The Essence of Mammy

My grandmother, Ruth Dolley, passed away today. My mother, my sisters and I were all blessed to be holding her hands in her final moments. I wrote what follows (and posted it on GAG) last spring, but I'd like to share it again. A great and loving and wonderful woman has gone on to her next big adventure. I'm full of sorrow, and yet, I am at peace. She was the best, and my life has been enriched because of my Mammy. March 13, 1916 -November 28, 2010

The Essence of Mammy.

It was Easter Sunday, and Steven and I took the kids to my parents’ home in Kingfield for a short visit. My grandmother, Mammy, has been living with Mum for the last year, but due to hectic, crazy schedules, it had been awhile since my two younger children had seen their great-grandmother.

Mammy is almost ninety-four years old. She has been blessed with good health for most of those years. But when I walked into the living room to greet her on Easter morning, I knew something had changed. Was changing. Her lips smiled—they always do—but her eyes told a different story. Mammy’s poor little body is getting tired out.

Over the years I’ve thought a lot about life and death. I suppose part of that is due to being a writer. I write about everything under the sun, and while putting pen to paper, I have to give the subject of my prose some serious thought. So… I often reflect on those elusive questions; the ones most people avoid thinking about. I’ve even talked to Josie, Eli and Guy about my eventual death. I want them to be at peace when I am gone. I want them to know that even when the time comes and my body fails me, I will still be here. Bodies aren’t indestructible. They are nothing more than tissue and water and calcium and sinew. They aren’t made to last forever. But the spirit? The soul? The essence that makes me, ME? Now THAT is something that is durable and long-lasting!

When my children do something unkind or boneheaded and feel that modicum of shame… that’ll be me shaking my head and urging them to think first, next time, and to try harder. When they help someone or act selflessly and feel that little burst of pride? That will also be me, giving them a hug and an ‘I’m proud of you, babe!’ It won’t matter that my body has turned to dust. The core being, the quintessential Karen, will always be around. You simply can’t erase the essence of a person that easily.


Mammy knows that the end is near. No one knows exactly how near. That’s up to God or biology, or a combination of the two. But at her age, and with her body wearing out, she knows.

But this is what I hope with all my heart she truly recognizes. I want Mammy to know that she will always, always be with us. She won’t ever leave. She can’t! Her soul is too strong, her influence too great, her awesomeness simply too awesome. I know for a fact that this woman will be hanging around these western hills and glacial lakes and the trails through our forests for a long, long time. Every single time I see a train or hear its whistle blow, I’ll think of Mammy, who first walked with me on the rails of the Canadian Pacific Railroad. Every time I pick a raspberry and taste its warm sweetness, I will see her filling a basket from the bushes in Seboeis. When I play cards, it’s Mammy’s lovely, wrinkled hands I’ll see dealing them as I remember all the games of Solitaire she taught me. When I sleep at night, it’s under a quilt she lovingly made. When I do the mundane chore of vacuuming, I’ll remember how she drove all the way to Kingfield from Milo one rainy day, just to buy a vacuum for me at Jordan Lumber Co. because she knew mine had sucked its last hairball. When I write a poem, I’ll reflect on the fact that the very first one I ever wrote was a gift for her and my grandfather Grankie, because I couldn’t afford to buy them a Christmas present… and I’ll remember the pleasure those two old folks expressed when they received that simple gift. They gave me the confidence to write, and that has been a gift beyond measure.

When I see a pile of moose poop (and that’s a story in and of itself), who will I think of? Mammy. When I find a pretty rock? A funky mushroom? A wheat penny? That wonderful woman will be right beside me, oohing and ahhing as I look in wonder at the small treasure.

Mammy’s not going anywhere. Nope. Her body might be rebelling, but that lady’s spirit scoffs at such weakness. I’ve said it already, but it bears repeating: Ruth Dolley is awesome. The best grandmother a girl (or boy) could have asked for. I didn’t ask for her, but I got her anyway. How lucky, how blessed I have been. How blessed I AM.

Leaving us soon? I don’t think so! No way, no how. There will come a day when I won’t be able to easily lay my eyes on that lovely, smiling face, but I will never, ever have a problem finding her. Every day, in every direction I turn, she will be there. Because I love her, and because she loves me, she will always be right here beside me.

