The Last Time I Saw My Mother

It was 1978, a sunny, summer Saturday in Nebraska. We spent a quiet morning talking and getting my mom's belongings packed. She had been with us for two or three weeks, I don't remember exactly, but she seldom visited less than two. The whole family would beg her to stay longer, but she had others to see. She loved to visit us, but we didn't have an extra bed, and so she needed to go back home to her own comfort.

The plan was to pick up my friend, Bobby, and drive mom to Omaha where we would drop her at her brother's house, and Bobby and I would spend the rest of the day shopping. Mom's plans were to visit my uncle for a few days, then take a bus to Oklahoma where she was living with my aunt. I was extremely excited, for I never shopped anywhere but Lincoln, where we lived. This was the high point of my day, yet later I would realize that I completely missed out on, and considered trivial, the only moment that was important, and the only one I remember. That's the moment I wish I could take back and relive.

Bobby and I briefly visited with my uncle and my mom, trying not to let our impatience show. We finally said our "good-byes" and we all strolled out the door. My friend and I walked down the steep steps in his front terrace to my van parked on the street. Mom and my uncle stood up on the porch to wave.

And that's the picture that lingers. I opened the door of the van and turned. I looked up to see my mom in a navy blue dress, leaning against the white rail with her hand holding the post of the porch, and her other hand waving. The smile she wore for me was bright and filled with the love she felt. I waved, threw her a kiss, and climbed into the van. We drove away.

My mom teaching our bird to talk.

That was the last moment I saw my mother alive.

Some people get that opportunity to be with their loved one, knowing it's their last moments, and privileged to share it with them. When you know it's coming you can say those words that need to be said. When you know it's the end of their life, you can make those words "I love you" more special. Can't you? Or is that possible? Shouldn't we make those words special every time we say them?

I hear people throw out the words "I love you" as they hang up their phones, or walk out a door. Sometimes you barely hear them if you don't listen closely. I wonder if that passing sentiment would seem good enough should something happen to that person before they see them again. Just a thought.

A popular commitment between those close to one another is to vow to never say good-bye without a kiss and those three words. But let me tell you, when I left my mother I kissed her, lovingly, and I told her that I loved her, more than once. Still, it wasn't enough. I wish I could have her back for just a few moments so I could kiss her and tell her again, over and over. And still..........

Put love in every moment. Don't skimp on it. Shower your special person with it. Touch them lovingly. Hold them close. Make memories of moments of love. Then do it again. 

Because, I can guarantee you, when you look back at it all, it will never be enough.

Tribute to a Childhood Friend

Mary Elizabeth Catherine Casey.

When you read that name you instantly know two things about her; she was Irish, and she was Catholic. I knew her when she was a young girl. She was my neighbor, and we spent hours and hours together growing up. Looking in, my perception was that she led a charmed life. So many things about her life were different than any of my other friends since I had no other friends that were so.....Catholic. I knew other kids that went to the Catholic church, but they seemed to be less into their religion than Mary was. It appeared to this outsider that in the Casey family everything was about their religion. And I was extremely envious of it.

I attended church on Sunday. I went to Vacation Bible School in the summers, and I went to all the special revival meetings and soup suppers. But there was nothing special about these things. The big stained glass window in the sanctuary of the First Christian Church was beautiful with Jesus carrying a lamb across His shoulders, but it wasn't the same as where Mary went to church. And, she went to school at the same place! 

Mary and I rode our bikes those three blocks on many summer afternoons to the Catholic church. The building was elaborate and awesome. Memory of the outside produces a tall, dark steeple. It could have been brass, it could have been wood. But it is the main site in my mind along with the front doors in an archway. Mary and I at age ten would go in to pray after we lit candles. She knelt before she went into a row of pews. Interesting. As I sat quietly while Mary prayed I took in my surroundings. The sanctuary was dark with eyes staring at me from every angle. Amidst the carvings along the walls were statues of Jesus, Mary, and many others. In the front were all the votive candles, some lit, and more elaborate statues and tables. Before we left the building she stopped to pray to a huge statue of Virgin Mary, dipped her fingers in the holy water, and made the sign of the cross, which she did many times in all this process. I was in love with the Catholic church.

Then we went next door into the school to talk to all the nuns who were hanging out. It was summer. What on earth would they be doing in the school? I didn't ask, and I always enjoyed our visit. My teachers all stayed home in summer, and the school doors were locked. 

I'll never forget the day Mary told me about her new name. She was being "confirmed", I think. I didn't have such a ritual in my church, and this was so exciting. At confirmation she selected a new middle name, Catherine. So now she would be Mary Elizabeth Catherine Casey. Romantic. And very Irish. I wanted a new middle name, but there was no point and no ritual. If I wanted to take communion on Sundays at my church, all I had to do was go to the front pew at the end of the preaching, and the next Sunday I would be baptized. Big deal. No new name.

Mary and I climbed trees, painted pictures in her basement on rainy days, played Annie Annie Over, roller skated around and around the block, played Parchisi and Monopoly, dressed our dolls, and played school on her front porch. We climbed the maple tree in her front yard and sat in it for hours reading library books. We raked the leaves and made whistles from the whirly-bird seeds that fell from the maple. We played our made-up game of King Tut, and we played Simon Says on the front walk of the church on our block. After a good rain, we scrambled in the mud in the yard between us to catch night crawlers for my dad's fishing hooks. We ran up and down our alley to scare all the wild neighborhood cats from the garbage cans and burners.  We ate homemade popsicles and braided the hair of the little girls next door. Hours and hours of imagination and fun is my sweet recollection of Mary Elizabeth Catherine Casey.

I received a text last night from a mutual friend from our neighborhood. Mary had died. For years I had wanted to contact her, and finally, just last summer I had come across her brother and was able to write a letter and touch base with my old childhood friend. I got a letter and then a Christmas card from her, and now she's gone. So many words not shared, but I did tell her how special she still was to me. In her letter to me she said so little, no stories of her family, only a few words. She wasn't well. But she didn't really say why. Mary wasn't always so quiet, but I do remember how closely she held to her family, and perhaps she didn't feel as open to share with me as I did with her. I entrust my life stories to perfect strangers, so I must remember not everyone is like that.

My childhood friends and I are getting old. I am having to face death more often than I would like, and, if I stick around long enough, I will face it more and more. I hadn't seen Mary in over fifty years, but that doesn't change the feelings of a melancholy, sentimental, and terminally loyal friend. I ache in my heart for days if I've offended you. I will mourn a friendship for years after moving on to a new one. Maybe it's because I have no siblings to share life with, and my children, and what little family I have, all live hundreds of miles away. Whatever the cause, I cry many, many tears over the friends I have left behind. It's who I am, and I can't stop it.

Today I am remembering that old Brownie camera snapshot that I have misplaced of a short Irish Catholic girl with maple leaves piled on her head. I hope to find it some day and attach it to this story. I remember how fast she could run, and how seriously she memorized her catechism. My memories are haunted by the many years I tried to locate her, but couldn't. And today my memories are haunted by the knowledge that I won't write any more letters or get another Christmas card from my long lost Irish Catholic friend, Mary Elizabeth Catherine Casey.