This time of year, I think a lot about Mama and Daddy. On February 26, 1950 they were married in a double-wedding ceremony with Mama's younger brother, Cliff and his wife. This also occurred on Daddy's thirtieth birthday. I have some pictures from that wedding at Cedar Rock Presbyterian Church--one of the many small congregations that dotted rural Harnett County. Growing up, we went there to church with Grandma Smith. I can still remember the creak of the wooden floors, the high ceilings, and the windows that afforded a view of the outside when we were trapped inside listening to the sermon. I could visualize my parents getting married in front of the simple alter, and the warmth of a room full of witnesses that included family and close friends.
Mama and Daddy on Honeymoon 1950
I was lucky to grow up just fifteen miles from Mama's home. I have many memories of driving those rural roads to visit Grandma. And long after Grandma died in the mid-seventies, Mama would drive back to her home to visit her sister, Eloise--who'd lived with Grandma. But all that ended when Mama, in her early eighties, showed changes in her memory, and then was diagnosed with dementia. One of the hardest things we three daughters ever had to do was tell Mama she had to stop driving. After that, we took turns carrying her back down those Harnett county roads to see her family.
The slow loss of a person you love due to the damage caused by dementia, is hard to witness. It was sad to watch our capable mother lose more and more of herself. I used my most familiar coping strategy: I wrote. I filled pages with accounts of time spent with Mama--the difficult realities of caregiving along with those remaining glimpses of her essence. Over time, I filled a notebook that I entitled "Mama and Me." When parts of those stories were in the writings I submitted to my critique group, they referred to them as my "Mama Stories." I was glad my group could get to know my mother through my writing. It was a way of keeping her as she'd been before the dementia changed her.
Now, I look back in my notebook of writings and find one dated March 24th---no year included. She was still living in her home, and able to walk, so it had to be around 2010. It was a rainy day and we had been sitting in her den watching television. We tried to keep her as active as possible so I suggested we walk to her living room. We passed the sewing trunk, beneath where the wall phone used to hang. Mama refinished that old trunk, painted it avocado green, and filled it with Simplicity patterns of clothes she'd made for us. I was always reminded of how skilled she was as a seamstress, something she didn't pass on to her daughters 🙂
When we reached the living room, I helped her into one of the Victorian armchairs that she'd upholstered in a burgundy velvet.
"Look how your azaleas are blooming, Mama," I told her, and nodded to the large window that overlooked her expansive front yard. "They're early this year."
She looked out at the bright pink blooms--- those flowering shrubs she and Daddy had planted years before after moving into that brick ranch in 1969.
The small living room contained the old upright piano that had been in our family long before I was born. Mama looked at it and then at me.
"Why don't you sit down there and play," she said.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd tried to play. Maybe she's confusing me with Harriet, I thought. My older sister had continued to play through the years, while my younger sister, Peggy and I had left well enough alone!
"Okay, what do you want me to play, Mama?" I asked, and leafed through the Broadman Hymnal that had been there since I was a girl. "What's your favorite hymn?"
"I like them all," she said. "Just go ahead and play."
I found "Amazing Grace" and placed my fingers on the keys, feeling awkward like I'd never done that before. I struggled through, hoping there would be some trace of muscle memory left in my fingers.
Mama sat with a contented look on her face. She appeared as she had years ago when Harriet would play and Daddy would be delighted, pulling me and Peggy in to sing with him. Mama never sang, saying she couldn't carry a tune. She'd only sing "Happy Birthday" when she called each of us on our special day.
I finished my attempt at "Amazing Grace."
"That's good," Mama said. "Keep on."
I found another hymn I knew Mama liked. I clunked through and soon realized it had too many sharps. When I made it to the end, I thumbed through that hymnal looking for one with no sharps and flats. I found my confidence growing when I attempted a simpler song.
"You're getting better," Mama said, that voice of motherly encouragement that harkened back to years before. She didn't know anything about sharps and flats, since she'd never played an instrument. But she'd always appreciated music and expressed her gratitude for those who could play and sing.
I remembered how she'd used the money she earned from selling Rawleigh products on Saturdays in the 'Colored' part of town, to pay for our piano lessons. I felt she'd gotten diminishing returns on her money with each daughter! 🙂 She and Daddy wanted us to be able to play that piano that had been in the living room, maybe like we were Southern gentile women 🙂
Mama continued to listen, sometimes closing her eyes as I kept playing the simplest hymns. I thought I heard her sing to one, thankful she could remember some of the words.
"Mama, you need to sing the soprano on this one, It's too high for me," I said, and hoped she'd try and I'd provide the alto.
She didn't and just continued to listen to me play. When I finished I swiveled around on the piano stool and faced her.
She looked up at me and said, "You should go in there and get your Daddy. He likes to sing."
Oh---she's thinking it's back then, I realized. All this time I felt we were both present now, and just remembering back then. What a stinging reminder that Mama's reality had been changed by dementia. Daddy had been gone since 1977 when he died at 57 years old. There would be many more reminders, a growing number as her dementia progressed in the following years. Each time, I felt a growing distance to the mother I'd known while feeling a deepening desire to keep her near.
There are many losses with dementia; there are also new areas of discovery. With the loosening of guardedness, all the conventional constraints of being raised in a family of faith, Mama was more relaxed. At times, she was humorous in a new way over those years of changes in her cognition. At times, it felt like she was more honest and spoke what she really thought.
I remember a conversation where her frankness, her pragmatic view of life came out. It was around this time of year, and I mentioned how she'd been married in a double-wedding.
"Mama, I wouldn't want to share my wedding day with anyone." I said. "It would be my special day."
She looked at me, with a furrowed brow and expression on her face like, "Who is this woman talking like that?"
"I didn't share my wedding day," she countered. "We just got married at the same time as Cliff because all the same guests were invited."
She had never been more clear---even with having dementia. Mama could distill things down to their simplest form. And underneath, I knew there was still that Mama message of "don't be so selfish."
I hope by sharing one of my "Mama Stories" that you have found something that resonates for you. We all have to find our ways of coping with life's hardest changes. May you find your way in whatever changes you're experiencing now. Life is rich, filled with beauty juxtaposed with pain, mourning followed by dancing, mysteries that remain mysterious and keep us searching forward.
Best to you all,
Connie
In Loving Memory of Mama and Daddy
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