Happy Birthday, Mum: on grief and memories

Amanda and Anne, June 2006,
celebrating the completion of my Master's degree

I am learning that the second year after a loved one dies is, in many ways, more challenging than the first. People have told me it might be, and it is proving so. There are no more 'firsts' to experience, only 'forevers' now. So, I am paying attention and I am writing... 

Today, November 4th, would have been my mother's 97th birthday. Wherever she is now, I am certain she is happy not to be marking it on earth. She died last year on April 26th, ready to shuck her mortal coil with dignity and in peace.

She was a role model for me in many ways, so, today, I celebrate my mother with three stories that illustrate her generosity, kindness and ingenuity. 

Story One: The bucket of chicken

We were having take-out for supper; I don’t remember the occasion, but I remember very clearly being in the car with my sister and brother, and Mum ordering our meal in the drive-through at our local Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet. We would take the bucket of chicken and fries home — all that delicious (?) crispy, juicy (greasy) chicken and those salty fries. Yum. With home-cooked chicken, we preferred white meat, but for this KFC meal I was looking forward to gnawing on the wings for less meat and more yummy coating. What I didn’t pick up on was that Mum had, wanting to make the meal extra special for us, requested that the bucket of chicken be filled with only breast portions — all white meat. Oh what a disappointment for my 13-year-old self…

I don’t recall ever talking about this with Mum. But I remember to this day my disappointment then and I feel deeply now my understanding of the generosity of Mum’s special order — made to give her children a super-special supper with nothing but our favourites. Because she wanted the best and the most for us. Always.

Story Two: A friend indeed

By my mid-30s, I was living in Winnipeg, Mum and Dad in Edmonton. A friend of mine was in that city with her young daughter who was undergoing brain surgery. The friend knew no one in Edmonton and was feeling alone and scared. I didn’t hesitate to call Mum and to ask her to go to the hospital to be with that friend for company and support. Of course, Mum did exactly that, even inviting her home for a meal.

In a moment of need, across the distance and for a stranger to her, I knew Mum would not hesitate to give her time and herself to meet that need. Kindness was Mum’s middle name.

Story Three: The Roman road

In 1999, Val and I bought our first cottage on Lake Winnipeg, and my parents were very keen and welcome guests, driving out to spend time with us our first summer there. In those days, Mum didn’t believe in sitting around gazing at the view and decided that the path from cottage to outhouse needed upgrading. So she set to doing exactly that — and to standards well beyond anything we would have dreamt up: Mum would build us a Roman road — a road built of layers of different sized rocks and stone, all gathered from the lot or the old quarry she happily drove to down a rutted road. Dad went along with all of it. And that pathway, I am sure, remains level and firm to this day.

Mum didn't do things by half; she went all in when she believed in something, getting it right, right down to the final stones in that Roman road or the final stitch in one of the many handmade costumes and outfits she made for me and my siblings in our childhood.

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If you knew my mother Anne, you likely have your own stories of her generosity of spirit, her kindness and her ingenuity. If you didn’t know her, I hope that my stories about her give you a sense of the remarkable woman and splendid mother she was.

Happy Birthday, Mum...wherever you are, I celebrate you every day.

xo
Amanda 

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Land acknowledgement: I respectfully recognize that I live on the original lands of Anishinaabe, Cree, Oji-Cree, Dakota and Dene peoples, and on the homeland of the Métis Nation.