We just returned from the Midwest. We went back to our hometown, our roots, to clean out my mom’s house. Suffice to say, it was horrible.
Everything in that place seemed to remind us of something special, an event, holiday, our childhood, frozen in time. I tried to approach the cleanout with a sense of practicality, to only save things that seemed to matter or that could actually be useful like kitchen and cooking items. It proved difficult and I definitely wound up with more than I wanted to. I associated certain things with my mom because they were always so prevalent throughout my life - a large, round, blue platter she used to make her famous Mexican dip when she entertained, enamel and jewel brooches in the shape of ladybugs (she always loved ladybugs), an ancient yellow kitchen timer that you had to wind up to set, several Edna Hibel portraits of mothers and children.
My mom was the true sentimentalist. She held on to dozens of birthday and Mother’s Day cards my brother and I wrote her when we were growing up. I didn’t have the courage to reread them but maybe someday I will. In every card I ever wrote her, I know I told her that she was the best mom in the whole world and I was the luckiest girl to have her as mine. I am so thankful I always told her.
Evidence of her creativity was everywhere, including a spare bedroom that was approaching hoarder status filled with every conceivable craft item in existence. This was where she thrived, and where I get my creativity from. She could imagine something and bring it to life. She had a knack for taking something average and improving it to extraordinary. This was most apparent in her baking business, which she started from nothing in 1997 and grew to be a beloved company with clients across the nation. I dread the upcoming holiday season and having to somehow tell her customers that she’s no longer in business.
I realize I sometimes speak about my mother in the past tense, as if she’s gone. She’s not, physically. But my mother as I knew her is. The woman I called a million times a day, texted every insignificant thing, asked for advice, recipes, and opinions from… she is no longer with us. This is the singular most heartbreaking thing I’ve been forced to come to terms with. This is Mom 2.0. Usually new iterations are for “bug fixes” but Mom 2.0 is the opposite. She is riddled with bugs, problems that no physician or scientist has figured out how to delete. Her functionality is sub-optimal. There is no upgrade on the horizon... yet.
We tried to make the best of the trip. We saw some friends who still live there and now have families of their own, too. We spent some time outside, soaking up the milder weather and fall colors. We even went out to dinner one night. We stayed with my mom’s best friend who has been tremendously kind and helpful throughout this living nightmare. The world would be hard-pressed to find a finer human being. Mostly, though, we were together – my brother, my family, our friends – and we needed it more than we realized.
Going back to our hometown has always been complex for me. After high school, I attended college out of state and I knew I would never move back. I wanted, needed more. As a mother, when I reflect on my 18 years there, it was truly a wonderful place to grow up. But it also holds a lot of dark memories I’ve never been able to fully escape. My mom moved twice after I left and going “home” to a house other than the one I grew up in never felt right. My mom tried her best to make them feel more like home, but moving was never her choice. The second house she resided in showed signs of wear and was on a main road, outside the expensive and desirable private community we grew up in. It almost felt like an exile. When she downsized again to a townhouse, it was so small and cramped there wasn’t even space for guests to stay overnight. It was old and outdated. Quite frankly, it was depressing. When we flew up to clean it out, it was only the second time I had ever been there. Thinking about the reason why I was there was emotionally debilitating. It was 30 years too soon.