That was how I was led to Betty, Margaret McIntyre Gray’s friend. She told me Miss Gray had been ill in the summer and had left her apartment to live in a residential home. Oddly enough, although Betty hadn’t visited her in three weeks, she was planning to go that very afternoon.
The next day Betty called. “Well, you’re in luck,” she said. “I told Maggie myself and she acknowledged you immediately. But brace yourself, now—she doesn’t want to see you.”
I was devastated. But I knew I’d be getting my visa the next day and I’d be flying home by Sunday. Maybe back in the States I’d be able to put the whole thing behind me. Then when I got to the consulate the next day, bureaucratic glitches held up my visa, and I was told I’d have to stay in Toronto for three weeks. Three weeks in the same city with my long-sought mother, and no chance to see her! I didn’t know how I could possibly deal with that.
A couple of days later, when the phone rang, I picked it up, dejected. It was Betty, and she could hardly speak for excitement. “Your mother wants to see you Sunday at three o’clock!” she exclaimed. My head felt light with joy and I had to sit down.
When Sunday came, I was too nervous to swallow breakfast. I arrived at the meeting place early, walking around the block twice. And then I saw her...a petite, older woman in a green suit, with lots of soft, honey-gold hair. “Hello, dear,” she said, the Scots accent strong on her vowels. She grabbed my shoulders and kissed me on the cheek, and then we looked at each other for the first time in 46 years.
We went inside, and she played show-and-tell with an album of photos. I kept looking at her, hoping to see if I had her nose, her hands. But it was her spirit that came through to me that day, an overall feeling I got about her. It didn’t take long to realize that I liked her.
Three weeks passed while I waited for my visa, and I saw my mother almost every day. It was a precious time for both of us.
When I finally got my visa, I went to say good-bye. “You know, dear,” she said, “I wanted to keep you, I really did, but I just didn’t think it would be possible.” I assured her everything was okay, and managed to tear myself away to go home. “Remember you’re my bubba,” she said as I left. At the door, I turned to give her a little wave. She raised her hand in a regal gesture, bidding me adieu.
My mother went into intensive care at Toronto General only three weeks later, fighting a losing battle with pneumonia. I flew back to Toronto to visit her in the hospital.
When I entered her room, I immediately noticed a piece of paper lying on her chest. It was the note I had sent her, thanking her for my life. She died the next day.
Sue West
War Story
It was England, 1939. I was 15, and so excited I could hardly keep my mind on my studies. I was too busy preparing to travel from England to France, where I would spend an exciting summer month as an exchange student. The family with whom I would stay had a daughter my age, and she was to come for a month to my home later that summer.
The day of my departure finally arrived, and I was ready. My mother came with me on the train ride to London’s Victoria Station, where she saw me safely onto the “Channel train” that would take me the rest of the way to Dover. There was never even the suggestion that she would come all the way to the coast with me. I had always been given credit for a lot of common sense, and it didn’t occur to anyone that I wouldn’t be able to cope with this trip alone.
And so I took the boat across the English Channel, and my big adventure began. My “French family” met me in Paris, where we saw incredible sights—I especially remember the spectacular châteaux along the Loire— before making our way by car to the little village of Argent-sur-Sauldres, my home for the next four weeks. But I was there only three weeks.
They were a happy three weeks. I was surrounded by many young people, and I still believe that they learned more English from me than I learned French from them. But as time passed, I began to gather that things were not going well on the Continent. There was even talk of war.
Now, war really doesn’t fit the thinking of a 15-year–old. One gentleman who spoke a smattering of English took me aside and pointed out the headlines in the paper. Did I want to go home? I felt no urgency. France really wasn’t so far away from home; it hadn’t taken me that long to get over here.
But I began to sense a growing tension in the air and to feel that something was very wrong. My parents had no telephone and there hadn’t been a telegram, so I was unsure of how bad things really were.
