Mom and her 1959 Hillman Minx
November 1968 • La Habra ~ When my mother died, what remained of her life was packed in her small Hillman, now parked in Carleen’s driveway. The front bench-seat held her clothes, small feather pillow, and jewelry; the back bench, her black and gold Singer, button collection, and sewing box. In the trunk were her pots and pans and meat grinder, her mother’s round deco mirror, and her family pictures. On top was her blue Samsonite overnight case, filled with bottles of pills that through the years kept watch over her like toy plastic soldiers with white caps, standing silent sentry atop her dresser. She carried with her a pharmacy: diet, pain, and sleeping pills; pills for her stomach, anxiety and depression, and for everything else in the world that ailed her. Over the years Mom lived on green tea, rare steak, and pills: Benzedrine and Dexedrine. Nembutal, Tuinal, and Seconal. Librium and Valium. Darvon. Thorazine and Stelazine. There were over-the-counters: aspirin, Excedrin, and a large, cobalt blue bottle of Bromo-Seltzer. My mother, the cosmic omnivore and pharmaceutical zombie.
The five of us spread Mom’s possessions on Carleen’s living room rug. Larry chose her silver charm bracelet and costume jewelry. Carleen took her sewing scissors and white half-slip. Betty picked the sewing machine, the round mirror, the Dutch oven, the cast iron pans, and the meat grinder. Claudia ended up with her full-length white evening coat and a handful of jewelry. I claimed her Liberty head necklace, her delicate Gruen wristwatch, and the worn deck of blue Bicycle playing cards. We split up her family pictures. Then we flushed thousands of white pills and colored capsules down the toilet and unceremoniously tossed out the stack of receipts that accompanied them. Her button collection and clothes we gave to the Salvation Army. Nobody remembers what we did with the Hillman, though for months it sat in the driveway in La Habra along with the long-abandoned Mercury, keeping it company.
There was no funeral, nor flowers or friends; only her children came to witness her ashes ensconced in a small cemetery in Brea, and that was only because Larry made us. Carleen was stone-faced and Claudia wept. Betty was disgruntled there was no grave to dance on. Our mother’s ashes were interred behind a small bronze door at the top of a mausoleum wall, high enough where she could no longer get me. Standing there, the five of us were filled with a mixture of relief, regret, remorse, and resentment; we said goodbye and left—and except for my brother—never went back. It didn’t matter anymore. I thought none of it mattered anymore.
If you’d asked me, I would have told you I’d given up hope years ago of her ever wanting me, of listening to or seeing me. But secretly, I’d always harbored hope that my mother loved me, my false hope better than no hope at all.
Memory Garden Memorial Park, Brea, California
to be continued…
© 2018. Catherine Sevenau.
All rights reserved.
Susie Price says
The Greatest Generation went thru the most horrible war the world had ever seen. After the war, the warriors came back, never talked about their experiences and married soon afterward. Their wives were young, often children themselves of emotionally constricted parents. The generations of grit-your-teeth and endure-to-survive handed down their legacy of both pain and of determination. Some survived better than others. Their children (us boomers) grew up in unprecedented prosperity; prosperity that gave us room to explore feelings. We questioned a war, much to the shock of our parents. We used words from psychology they did not understand, such as “boundaries.” At 93 this year, my mother still does not understand that I am not an extension of her, that if there is a problem, you talk directly with the family member involved, not thru your daughter. She does not understand that I will not be the go-between. I remember how surprised I was when my father told me that he thought my mother was in competition with me; in retrospect this explained the put downs each time I achieved a milestone. I wonder what my son and my grandson will say about me., and what flawed thinking may have I passed on to them…. God’s compassion upon us all.
Judith Hunt says
After reading this piece and the preceding one, I will never again think poorly of my mother. She is in complete denial of huge pieces of her life and thinks it is better to ignore them than to face them. For some unknown reason, I am the complete opposite! Face those feelings even if it hurts. That whole generation seems to have their heads in the sand about life in general. This isn’t an excuse for your Mom’s behavior; maybe just a tiny explanation. The hole these people have left in us all is very hard to ignore! I am sending you an understanding hug, dear friend.
Catherine Sevenau says
Thank you Judith. The next piece talks about that hole, and how a kind of holiness emerges. It helps to let our mothers off the hook, for our sake if not for theirs. And I send you that same love in return. You’ve done a good job of keeping our friendship connected. I’m better at writing a book than I am letters and Christmas cards! You’ve never missed one to me, and I believe I still have them all. I thank you for that.
Ruth Christenson says
What will my sons think about me when I am gone?
Janet Le Claire says
Catherine, your mom is in a place now where she is surrounded with unconditional love. I’m sure she loves you and is sorry for the pain she brought into your life and your brother and sisters. It’s sad that her mental illness was never addressed, but back then people didn’t understand it and suffered personal shame. Mental illness was a major problem in my family also. My Uncle committed suicide and it severely affected the whole family. They suffered with guilt and wished they could’ve/should’ve done something to help. My mom was also mentally ill. She took her unhappiness out on my brother and I and we suffered horrible beatings and severe abuse. Over the years I am learning to forgive and understand that it wasn’t my fault. It was my mom’s problem. It’s so sad that your mom and my family suffered and were tortured with such a horrific illness.
Catherine Sevenau says
Thank you Janet, and I am sorry to hear your story. Far too many of us have these tales, and have little idea how to help those that suffer, on both sides. Fortunately my sister was willing to step in.
Barbara says
Maybe she’s there for you now. You could ask her.
Catherine Sevenau says
She’s come to me in a couple of my dreams.