Browsing Category Memory Lane

Remembering and Commemorating the 10th Anniversary

My mother died ten years ago, on the 18th of this month, four months short of her 87th  birthday. She slipped away from us in the early morning on the day before my sister’s birthday.

I miss my mother and I know that’s not unusual. I know people whose mother has been dead 20, 30, 40 years longer than mine, and they periodically repeat the same thing. “I miss my mom.”

It’s been said that time heals all wounds, but the wound left in the heart when a mother dies never heals. It’s always there, oozing like a sore that doesn’t form a scab. I don’t think that anyone who loved and lost their mom (or dad) ever fully recovers. But we go on. Life goes on. We get through the loss, but we don’t get over it.

Sometimes, I imagine that my mother is still with us. When she was alive, we often spoke on the phone two or three times a day. After she died, when I called the phone company to have them disconnect her number, the rep asked me if I would like to have that number. They would switch my current landline number for hers. I thought about it momentarily and then decided I didn’t want it, especially for sentimental reasons, because whenever I had to give it out to someone, memories would resurface.

As I was writing this post and wondering who inherited the phone number that my parents had for decades, I dialed the digits and prepared to say, “Sorry, I dialed the wrong number” to whoever answered. Instead, I was surprised to hear a recording, “The number you dialed is not in service.” For whatever reason, I took comfort knowing that the number remains unassigned even though it’s been ten years, or perhaps someone had it, and it got disconnected. Nevertheless, it isn’t operating.

I long to hear mother’s voice, her melodic laughter, and how she would usually address me using her nickname for me – Lo, or sometimes she’d jazz it up, “Hey, Lo-Mo.”

When she was alive, people often said that we looked more like sisters than mother and daughter. I didn’t see the resemblance then, but now, sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I see my mother in the reflection. She is me, and I am her.

My mom and I did not have a perfect relationship; occasionally, we had disagreements. Sometimes, our differences of opinion angered both of us so much that we would stop talking to each other for days. I remember that our most prolonged silent treatment lasted about two weeks. But discrepancies aside, our good times outnumbered the bad. We enjoyed many shared activities, especially battling on the Scrabble board or playing bid whist with other family members.

Some decades ago, shortly after my then-husband and I had our first child, my mother came to our home to assist me with caring for our newborn. I have the cutest, treasured photo of them that I took one day while watching her tenderly bathe my son. He is looking up at mom, eyes open wide, studying her face intently like a detective studies a crime scene. As I captured the Kodak moment, I thought my son must have been saying to himself, “She looks like my mom, but I’m not sure that is her. No, this is not the same lady who bathed me yesterday. Who is this person?” Mom is smiling and looking down lovingly at her first grandchild as if to say, “Hey there, little man, I’m your grandmother.”

Over the years, my mother frequently talked to me about her father, my granddad. Although he died when she was very young, around 18 or 19, her love for him was apparent in our numerous conversations. As the eldest of my grandparents’ nine children, I suspect my mother remembered more about grandpa’s life than her younger siblings. She often reminisced about how hard her dad worked plowing their farmland. She remembered vividly the day he was kicked in the head by one of the family’s mules as he was shoeing the animal. With blood running down his face, he walked calmly into the farmhouse. Grandma cleaned and bandaged the wound, and grandpa returned to tending the farm. My mother also remembered her mom and siblings sitting attentively in the pews as her dad, a Baptist minister, delivered stirring sermons from the pulpit of local churches on Sunday mornings.

Mother told me two things about her childhood that impressed me more than anything else. One was that her dad baptized her in the mill pond. When I was a child, I saw the mill pond up close on a few occasions, but my Uncle Buddy was the first to take me there to go fishing, and in spite of my squeamishness, he taught me to bait the hook on the fishing rod (using live worms, ilk!!!). Although time might have caused a reimage, in my mind, I still see the mill pond as a scary, darkened lake with floating green slime surrounded by woodland. I remember enjoying the sound of birds but fearing the animals my imagination envisioned lurking near the pond and watching us:  raccoons, bears, frogs, and snakes. Whenever mother would tell me about her baptism (she reiterated it a few times), I would wonder who would want to be dunked into that water where there was the possibility of being nibbled by fish or eels?

The other thing mother enjoyed talking about most was an event that occurred one night after her dad had been hospitalized for some time. She didn’t remember the reason for his hospitalization, just that he got sick, went to the hospital, and stayed there a while. Then, one wintery night, mother awoke around midnight and, feeling extremely cold, reached down to pull grandma’s handmade quilt, and the other covers up closer around her neck. Suddenly sensing a presence, she looked toward the foot of the bed and saw her dad standing there. Although the glow from the wood-burning stove against the wall behind him illuminated his silhouette in the otherwise pitch-black room, she said she could clearly see his face.