Then one morning, I woke up and just knew I had to go home. I had a deep intuition that I must get back to England. I immediately talked over my feelings with my host family. They had never given me any outward signs that they wanted me to leave, but once I had made the decision, all plans were put into high gear.
In the wee hours of the following morning, I was on the Paris-bound train, accompanied by my wonderful French mother. The streets of Paris at 6:00 A.M. were eerily deserted... except for truck after truck filled with French troops. They were headed for the Maginot Line in a brave attempt to ward off the Nazis.
After saying a sad farewell to my dear hostess a week earlier than scheduled, I set out alone on my journey. It was a tense trip home and a long one—three times as long as it should have been—and I was still only 15. I arrived in England at midnight, and there were no buses or taxis to take me the last mile home from the railway station to my house. Although we had sent a telegram, my parents had no idea what time to meet me because transportation schedules had now gone completely haywire. So, almost 24 hours after leaving France, I had to walk the last dark mile alone. No words can describe my feelings the moment I finally rang my doorbell.
Just a few days later, war was declared!
I’ll never really know what made me go home when I did. Certainly, the common sense that my parents had instilled in me had stood me in good stead. But I will always believe that it was really my intuition that saved me from spending the war years far from my family in a foreign land.
Maureen Read
Connection
My mother and I are deeply connected by our uncanny ability to silently communicate with each other.
Fourteen years ago, I was living in Evansville, Indiana, 800 miles away from my mother...my confidante...my best friend. One morning, while in a quiet state of contemplation, I suddenly felt an urgent need to call Mother and ask if she was all right. At first I hesitated. Since my mother taught fourth grade, calling her at 7:15 A.M. could interrupt her routine and make her late for work. But something compelled me to go ahead and call her. We spoke for three minutes, and she assured me that she was safe and fine.
Later that day, the telephone rang. It was Mother, reporting that my morning phone call had probably saved her life. Had she left the house three minutes earlier, it’s likely that she would have been part of a major interstate accident that killed several people and injured many more.
Eight years ago, I discovered that I was pregnant with my first child. The due date was March 15. I told the doctor that was just too soon. The baby’s due date had to fall between March 29 and April 3 because that was when my mother had her spring break from teaching. And of course I wanted her with me. The doctor still insisted that the due date was mid-March. I just smiled. Reid arrived on March 30. Mother arrived on March 31.
Six years ago, I was expecting again. The doctor said the due date was toward the end of March. I said it would have to be earlier this time because—you guessed it— Mother’s school break was near the beginning of March. The doctor and I both smiled. Breanne made her entry on March 8.
Two-and-a-half years ago, Mother was fighting cancer. Over time, she lost her energy, her appetite, her ability to speak. After a weekend with her in North Carolina, I had to prepare for my flight back to the Midwest. I knelt at Mother’s bedside and took her hand. “Mother, if I can, do you want me to come back?” Her eyes widened as she tried to nod.
Two days later, I had a call from m
y stepfather. My mother was dying. Family members were gathered for last rites. They put me on a speaker phone to hear the service.
That night, I tried my best to send a loving good-bye to Mother over the miles. The next morning, however, the telephone rang: Mother was still alive, but in a coma and expected to die any minute. But she didn’t. Not that day, or the next. Or the next. Every morning, I’d get the same call: She could die any minute. But she didn’t. And every day, my pain and sadness were compounded.
After four weeks passed, it finally dawned on me: Mother was waiting for me. She had communicated that she wanted me to come back if I could. I hadn’t been able to before, but now I could. I made reservations immediately.
By 5:00 that afternoon, I was lying in her bed with my arms around her. She was still in a coma, but I whispered, “I’m here, Mother. You can let go. Thank you for waiting. You can let go.” She died just a few hours later.
I think when a connection is that deep and powerful, it lives forever in a place far beyond words and is indescribably beautiful. For all the agony of my loss, I would not trade the beauty and power of that connection for anything.
