Mom's view

Ten years ago today, I came home from a morning run at Shilshole Marina to a message I hoped would never come.

At least not so soon…

The message was from Ballard Manor, calling about my mom. My mom’s time here ended at about 7:30 a.m. on Friday, May 19, 2000. She was just 64. She had been ill; nine months earlier she moved into Ballard Manor, an assisted living facility about a mile south, but her health - and outlook - were improving and she seemed to be doing well in her new environment. I was hopeful. There were still so many questions to ask, things to say and do, and promises to fulfill.

But I'm grateful for the gifts she left, particularly her appreciation for wit, absurdity, and context, and especially, a small packet of short stories, essays, poems, and other creative writings that helped me view my mom - and her experiences - in a different way. She wrote about growing up (me), growing waistlines (hers/ours/theirs), and growing old, as well as growing things.

Here are a few about the home where both she and I grew up (and you can read "The Visitor" (my favorite) at the May 10, 2009, post).

A garden's a sensible spot
To raise food so it needn't be bought
But remember to weed it,
Whenever it need it,
Or it's likely to soon go to pot.

The Gravenstein

The gnarled old apple tree stands tall against the bleak wintery sky, barren branches swaying back and forth in the cold, icy wind. Lonely, lifeless, it awaits the first awakening of spring.

Life stirs in the old tree as the warm rays of the sun and the gentle rains caress its limbs. Tiny green buds poke out after a long winter sleep. Fragrant blossoms of pink and white burst forth, filling the air with a pleasant sweetness. Twittering birds, returning after a long winter absence, busily weave their nests of straw and string.

The beautiful ancient tree, weathered by time and the seasons, is reclaimed by spring, teeming with new life. Boldly, it stretches to meet the clear blue sky.

Unnamed poem, excerpt:

"That tree was just a little sprout
A long, long time ago."
"You grew that tree?" I marveled.
And smiling, he said, "No."

"It had everything it needed.
It was God that put it there.
But he thought it needed lots of love,
So he put it in my care."

Now I have a little tree,
All my very own.
And the farmer's words still echo back
Although the years have flown.

The Barn

The old wooden barn stands behind the house, silent, lonely, a silhouette against the crimson evening sky. The broken door swings back and forth on noisy hinges, the door knob long since disappeared. Stepping inside, the floorboards wobble beneath my feet, while the cool rush of winter wind blows through time-worn cracks in the walls, where tiny feed boxes still hang. Rusty wire spills from the decaying rafters. A musty chair stands in the corner, and faded curtains hang, lifeless, on the jagged broken windows.

This barn was once a playhouse for happy little girls, now grown and gone away. Cackling red hens once roosted here and laid their speckled brown eggs in nests of golden straw. A hitching ring still hangs where a huge black cow, tethered to the now barren wall, waited patiently to give her soft, creamy milk.

Now, as then, the wispy branches of the gnarled cherry tree rustle against the moss-covered roof. Slowly, sadly, I leave the old barn, standing silently, abandoned... (Ed. note: The barn came down with a little help from us in 1993.)