Her six-foot tall, handsome, muscular 44-year-old dad was wearing one of his Sunday go-to-meeting suits. Mother said that she felt confused in her grogginess and wondered how her dad could be there when he was supposed to be in the hospital. Then, she surmised that perhaps he had come home that evening after the family had gone to bed and was going throughout the house checking on the well-being of his wife and children.

Mother said that he was there for only a few seconds. She stared at him and thinks she might have said, “Daddy?” He smiled, slowly raised his hand to wave at her, and vanished. I once asked mother if she might have dreamt that event. She said she didn’t think so. It happened. Strangely, the following day, as the family was preparing to eat breakfast, they received a message from the hospital in Wilson, informing them that their family patriarch had died the previous evening. Mercy Hospital (formerly called the Wilson Hospital and Tubercular Home) was the only hospital that served the Black community of East Wilson, North Carolina, at that time.

A few years ago, when I began researching our family genealogy, I learned from my grandpa’s Death Certificate that his cause of death was pulmonary tuberculosis.

So many things remind me of my mother. Whenever I see poinsettias at Christmastime, I think of her because she once told me how beautiful she thought poinsettias were. Thereafter, for many Christmases, I sent her a large poinsettia. (Eventually, there came a time when she stopped celebrating Christmas and other so-called Pagan holidays. I still sent the flower.)

When I was a little girl, I would hear mother sometimes singing lines from Billie Holiday’s God Bless the Child while doing housework. If she were alive to read this, she’d tell you, “I tried to sing,” because mother didn’t believe she could carry a tune. Still, whenever I hear that song , regardless of the artist singing it, it reminds me of my mother.

I miss mother most when I want to tell her something or discuss a special occasion. There are so many family events that have occurred during the past decade that I’m sorry she missed, like the wedding of her first great-grandson. On the other hand, there are things that I’m glad she didn’t have to go through, like the COVID pandemic.

I’m dedicating this to my mama from her four children.

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Flashing Back to School Days

While dusting the volumes in my bookcase recently, guess what I discovered? Never mind guessing, I’ll tell you. It was my junior high school autograph book. I thought I had lost the 4-by-5 ½ paperback long ago, but there it was, squeezed like a dwarf between two hardcover biographies of historical giants Paul Robeson and Frederick Douglass. I was as happy by that find as I am when I unexpectedly discover a 20-dollar bill folded inside my jeans pocket. The pastel-colored pages of the little book have faded, and the front cover is missing, but most of the inscriptions of my former schoolmates are still legible. Only some scribbled in pencil are hard to read.

Days before graduating from Garnet Patterson Junior High School in 1963 (Okay, you can stop doing the math now.), I had purchased that autograph book, anticipating that cute remarks, witty jokes, and heartfelt well-wishes written by my classmates and some favorite teachers would fill the pages.

I carried the little book to another bookcase, where I removed a larger-sized autograph book. That one was signed by my peers from Dunbar High School. It has been years since I opened either of those books.

I brought my two keepsakes to the dining room table, sat down, and began perusing the pages. I wonder if today’s graduating students still maintain the tradition of signing autograph books at the end of the school year, or has that, like many traditions, become a thing of the past in this age of Facebook, Snapchat, Instagram, and text messaging?

As I reread some of my junior and high school classmates’ messages, some seemed silly from the vantage point of age and maturity. Others revived pleasant memories of school days. Space won’t allow me to include many of the entries here, but I’ve listed some of my favorites below:

“To a nice chick. May you have the best of luck as you go thru (sic) life.” Ronnie Reece wrote that one. Following his message, Ronnie sketched a stick person walking through the years 1964, 1965, 1966, 1967, and 1968. I remember that Ronnie was tall, handsome, and had a wonderful sense of humor.

Ponder “Mr. Soul” White wrote, “Good luck all the time.” Between the words “the” and “time,” he drew a large clock. Nice guy, Ponder.

I met Valerie Blackstone (nicknamed Val) in junior high school. She also attended Dunbar and remained my lifelong friend until she died in 2004. Her entry was a corny rhyme: “On the day of your graduation, you will receive an invitation from the board of education to increase the population. Do you dig this situation? A friend always, Val.” I imagine today’s contemporary teens would write that verse using more provocative language.

Adele Thomas and I grew up across the street from each other. After graduation, she married her high school sweetheart, Francis Smith, another Dunbar student. During Dunbar’s 35th class reunion, they were still married, and I suspect they remain together today. Adele wrote this. “The way to be seen is to stand up. The way to be heard is to speak up. The way to be appreciated is to shut up. Good luck.” Considering I was as quiet as a church mouse throughout my school years, I took her words to heart. With much determination in the years following graduation, I became the outspoken person some people wish would sit down and shut down.