Susan B. Wilson
Higher Love
Mom and I were made from the same mold. The same straight brown hair, the same nearsighted brown eyes, the same physique. Mom was my mainstay. Despite all my scholastic achievements and student activities, I was shy and insecure, and she was always there for me. Mom taught social studies at my high school, so all my friends knew and loved her, too.
I was 15 when Mom was diagnosed with lupus and hospitalized for five months. She recovered and went back to teaching, and everything seemed normal. A year later she caught a simple cold that grew into a serious case of pneumonia. Within a week, she was gone. My world abruptly shattered. The door slammed shut on so many possibilities. All the questions I had had about Mom’s life and feelings, about my own blossoming womanhood, about seemingly trivial things—like the recipes for our favorite Christmas cookies and Mom’s famous lemon meringue pie—now none of those questions would be answered. Mom would never be there, and I was left feeling deeply sad and alone.
My whole personality seemed to change at that point. I had been open and idealistic; now every day I was becoming more bitter and sarcastic. It was as if my heart was armored with grief and guilt. I was haunted by images of my mother’s unhappiness. I remembered her sitting on the edge of her bed, weeping, while the rest of the family argued. I remembered so many times when it seemed I could have done more to comfort her.
In my sophomore year of college I learned to meditate and slowly began to emerge from the numbing shell of protection that I had built around myself. Meditation opened the door to dealing with my grief effectively. I’d sit with my eyes closed, and healing tears would flow.
One morning while I was meditating, I remembered caring for Mom when she had returned from the hospital.
I had resented the fact that I had to dress her bedsores when I really wanted to hang out with my friends. A flood of guilt and shame welled up in me as I recalled how selfish I’d been.
Just then a thought burst into my head. It was a story Mom had told me about my grandfather, who was stricken with throat cancer when she was eight years old. Before he died, he said to her, “Evalyn, remember this: If anything happens to me and you really need me, call and I will be there for you.”
Mom told me that when she was in college, she fell in love with a young man who broke her heart. She felt so distraught that she called out to her father inside herself. She said, “Suddenly, I felt him standing in my dorm room. I felt so loved by him that I knew everything would be all right.”
It seemed worth a try, so I cried out to Mom in my mind. “I’m sorry,” I sobbed, over and over again. A change came over the room then. Time stood still, and I felt a cloak of peace spread over me. In my heart, I heard my mother say, “All is understood. All is forgiven. There is no need for any regrets.” The weight I had carried around all those years seemed released in an instant. I felt a sense of freedom in that moment greater than anything I thought was possible in life.
A few years later, on the eve of my marriage to a wonderful man named Tony, I found myself missing Mom more than I had in years. I longed for her to share the celebration; I needed her wisdom and blessing. Once again I called out to Mom.
The day of my wedding was sunny and glorious—I was soon caught up in the festivities. Afterward, my long-time friend Marilyn approached with a tear-streaked face. She said she wasn’t sad; she just needed to talk to me. We made our way to a private corner of the hall.
“Do you know anyone named Forshay?” she asked. “Well, yes,” I answered. “My mother’s maiden name was Forshar, but it was changed from the French ‘Forshay’. Why do you ask?”
Marilyn spoke more quietly then. “During your wedding ceremony, an incredible thing happened. I saw you and Tony surrounded by a light and a presence that was filled with love for you. It was so beautiful it made me cry. And I kept getting that the name Forshay was associated with it.”
I was too stunned to say anything. Marilyn continued. “And there was a message that came for you with it. The presence wanted you to know that you will always be loved, to never doubt that, and that this love will always come to you through your friends.”
By this time, I, too, was crying, and Marilyn and I held each other. I finally understood that death could not break a connection forged in love. To this day, I will sometimes catch a glimpse of something in the eyes of a friend or loved one, or even my own eyes in the mirror, and I know my mother is still here, loving me.
