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.

Cover Your Mouth When You Yawn!!!

Freak accidents. We never expect them…that’s why they are labeled thusly. The phrase says it all.

Death is never funny. It isn’t. And the closer a person is to the victim of a fatal accident, the less amusing and the more tragic it is.

I consider myself a woman with a lot of empathy. A great deal of sympathy. More than my share of compassion. And yet, at the same time I have found myself chortling in fascinated dismay and yes—almost glee—when learning of certain ‘freak accidents’.

None of us wants to die. It is human nature to hold on to the tenuous and fragile strings that secure us to life with everything we’ve got. But we ARE going to die. It is inevitable. Some of us will die soon, and many of us will pass on in the distant future. But if I had my choice between a lingering illness, or long-term pain, or an existence where--because of the frailty of mind or body--I was affecting the quality of life of my loved ones who WERE healthy and who DID have a long and promising future…well. I guess I’m saying that I’m the kind of girl who would rather have her end be swift, unexpected…and even something that might be thought of as funny, after the pain and shock wore off.

Am I a sick mother (wife and daughter), or what??

The following is an excerpt from a newspaper article a friend sent me. I don’t KNOW that it’s true…but it wouldn’t surprise me if it was.

A circus dwarf, nicknamed ‘Od’, died recently when he bounced sideways from a trampoline and was swallowed by a yawning hippopotamus waiting to appear in the next act. Vets said Hilda the Hippo had a gag reflex which caused her to swallow. More than 1000 spectators continued to applaud wildly until they realized there had been a tragic mistake.

Well, NO WONDER we can’t get homeowner’s insurance if we own a trampoline! No wonder!!

Okay. You’ve read it. I dare say, you’ve read it twice! And I’m betting that a good percentage of you--whether you’d openly admit it or not—got a chuckle from that article. Maybe even a hoot! It has an aura of mesmerizing horror to it, doesn’t it? I mean, come on!!! Out of all the ways a human being might envision his eventual death, would this scenario ever, EVER cross his mind? We picture car accidents, or cancer, or house fires or diabetes. But we never, EVER foresee bouncing sideways from a trampoline into a yawning hippo’s mouth!!! I DARE you to tell me that possibility has crossed your mind!

I dare you!

I admit it. I giggled and tee-heed for five minutes after I read that. Sure, I feel sympathy for Od’s family and friends. What a terrible thing to have happen! One minute, little Od was bouncing away, light and free, doing somersaults to the delight of his fans, and the next…Hehehehehe.

I’m sorry! I am! See? I’m a sick woman! But Holy Hippos, Hilda! It simply boggles the mind!

And I’ve gotta tell you…I feel bad for poor, humble Hilda. There is no way that creature could have foreseen those particular consequences when she succumbed to the irresistible urge to yawn! Think of it! She’d no doubt seen Od’s high-flying acrobatics countless times! While he might have been keeping the crowd enthralled, Hilda was simply bored. Big deal! Once you’ve seen one bouncing, springing, leaping dwarf, you’ve seen ‘em all! She can’t be blamed for giving in to the urge to yawn. There was certainly no malice aforethought when she opened those massive jaws and inhaled. There was no way she could have known that that deep lungful of revitalizing air would be accompanied by a side order of dwarf. No way!

I, myself, have yawned and inadvertently inhaled a black fly in the spring of the year. I’ve inhaled a cookie or a bread crumb. Once, I even yawned in a piece of macaroni and whistled in panic for two minutes until the offending pasta was expectorated. But to the best of my recollection, I’ve never yawned and accidentally swallowed a circus star! Not a muscle man, nor a bearded lady…not even a dwarf. I am almost positive I would have remembered!

Almost positive!

Rest assured, now that I know such things are in the realm of possibilities, I shall make it my custom to cover my mouth each time I yawn. Without fail, and that’s a promise.

But Hilda didn’t have that option, did she?

Aw, heck. No, it’s not funny that Od met his demise in such a way. (It’s NOT! I’m sorry!!! I’m really TRYING not to snicker! I AM!) Ahem. Death is never humorous. But death IS unavoidable. And if you’ve gotta go--if you’ve gotta leave this earth in some manner—why not have it be in such a way as to inspire a smile in another? A laugh, a snort, even a chortle? Od was an entertainer, after all. He liked to ‘wow’ the crowds.

I’d say the man was a complete and absolute success. He left at the top of his game. After bouncing sideways.

That’s all I’m saying. Hehehe.