Katherine E. Stanley, I remember being much more mature than other girls at school. True to her demeanor, she penned this, “Let your life be like arithmetic. Joys added. Sorrows subtracted. Friends multiplied. Love undivided. McKinley Tech bound.”

Another nice guy, Stephen Bennett, wrote, “To a very sweet girl. I wish you much luck in your future years.”

Harry Gough was one of our class’s brightest and most popular students. If I remember correctly, he always wore a suit to school, and I think some students considered him a nerd. I would not be surprised to learn that he became a college professor. He wrote “Best of Luck.”

I’ve maintained contact with some former alums, like Phillip Stevens. I knew Phil before high school, just like I did Val. We three have history. We were mutual friends, playmates, and schoolmates. Phil was another ambitious and active student. In addition to being a member of the military band, he was quite the athlete on Dunbar’s football and baseball teams. Besides our lifelong friendship, Phil is one of my dear Facebook friends. He wrote in my junior high book, “A friend of Val’s is a friend of mine,” and in my high school yearbook, “Always remember your junior and high school friend.” I always will.

Another athlete, Mevin Caldwell inscribed, “May God ever be with you and help you in everything you try to do.”

My namesake, Loretta Gaines, was also a bestie. She, Val, and I had our own clique. Loretta wrote, “To my favorite sister. Always stay as sweet and cool as you are. Wishing you the best of luck.”

Schoolmates weren’t the only ones who signed my books. Some of my relatives had their say. One cousin, Velda Parker, wrote, “Remember me. I’m the one who loves you.”

Some of the graduation cards I received remain tucked inside the back cover of my High School Yearbook. One came from Uncle Lucky and Aunt Jennie, another from Uncle Alton and Aunt Imogene. And then – there is the one from my then pen pal (who would become my husband two years later). I was a senior in high school, and he was in the U.S. Air Force, serving the second of his four-year enlisted service in Germany. The graduation card he sent me contained the answer to the question I asked in the last letter I sent him before graduating. “No, I’m so sorry, I can’t return stateside to take you to the prom.”

As shy as I was in school, this former shrinking violet would have blossomed while attending the prom with my military beau wearing his dress blues.

My mom wrote the most memorable prose in my autograph book. I’ve been unable to learn the author of that verse, but the words will remain with me forever:  “Dear Daughter,  Remember, wherever you be, be noble. Whatever you do, do well. Whenever you speak, speak kindly. Bring joy wherever you dwell. Love Mother.”

After reading my way down memory lane, I returned both books to the bookcase. Those school days seem like a hundred years ago. Come to think of it, it’s darn near close!

 

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Remembering Tina Turner, Superstar

When a light goes out on a beautiful life force, it is deeply upsetting. I am paraphrasing the words said today by Joy Behar on 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑉𝑖𝑒𝑤 as the show’s cohosts discussed the sad death yesterday of the phenomenal performer Tina Turner.

Like Joy, since yesterday, I am moved to near tears whenever I hear one of Tina’s songs playing. I thought it was just me. I want to thank Joy for helping me not feel like a weirdo as I associate the memories of many of Tina’s songs with different times in my life.

Like many boomers, I grew up listening to Ike and Tina Turner on the radio. When “The Ike and Tina Turner Revue”  premiered at Washington, DC’s Howard Theater in February 1961, I was a “skinny legs and all” teenager, as Joe Tex would sing. I was also broke and asking my parents for money to go to a show, even though concert tickets were not nearly as costly as they are today; well, let’s just say that I couldn’t scrape up enough change to go see the live performance and leave it at that.

The next time the revue returned to Howard in September 1965, I was in high school and still couldn’t afford the price of admission. So although Tina Turner was performing just a stone’s throw from my home – I’m talking a few blocks, walking distance of about five minutes – it didn’t matter. I missed both shows. I was fortunate, however, to catch the couple’s performance on 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐸𝑑 𝑆𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑛 𝑆ℎ𝑜𝑤 in 1970. Still, I regret that I never saw them (especially Tina, in later years after she went solo) perform in person.

In 1984 when Tina broke out with Private Dance, I was so happy that she was back on the scene. I fell in love with that song, and her videos and Tina Turner shot right back to the top of my list of favorite female performers. Since yesterday, her album, Tina:  All the Best, has become my playlist’s most frequently played album.

One of my favorite authors, the late Nora Ephron, wrote, “Above all be the heroine of your life, not the victim.” Tina’s refusal to be a victim and stay in a bad situation with her husband led her to rescue herself, and as a result, she became a world-renowned superstar and, for women everywhere, a shero.

Yesterday as a close friend and I were commiserating about Tina Turner, discussing books we’ve read by and about her and movies and documentaries we’ve seen, my friend lightened the moment when she said, “I hope Tina has earned a place in heaven because she sure lived through hell with Ike.”

Rest in peace Tina Turner, from your forever fans. You were an original and will be forever — the Queen.

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