Suzanne Thomas Lawlor
I Wonder Why Things Are
the Way They Are
During my junior year in high school, Mr. Reynolds, my English teacher, handed each student a list of thoughts or statements written by other students, then gave us a creative writing assignment based on one of those thoughts. At 17, I was beginning to wonder about many things, so I chose the statement, “I wonder why things are the way they are?”
That night, I wrote down in the form of a story all the questions that puzzled me about life. I realized that many of them were hard to answer, and perhaps others could not be answered at all. When I turned in my paper, I was afraid that I might fail the assignment because I had not answered the question, “I wonder why things are the way they are?” I had no answers. I had only written questions.
The next day Mr. Reynolds called me to the front of the class and asked me to read my story for the other students. He handed me the paper and sat down in the back of the room. The class became quiet as I began to read my story:
Mommie,Daddy ...Why?
Mommie, why are the roses red? Mommie, why is the grass green and the sky blue? Why does a spider have a web and not a house?Daddy, why can’t I play in your toolbox?Teacher, why do I have to read?
Mother, why can’t I wear lipstick to the dance? Daddy, why can’t I stay out until 12:00?The other kids are. Mother, why do you hate me? Daddy, why don’t the boys like me? Why do I have to beso skinny? Why do I have to have braces and wear glasses? Why do I have to be 16?
Mom, why do I have to graduate? Dad, why do I have to grow up?Mom,Dad,why do I have to leave?
Mom, why don’t you write more often? Dad, why do I miss my old friends? Dad, why do you love me so much? Dad, why do you spoil me?Your little girl is growing up. Mom, why don’t you visit? Mom, why is it hard to make new friends? Dad, why do I miss being at home?
Dad, why does my heart skip a beat when he looks in my eyes? Mom, why do my legs tremble when I hear his voice? Mother, why is being “in love”the greatest feeling in the world?
Daddy, why don’t you like to be called “Gramps”? Mother, why do my baby’s tiny fingers cling so tightly to mine?
Mother, why do they have to grow up?Daddy, why do they have to leave? Why do I have to be called “Grannie”?
Mommie, Daddy, why did you have to leave me? I need you.
Why did my youth slip past me? Why does my face show every smile that I have ever given to a friend or a stranger? Why does my hair glisten a shiny silver? Why do my hands quiver when I bend to pick a flower?Why,God,are the roses red?
At the conclusion of my story, my eyes locked with Mr. Reynolds’s eyes, and I saw a tear slowly sliding down his cheek. It was then that I realized that life is not always based on the answers we receive, but also on the questions that we ask.
Christy Carter Koski
10
ACROSS THE
GENERATIONS
I am the woman who holds up the sky.
The rainbow runs through my eyes.
The sun makes a path to my womb.
My thoughts are in the shapes of clouds.
But my words are yet to come.
Ute poem
THE FAMILY
CIRCUS
“Was there an older generation when you were little, Mommy?”
Reprinted with special permission of King Features Syndicate.
On Giving Birth
When a child is born, so are grandmothers.
Judith Levy
There is something to be said about leaving a piece of yourself behind in the form of children. Twenty-seven years ago I looked upon my daughter for the first time as she was laid upon my belly, her umbilical cord still attached to me. Her little eyes seemed endless as she looked at me. I witnessed a piece of myself lying there, and yet she was so curiously and wondrously unique.
Today I stand next to her, wiping her face and reminding her to focus on the birthing movements of her own body instead of on pain and fear. She has always been utterly terrified of pain. Yet here she is... refusing all drugs... living her determination to birth her baby as nature would have it, as did the endless stream of her great-grandmothers before her.
Centuries of pushing, preparing, sighing—and then my daughter’s daughter is placed across her mother’s breast, staring into her mother’s eyes. The Great Mystery is blessing me again, letting me see my granddaughter, the piece of myself who will step into the future and in turn mold her own child, my great-grandchild.