The essence of Mammy. Something that awesome won’t ever leave those of us who love her, those of us she’s touched.

I love you, Mammy. Forever.

I Ruined Thanksgiving

I ruined Thanksgiving. Not just the holiday itself, but the whole weekend.

It was a quiet one, with only my husband’s mother coming to share a meal with us. It was planned to be as stress-free as possible.

I guess I blew it.

I’d asked the kids to each do one thing to help. I asked Eli to clean the living room--which included digging all his wayward socks out from the corners and underneath the couches and chairs, dusting, and straightening up. I asked Josie to vacuum ‘the kitchen and the living room’. Dinner was planned for noon. I made my first requests at eight a.m.

Eli began his chore shortly thereafter, but he got side-tracked. The TV, the video game, the computer… who knows, really? Josie, immediately upon being asked to vacuum, began with “I HATE vacuuming!” The morning went downhill from there. Each time I passed the living room, I spoke to the kids.

“Eli, have you dusted, yet?”

“Oh! I forgot!”

“Josie, please vacuum.”

“I WILL, Mama. I thought Grandma wasn’t coming until noon!”

Lather, rinse, repeat.

At ten-fifteen, I stuck my head into the living room, where my daughter was laying on the sofa, covered up with a blanket and watching the parades on the television.

“Josie! Vacuum!”

“I WILL, Mama! When the commercial comes on!”

Off went the TV. Sulking girl stomped to get the Kenmore. Grumpy mother took the turkey out of the oven. Grrrr…….

She vacuumed, but she stopped exactly short of the door from kitchen to hallway by the stairs. From where I stood at the stove, I could see the cat hair and dust on the floor clearly, and I wasn’t the one pushing the vac to within inches of it. She studiously ignored it (I hadn’t mentioned the hall, after all) and moved to the living room. If that young woman can channel her stubbornness into something positive, she will go very, very far in this life. She will also be terrifying.

Grandma came, and we had a nice visit over turkey, stuffing, squash, and the rest of the trimmings. I cleared the table and began to take care of the left-overs. Steven’s mother asked if she could help with the dishes, and I thanked her but said ‘no’. Steven remarked that the kids could wash the dishes.

This time, HE was studiously ignored.

Even though our bellies were full, the kids didn’t want to wait for dessert, so the chocolate cream, banana cream and pumpkin pies came out. Then the table was cleared once more, and everyone got up from the table.

“Who wants to wash, and who wants to dry?” I asked my teenagers.

“I’ll dry. Josie can wash.”

“I don’t want to wash! I ALWAYS do the dishes!”

“Josie, wash the dishes, please.”

“YOU said that if one of us kids said the OTHER ONE should do a chore, then THEY would have to be the one to do it!” A statement I made ages ago, but obviously held onto as future ammunition by a girl with the memory of an elephant. A selectively cognizant elephant.

This arguing and whining was being conducted in front of my mother-in-law, and I was embarrassed. I couldn’t understand why my children weren’t somewhat shamed, themselves. I also thought perhaps my husband would step in and say something. Usually, when Papa speaks, the kids listen. After all, they always hear me bark. I’m just ‘old hat’, to them. But no. Nothing helpful from that quarter.

“Josie, wash the dishes! Eli, dry!”

I walked from the kitchen and went into the bathroom. I brushed my teeth. I waited a minute, hoping to hear the sound of running water, of dishes clinking. Silence.

I came out. No one was in the kitchen. No dishes were being washed. I walked into the living room, and there were my children, lolling on the couches, with Steven and his mother chatting in the opposite corner of the room. I saw red.

“You kids get out there NOW! You can bet that if Betsy’s or Gail’s kids were here, they’d be doing those dishes without even being asked! Shame on you! Now, get out there!” I pointed towards the kitchen. I knew I’d made a fool of myself in front of Steven’s mother, but what I’d said was 100% correct. Steven’s nieces and nephews are helpful, polite and hard-working young people, and when they come for a holiday meal, they leave the house in better shape than they found it. AND, they make the work look fun!

