that worsened over the last decade.  We had been losing Bill’s mum over many years. 

At Grandma Murphy’s funeral in 2006, many friends of our family shared their memories of Grandma.  How she worked harder on the farm than most men.  How she always had the coffee on and a cake on the counter.  I had forgotten those details.  While Grandma was absolutely lucid at the end of her life, her physical struggles over those last few years were our most vivid memories.  The sadness of slowly, heartrendingly losing someone casts a shadow over the days and years of splendor. 

A half-hour after we received the call from our brother-in-law, my phone rang.  It was the owner of the condo in Utah where we would be staying.  He had been thinking about our arrival and knew how late we would be getting in.  He reminded me that no liquor stores would be open Sunday.  And because of President’s Day, they would also be closed Monday.  He offered to stock the condo for us.  That’s when tears rolled down my cheeks into a laughing smile as I thanked him.  Pam, the daughter of a London pub owner, had surely reached the pearly gates, for how else could we account for this timely call?

Through this emotional, tumultuous day, we continued with our plans to go to Utah for winter break.  It would be at least two or three weeks before Pam’s funeral.  Bill’s sister encouraged us to keep our holiday intact.  We left our house at 1:30 p.m. Saturday afternoon and finally put our heads on pillows in Utah at 5:00 a.m. Utah time, Sunday morning. 

Of all the family photos pulled out over the 29 years I’ve known Bill, a good many were from his family’s travels when he was growing up.  Many more were of Pam traveling with friends after Bill’s dad, Frank, had passed away in 1984.  Pam readily engaged new acquaintances wherever she went.  On this side of the pond, whether in Iowa, Illinois, or Massachusetts, Bill’s mum made good memories for many.  As I soaked in the view from the mountaintops and watched the boys skiing, I thought of Pam and how she would’ve loved this view and seeing her grandsons’ delight in skiing with Bill.

We will be going to England over Easter for Pam’s funeral on April 3rd.  There will be a traditional church service, a short service at the crematorium, followed by a wake at a local hotel.  Back home from Utah on Sunday night, we were talking with our sons about the plans.  Bill talked about the crematorium and the choices people make for what happens to their bodies after they die.  He said that while Grandma had chosen to be cremated, some people donate their bodies to science.  I told the boys that’s what Will’s godmother, Marge, did when she passed away several years ago.  Marge had been my Sunday school teacher in high school.  Two generations older than me, she was my mentor; our lives paralleled through adoption and breast cancer.  To my comment, Will replied, “Who?  I don’t remember Marge.”

My heart lurched.  I fought the cracking in my voice.  The welling of tears in my eyes.  From the time we brought Will home from Korea, we visited Marge every trip back to Iowa.  When she was still mobile, we would pick her up and take her out for potato pancakes.  Then when she wasn’t able to go out anymore, we would visit and spend a couple hours with her in the nursing home.  Her eyes would light up at the sight of my boys coming into her room. Those eyes danced the whole time we were there.  Five-year-old Will would sit on her lap, and toddling Liam would play with all of her stuffed animals - mostly cats.  Now, Marge is gone; Will doesn’t remember her; I am the one left holding that memory.  The bond I thought would be cemented like glue weighs heavily on me.  Where I thought – albeit naively it seems now – that Marge and Will were connected with gorilla glue, washable kids’ glue dissolves with a teardrop.

For Pam, like my grandparents who have passed on, I choose to focus on memories of her when she was vibrant.  Pam loved Andrew Lloyd Weber and Frank Sinatra.  My love of musical theater in the West End of London and my habit of crooners keeping the kitchen alive while I cook undoubtedly come from my mother-in-law’s passions that she shared with me.  When Pam had a cup of tea or coffee, she sat down and talked with you.  I remember how strange that seemed given our on-the-go cadence in the States.  Strange and absolutely wonderful.

