Today is the ninth anniversary of Mom/Grandma Bene's death. She'd be Great-Grandma Bene if she were here today, and she'd be 83 years old, but she'd say she's 78, and we'd go along with it.
The summer Mom died was beastly hot. She'd only known about the cancer since April 25 of the same year. Her birthday. Between April 25 and July 17, Mom managed to enjoy the celebration of Karla and Annie's high school graduations, and Elisabeth's graduation from medical school, at a big party at the Reps residence in Spring Valley. After that, the days got hotter and more humid, and Mom grew sicker. In early July, Mom moved to the Season's Hospice in Rochester, a Frank Lloyd Wright style home donated for hospice care. We visited her and kept Dad company. We'd arrive on the beautiful, woodsy hospice property and drive down the secluded driveway, Dad waiting for us outside in the heat, pacing and smoking a cigarette. I carry that picture in my mind; it was the arrival scene each time.
Heat, floods, misery. That sums up the four days until Mom's funeral on July 21 (my friend-from-childhood--Cindy's--birthday). Elisabeth had barely started her residency in Boston, but she came home. The night of Mom's funeral, Elisabeth, Charlie, and Annie smoked tiparillos outside the motel we were staying in. I stand corrected...Annie didn't smoke because she had respect for her body (her words), but she did stalk an Amish buggy parked near the motel. The weird things a person remembers...
I'm not so inclined to linger over the anniversaries of death days; I'd rather remember birthdays and other days. My mom loved to play Bridge, and was very good at it. She was a killer golfer; highly competitive. Mom read like no one else I know; I imagine her with a book in each hand, reading both at once. Not possible, I know, but it seemed that way for the sheer quantity of books she devoured. Now that I think about it, most evenings Mom had a book in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. She loved wine, too! She read anything and everything, and especially loved to read biographies of politicians and movie stars. Mom knitted beautiful afghans, baked delicious zucchini bread, canned the best celery pickles in the state, and thought her grandchildren walked on water. She was amused by them and loved them dearly. Imagine what she'd think of sweet Hannah and cuddly Miles. Mom would have been a vegetarian, "if it weren't for meat." Her famous words.
While Mom recovered from unsuccessful surgery to remove the cancer from her liver, she couldn't stand to be left alone in her room or left out of the conversation, so she joined us in the family lounge while we tried to let the shock and disappointment of her impending death sink in. Mom told us stories about how she and Dad met. She met Charlie Reps, apparently the Soldier of the Moment as he returned to Winona State after his service in World War II. According to her, everyone was buzzing that "Charlie Reps is back! Charlie Reps is back!" He was a hot commodity.
Even fifty years later and in pain from recent surgery, Mom reveled in teasing Dad about "the beautiful Maria", a young woman he met while acting as the Burgemeister in a town the U.S. Army liberated. Well, that's how the story goes. If there is any truth to it, my mother might have been named Maria instead of Irene.
This started as a short prelude to two poems I wrote after Mom died. I didn't write them right away: I couldn't. It was too painful. Later, it became necessary. Both are connected to a photograph that Margot took with Mary Jo's camera out in Dad's backyard the day of Mom's funeral. This prelude has become an essay, and now I'm hesitant to finish this post and publish it.
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On this sweltering and empty July day, the day of my mother’s funeral, those of us remaining stood together in front of Dad’s garden, or rather, the garden Dad lovingly planted and harvested each summer so that he and Mom could share the bounty with friends and family. Not this summer, the summer my mother --“Bene” to those who loved her-- died.
Family of the Corn-- July 21, 1999
(Wrong vegetable. It should be “Family of Bene”)
Why are we standing here
today?
Couldn’t we, shouldn’t we
be on the deck
drinking sun tea
listening to your distinctive laugh
that is no more?
Mom.
Dad’s garden, silenced by weeds and tears.
Corn. Tall, golden, tasteless.
Children of the corn brought together
today
from places we belong but can no longer be.
Standing together—feeling separated
by our thoughts
and by our pain, which
are the same.
--December 2001
Revised 4/3/02; 6/10/03
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Family of the Corn—July 21, 1999
We have just come from burying Mom on this hot summer day.
We have just come from the funeral.
Mom’s funeral. We changed our clothes, as if shedding what we wore
in public
will make us somehow feel better
in private.
I am standing here, pretending to be a part of a family photograph, but
we aren’t the same family we were
just five days ago.
Granddaughters, grandson,
husband,
daughters and sons
all standing here
on legs that can barely find the ground
beneath them.
I wonder what
this day
would be like if Mom were here?
Where would we be? Not here, I’m certain.
--November 4, 2002
Revised 6/10/03
And here's Larry/Dad/Paco/Grampa, practicing talking on his soon-to-be-usable cell phone, courtesy of Angie. Thanks, Angie!
After polishing my toenails a pale pink color, my pedicurist asked me if I also wanted a design. Once before I'd had a flower design painted on my toenails. Although I'd asked for a flower on ONE of my big toes only, I was quickly told, "No, no, that not look good," and the pedicurist proceeded to paint both, all the while acting disgusted that I'd made such a crass request. This time I didn't even go there, but did say that I wanted a SMALL swirl or flower; something subtle. The woman nodded, double-checked with a co-worker who spoke English better, and then nodded again.
Until then, Leo the Lion is using the chair when Grampa reads to him. You can see Leo is currently enjoying Tomie dePaola's Mother Goose. Bring Gus the caterpillar and Ira the monkey when you come to visit. They are invited to hear Grampa read a story, too.