The dishes got washed. They got dried and put away. One glass got broken. Sullenness reigned. A pall hung over the house. Mum had hollered at her kids. On Thanksgiving. In front of Grandma. Ugh.

I apologized to my mother-in-law, but I had to qualify it. I had to talk about how hard it has been, lately, to get those kids to do anything helpful around the house. All the while, I felt guilty. I should have and could have washed those dishes, and allowed my children a few extra minutes to visit with their grandmother, whom they don’t see very often. Or, I could have waited until she’d left for home before making them do the task. But no. I had to have a minor meltdown. I had to act like a harridan. I’ll say it again: Ugh.

This morning—Friday—I announced that the kids were going to clean their rooms, today.

“How come?” Eli asked. If the question hadn’t been so sad or so aggravating, it would have been laughable. The rooms are pig sties--and have been, for months. But, I gave my reasons, anyway. The holidays were approaching. The rooms were disgusting. And I was going to be kicking both children out of the house next weekend and entertaining friends who will be coming for the benefit comedy show I will be performing in. Their rooms will be needed for guests.

Their eyes widened in horror. Not just a token straightening, then! When I said they had to clean their rooms, I meant… they had to CLEAN them! Top to bottom.

“And,” I looked at my husband, my mind’s eye seeing the detritus left behind after some of his most recent ‘projects’, “YOU get to clean the parlor!”


Yep, I’ve single-handedly managed to ruin Thanksgiving. And then some!

Peace on earth, good will to men. Yadayadayada...

The Essence of Mammy

It was Easter Sunday, and Steven and I took the kids to my parents’ home in Kingfield for a short visit. My grandmother, Mammy, has been living with Mum for the last year, but due to hectic, crazy schedules, it had been awhile since my two younger children had seen their great-grandmother.

Mammy is almost ninety-four years old. She has been blessed with good health for most of those years. But when I walked into the living room to greet her on Easter morning, I knew something had changed. Was changing. Her lips smiled—they always do—but her eyes told a different story. Mammy’s poor little body is getting tired out.

Over the years I’ve thought a lot about life and death. I suppose part of that is due to being a writer. I write about everything under the sun, and while putting pen to paper, I have to give the subject of my prose some serious thought. So… I often reflect on those elusive questions; the ones most people avoid thinking about. I’ve even talked to Josie, Eli and Guy about my eventual death. I want them to be at peace when I am gone. I want them to know that even when the time comes and my body fails me, I will still be here. Bodies aren’t indestructible. They are nothing more than tissue and water and calcium and sinew. They aren’t made to last forever. But the spirit? The soul? The essence that makes me, ME? Now THAT is something that is durable and long-lasting!

When my children do something unkind or boneheaded and feel that modicum of shame… that’ll be me shaking my head and urging them to think first, next time, and to try harder. When they help someone or act selflessly and feel that little burst of pride? That will also be me, giving them a hug and an ‘I’m proud of you, babe!’ It won’t matter that my body has turned to dust. The core being, the quintessential Karen, will always be around. You simply can’t erase the essence of a person that easily.

Mammy knows that the end is near. No one knows exactly how near. That’s up to God or biology, or a combination of the two. But at her age, and with her body wearing out, she knows.

But this is what I hope with all my heart she truly recognizes. I want Mammy to know that she will always, always be with us. She won’t ever leave. She can’t! Her soul is too strong, her influence too great, her awesomeness simply too awesome. I know for a fact that this woman will be hanging around these western hills and glacial lakes and the trails through our forests for a long, long time. Every single time I see a train or hear its whistle blow, I’ll think of Mammy, who first walked with me on the rails of the Canadian Pacific Railroad. Every time I pick a raspberry and taste its warm sweetness, I will see her filling a basket from the bushes in Seboeis. When I play cards, it’s Mammy’s lovely, wrinkled hands I’ll see dealing them as I remember all the games of Solitaire she taught me. When I sleep at night, it’s under a quilt she lovingly made. When I do the mundane chore of vacuuming, I’ll remember how she drove all the way to Kingfield from Milo one rainy day, just to buy a vacuum for me at Jordan Lumber Co. because she knew mine had sucked its last hairball. When I write a poem, I’ll reflect on the fact that the very first one I ever wrote was a gift for her and my grandfather Grankie, because I couldn’t afford to buy them a Christmas present… and I’ll remember the pleasure those two old folks expressed when they received that simple gift. They gave me the confidence to write, and that has been a gift beyond measure.