Each of us becomes the connective tissue between generations.  For as many stories as I’ve heard about Bill’s dad over 29 years, I feel like I knew him when he was alive.  Our sons never knew the vivacious, dog-walking Grandma that Pam was before the stroke.  They didn’t see her dressed to the nines for the theater nor did they walk with her across fields in the rain to have a cream tea in a pub.  They won’t remember her bright yellow raincoat or the dog that more often than not was off his lead running ahead of her.

A few days ago, Frank Sinatra’s “I’ll Be Seeing You” was playing in the van.  (Yes, the kids who ride in my carpool have been introduced to crooners.)  To me, these lyrics speak to how daily life is touched by those who have passed on:

“I’ll be seeing you in all the old, familiar places
That this heart of mine embraces all day through
In that small café, the park across the way
The children’s carousel, the chestnut tree, the wishing well

I’ll be seeing you in ev’ry lovely summer’s day
In everything that’s light and gay
I’ll always think of you that way
I’ll find you in the morning sun and when the night is new
I’ll be looking at the moon but I’ll be seeing you.”

And when experiences in our everyday lives evoke your vibrancy, Pam, we will remember you to our sons through stories, music, and laughter. 

And now, “let’s get that kettle on” for a nice cup of tea. 

Oh, my goodness!!  Bill just walked by me as I typed that last line and said, “Who wants a cup of tea?” 

Marge would have called this a “God thing.”

A Moment in Time

Liam turned twelve in January.  His humor and personality have bloomed over the last six months.  Liam rarely spends money, particularly when it's his own.  So when we are out and about and he sees something he wants, I only need to say, "Did you bring your money?" and the want disappears.

"Oh, well, I don't need it if I have to buy it," he affirms.

Liam knows I'm working on publishing a book and recently asked if I would make any money on it.  I told him that I hoped so but wasn't sure how much.  He suggested that I start walking to the library to write, that way I would save money on gas that contributed to the expense of publishing.  I told him my time was also valuable.  He nodded with, "That's true, I guess."

His favorite story is the one I wrote about him when he was three and pretending to be a seal -- by sticking rocks up his nose.  "That one is HILARIOUS, Mom!  I know you'll make money on that one!"  I'm not including that story in my book, but for Liam's sake, here's the link to that one.

Liam and I have different negotiating styles.  Every time I ask him to unload the dishwasher, it begins.  "I'm just going to unload the top rack.  Wait, why do I have to unload the dishwasher?  I'm always unloading the dishwasher."  The chat over not unloading takes longer than just unloading it.  I generally try to avoid confrontation and stay quiet as he mumbles his way through this revolting chore.  

Then last week, when he decided he would leave half the top rack for me to do, I told him that I was only going to wash two pairs of his underwear for that week.  He finished the whole rack.  I told him he's part of the family so needs to help with chores, or something to that effect.  I told him it was good practice for when he grew up and lived on his own.  He told me he would have a maid to load his dishwasher.  Every spoon?

The conservation lessons Liam learned in science from last year -- or maybe the year before -- have parked firmly in his frontal lobe.  Doing laundry on a drab day, the Laundry Maven had lights on in the two rooms adjoining the laundry room.  She watched as shadows approached the laundry room with each downward flip of the light switches.  When Liam reached the laundry room, he flicked that light off too.  Then looked right at the Laundry Maven and said, "Is that OK?" The Laundry Maven needed not to speak a word.  "Oops, sorry, guess not!"  Coming into the house at dusk from taking Will to gymnastics, I can only see a silhouette of Liam created by glowing from the light of the computer screen.  He flicks lights off and sits in complete darkness just like my dad does.  

Yet when Liam sees someone upset, he thinks of his wallet first.  What can he get for them that will make them feel a bit better?  That caring charm appeared this week when I crashed on the couch a couple times worn down by this silly cold.  Liam immediately left his computer, grabbed a fleece blanket and tucked me in, then brought me a glass of water to calm my cough.  All without me asking for any of it. 

