Dragonflies

This is how I remember my mom. She was a vibrant person who encouraged exploration. And she loved to laugh. When the girls were little, they would play “witch” and she would chase them around the room. They would be caught and put in a “cauldron” with tickles. Somehow they managed to escape the confines of the couch and she would once again be in pursuit. The girls would help each other escape and learned to provide distraction and engage in cunning behaviors to outwit the witch. I would inevitably be attending to some neglected task (the daily life of having young children) and smile as I heard tremendous bouts of giggling. This was happy.

My mom taught me to embrace life and look for the adventure. She did not like the word “no”. My childhood included camping trips and canoeing and hiking. None of this was glamorous. Our go-to meal was cheddar cheese and waverly crackers and each of us was assigned a specific number of servings. Slabs of cheese were kept in a Tupperware container and the yellow cracker box was always present and sliding around in the car.

(My mother was never a good cook… if you were entertained by her, it probably consisted of a roast chicken- difficult to mess up- and a slice of key lime pie. My paternal grandmother was a good cook and shared this family recipe with my mom. Or cheesecake- again, not too difficult.)

I recall more than one sketchy place as well as some nervous looks on my dad’s face as he followed her directions to our intended destination. There was an infamous canoe trip that lasted 14+ hours, consisted of several non-navigable sections and other segments with little water such that either all of us climbed across vast swatches of rocks or, as the night lingered on and my brother and I fell asleep in the bottom of the canoe, my parents dragged us. There was a period of lightning and thunder as we made our way under power lines and sparks fell in the water around us. My dad pointed out a house in the distance and instructed us to go to it if something bad happened. The adventure culminated with my father climbing a steep embankment with a paddle as we sat in the canoe under a railroad bridge. And yes, a train crossed the tracks as we sat there. My mother began to giggle uncontrollably.

My dad looked for the car while dragging the paddle so he could hear the change in pitch when he veered off the dirt road. The sky was filled with ominous clouds so nothing could easily be seen. We were all seated in the car with the canoe perched awkwardly atop around 3am. The next day we voted to officially ban my mother from doing any future planning without consult. Whenever she announced a new idea, we would often moan in unison “the Octararo” … because 40 years later, I still remember the name of that creek in Pennsylvania that crosses… eventually… into Maryland.

Having minimal expectations and becoming adjusted to landing in unknown and unpredictable territory, made me durable and flexible when traveling and encountering new experiences. It also helps one be adaptable in life. One learns to make a quick assessment and then fully commit to a plan. Until you need to change it. And then you fully commit to the change. (One’s plan and subsequent change(s) may be seconds apart so it’s important to keep your eyes and mind open.)

As my children grew, my mother would share articles with them about world events. She loved watching them grow stronger and smarter. She was a ground-breaking feminist. I remember the joy she had when buying her first pantsuit. My mother was a mathematician and one of the few women working at IBM in the early 70s. When she started, the dress code stipulated modest dresses or skirts for women. At some point (I think this must have been around ’72 or ’73) they modified the regulations so that women were permitted to wear pants (let that sink in- permitted). My mom was armed (perhaps legged is a better word) and readied and wearing her pantsuit on the first day of implementation. I still recall her beaming and thrusting her arm into the air (think final scene of Breakfast Club) as she marched to the car.

Scenes like all of these, a lifetime of memories, swirl around like dragonflies crashing into each other. When I visit her now, I look for any sign of memory or connection. Feeding her, helping her navigate nourishment into her body that seems disconnected from itself, from he,. I engage in a one-sided conversation. Occasionally she smiles at the recollection of a memory or perhaps something completely unrelated. I am uncertain but choose to hope she remembers something beautiful. While I talk and look into her eyes, I struggle to maintain composure as these images of laughter and beauty and strength crash into the reality in front of me. I cannot reconcile how time and disease can wreak such havoc. I look for logic, reasoning, explanation, justification for why. My father died when I was a teenager after a lengthy battle with cancer. I always thought that was the worst it could ever be. Now I wonder. Being lost inside of your mind seems a more tormented level of hell. Being lost, disconnected from a loved one. Being lost.

Losing yourself in an adventure was always so beautifully enticing. Losing yourself … how to connect these two. More than a paradigm shift. Not a linear path other than aging and time. Nothing rationale or concrete. Just nothing.

But I look at my mother, my mom, and see her head tilted back, eyes shining brightly and hear her laughter floating on dragonfly air. This. I must always keep this with me.