When I see a pile of moose poop (and that’s a story in and of itself), who will I think of? Mammy. When I find a pretty rock? A funky mushroom? A wheat penny? That wonderful woman will be right beside me, oohing and ahhing as I look in wonder at the small treasure.

Mammy’s not going anywhere. Nope. Her body might be rebelling, but that lady’s spirit scoffs at such weakness. I’ve said it already, but it bears repeating: Ruth Dolley is awesome. The best grandmother a girl (or boy) could have asked for. I didn’t ask for her, but I got her anyway. How lucky, how blessed I have been. How blessed I AM.

Leaving us soon? I don’t think so! No way, no how. There will come a day when I won’t be able to easily lay my eyes on that lovely, smiling face, but I will never, ever have a problem finding her. Every day, in every direction I turn, she will be there. Because I love her, and because she loves me, she will always be right here beside me.

The essence of Mammy. Something that awesome won’t ever leave those of us who love her, those of us she’s touched.

I love you, Mammy. Forever.

All She Wanted for Christmas

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This was the first Christmas in many, many years that I was able to spend some of the holiday with my grandmother. For the last decade she's spent her winters in Kansas with my uncle, her eldest son. This year, however, her visit was delayed. This year, she was a part of my holiday traditions, and those of my children.

My two youngest kids are only a little more than a year apart in age. Like puppies in a litter, they bicker and brawl, snap and snarl. It is rare for a day to pass without the two of them getting into an argument. Usually, the disagreement is over something stupid or trivial, like whether Duracell or Energizer batteries last longer. Neither of them knows the answer. Neither of them cares. Not really. But they each have the urge to have the last word. They each want to prove their superiority over the other.

There are days when they drive me 'round the bend.

But Mammy had a request for Christmas. When asked by my daughter what she would like for a gift, Mammy told her that all she wanted was a photo of the two of them. Together. Smiling.

Lordy, lordy, lordy...

I envisioned The Photo Shoot From Hell. My son hates to have his picture taken, and when I do manage to get him to stand still for a moment, he's usually scowling. And my daughter is convinced that she is The Boss. She has the urge to control her brother, and she drives him (and her parents) crazy as she tries to direct his every action, word and and expression. Which makes him grumpier, of course, and that causes the frowns to grow in size and frequency.

So I thought that getting a decent photo of my two youngest children was going to be a royal chore.

Instead, I didn't have to lift a finger. Not only that, but the two of them didn't fight, at all.


My daughter asked to borrow my camera. She told her brother that his great-grandmother had only one request for Christmas, and that was to have a picture of the two of them smiling for her. And that's all it took. She held the camera at arm's length and snapped away. My son smiled for every shot. They laughed together, and they acted a bit silly. Oh, they squabbled. They had to! It's a long-ingrained habit, and an addiction, of sorts. But they had fun and even though most of the pictures were a bit blurry or fuzzy or the lightning was wrong, they managed to find one they both liked, and they framed it and wrapped it and gave it to Mammy. She was ecstatic with her photograph. And I have twenty pictures which prove I am the mother of some of the most awesome teenagers on the planet.


Yes, my ninety-three year old grandmother made Christmas special for us this year. In more ways than one.

Thank you, Mammy.

Letting Go

Just a quickie today, for I’m a bit worn out.

This was the day that my parents, my uncle and I moved my grandmother out of the home she’s lived in for the last forty years. While I am pleased to know that she will now be living closer to me, thereby allowing me to enjoy her beautiful personality on a regular basis, I’m sad, too. I’m sad that my grandmother is sad. I’m sorry that she’s saying goodbye to the home that she made with my grandfather, whom she loved dearly. And I’m down-in-the-dumps because she knows that her last bit of independence is gone. She’s ninety-three. A good age. She’s done extremely well to have remained self-sufficient for this long. But it’s time she let someone take care of her, for a change. She’s taken care of us for a long, long time.

I’m proud of her, and I’m proud to be her granddaughter.

But today, I am sad.