This is how it began.
September 2 is my mother’s birthday. Although she’s been gone for over 25 years, I’m still hyper-aware of September 2 whenever it rolls around. Last year, on that day, I received a Facebook message from a childhood neighbor with whom I’d recently re-connected. She asked if another childhood neighbor could have my cell number. Admittedly, I was a bit puzzled. I’d not been in contact with Mark since he was about 7 years old and I was 12. (I’ve aged a tad since last we met.) Mark’s older sister was my friend and the person through whom I knew Mark and his family.
Sure, why not share my cell number with Mark? I’m a curious sort.
Later that day, I received a call from Mark. In my mind’s eye, the Mark I remember is an adorable child, with bangs, running up and down the hall in his family’s home. While talking, I was astounded to learn that Mark recalled my mother’s birthday because it was one day after his own late mother’s birthday. Ergo, his call to me after so many years. (Also astounded that the young child, who I can still see so vividly in my mind’s eye, is the father of three grown sons!)
Mark’s mother was someone I adored. Children who entered her home were not just friends of her two kids, but people in their own right, young people with whom she would sit at the kitchen table and chat about their lives. It was very hard not to feel cared about while in the presence of Cookie, Mark’s mother.
Eventually, Mark’s family moved to a new neighborhood, and I lost touch with him and his sister, but my mother maintained a relationship with both his parents until their respective deaths. However, I also continued a relationship with Mark’s mother, even after going away to college. It’s difficult to pass up emotional catnip when someone seems truly interested in your life.
Around 1974, Cookie was diagnosed with cancer while in her early 40s. I was in town, visiting my mother, and drove over to see her. She was bed-bound and, naive youngster that I was, our discussion centered on me, once again. She died soon thereafter.
As mentioned above, my mother had an ongoing friendship with Mark’s dad, until, he too, died of a heart attack in his early 60s. After that, I had little current knowledge regarding Mark and his sister. Until his call … when I finally had the opportunity to share with him the power of his mother’s presence, still vitally alive for me after so many years.
Retrospectively, I recall that Cookie did not work, but believed her role was to care for her family. But family seemed to be an elastic concept in Cookie’s world. I have no doubt I’m among the many young people of that time, friends of her children, who felt included in the embrace of her caring.
Taking a different tack for a moment.
As a longtime obituary reader, I’m consistently struck by the listing of external accomplishments frequently accompanying descriptions of the departed. Often, many, many. And we, in the world, are generally better off as a result. Yet, I worry. I worry that the open hearts of the departed, more subjective and difficult to describe, receive much less visibility in comparison with our culture’s emphasis on concrete and visible accomplishments. But, hey, that’s our culture; we are production-oriented, are we not?
In the Jewish tradition, the phrase “May her memory be a blessing” is often shared when speaking of the departed. “May her memory be a blessing.” I love its universality, its inclusiveness. The full kaleidoscope of a person’s life is captured and blessed. ALL of it — heart, as well as worldly accomplishments.
And Cookie’s heart was a blessing. Herewith, a friend of her children still recalls being bathed in Cookie’s light and made to feel special, even so many decades later. As impacts go, pretty damn impressive.
P.S. Mark and I continue to periodically text each other. I apologize for embarrassing you, Mark, but your heart seems to be as open and inviting as your mother’s. (But I still can’t shake my memory of the little boy, with bangs, charging up and down the hall. Working on it …)
Jan Hutton is a retired hospice/hospital social worker who believes in living life with heart and humor. She has happily lived in Chatham for 20 years.