As for the lessons on social grace that I spew forth daily, Liam hit maximum capacity a few days ago.  In the middle of one such lesson from me, he replied very calmly, "I don't need a moral story, Mom."  There wasn't even an eyeball roll with this comment.  It was just a calm, affirmative "I got it" moment.

The weekend I went away to write, I dropped into a quiet jewelry store to have a look around.  The owner was the only person in the store, and we started to chat.  During my four days of solitude, this was my longest conversation with another person.  Through our pleasantries, we soon found that we had a few things in common. 

The shop owner, who was maybe a few years older than me, loves Bill Bryson, the non-fiction writer who was born in Iowa.  We talked about Jewish customs and Korean customs; this was a conversation spawned by a stack of beautiful Mazuzahs in his store.  He explained how they were hung on doorways.  Having studied Judaism in college, we talked about the richness of Jewish culture.  And that led to a discussion of Korean culture, which in turn revealed that my husband and I had adopted our children from South Korea.  The store owner shared an adoption story: he was adopted.  

It was then that things got a little intense.  It was an argument that I've had before but with people in the general public -- never with an adoptee.  With other people, I end it with complete confidence that I win.  I don't have his exact words, but they were to the effect that we have given our sons such a gift by adopting them.  My counter, as it always is, is that Bill and I are the ones who have received an amazing gift of family through adoption.  We are the ones that will be forever grateful and honored to be parents of our sons.   But the shop owner didn't acquiesce, saying we may think that, but really, it's the other way; they are the ones...

It was clear that neither of us would back down.  I was definitely teary-eyed and he may have been too behind his glasses.  I bought my Mazuzah and left the store knowing that each of us was just a hair more right than the other.

Welcome to My New Website!

Today, rather than original thoughts, I share with you original art! 

Just before the holidays, I started working with a designer on a new website.  Our goal was to have it up and running by January 31st.  And, Voila!  Here it is!!

Writing is most often a solitary enterprise, so when I have an opportunity to connect with other creative people, it's very exciting, particularly when we are on the same wave-length.  It doesn't feel like work.  Like my writing critique groups, there is a passion for the job at hand, so it's hard to label it as "work."  It's time-consuming but oh-so exhilarating -- both the process and the end product.

So, here you are... I introduce to you Linda Malcolm's newly designed website!  Let me give you a little tour. 

Musings, where you are now, is the home of my most current writing.  Yes, as Linda Malcolm looks at gathering more readers from the world-at-large, "Hump Day Shorts," will be renamed. "Musings" will take their place.  For those of you who have been around for awhile, you and I both know what Hump Day Shorts are, and in the foreseeable future, you'll get word of a new "Musing," most likely still on Wednesdays - or whenever Hump Day lands that particular week!

My Home page is a little like the Table of Contents in a book.  On this page, before I scroll down, I get caught up in the video footage at the top of the page and imagine that I'm flying over the cornfields near the Cedar Rapids, Iowa, airport on my way home.  I highly recommend just hanging out here for a bit, particularly if you live out-of-state and miss those perfect corn rows.  

Staying Strong is now a very visible section on my site.  While I don't want to daily relive the year of breast cancer, my hope is that a greater good will be served by that year if other people connected to breast cancer can read my raw, unedited journal and glean something from it.  I don't revisit the writing often... and I sit near tears telling you to take a look.  I've shared it with a few women underground and it has seemed to help in some way, so here it is.  Don't miss the "Chemo Camo" photo gallery: photos of bald me applying "camouflage" and becoming a nearly unrecognizable chemo patient.  These photos were taken eight years ago this week.

Photography is straightforward: Photos from my travels and my life.

Subscribe will open a page for new readers to sign-up and receive my weekly emails.  So, please if you aren't a subscriber, join me!  If you already receive my notes, feel free to share this link liberally with your friends!  

Finally, About Linda is meant for newbies to my writing who wonder what the heck this site is all about.  It's a good place for new readers to get a taste of my slice of life writing. 

Now, until next week, you'll have a little something to read!  Feel free to leave comments on any posts.  I'm happy to chat with you along the way on this new adventure!