Helene Post Thompson Scott Bourson
I awoke from a nap with a fully formed plan to load up the
dogs and go spend the night with my mom at the 20th street house. Long naps leave me disorientated, no
understatement that. I had richly
detailed visuals running through my mind of the steeply pitched roof, red door,
towering laurel hedges lining the backyard, Mom waiting for me in the kitchen.
My mind was addled between past and present but gradually
realized I was missing a key point. We
didn’t own that house anymore. Our
family home for 27 years, sold long ago.
Mom bought that house in 1970, the first house she ever
purchased on her own. It was an act of
courage and a step toward new beginnings.
Dad died suddenly the previous year leaving her, at age 37, with three
teenagers to rear. She was petrified at
the financial commitment of a $28,000 mortgage.
She was barely functioning when we first moved into the
house, sleeping away the days until enough time passed that the first assault
of grief had passed. Bruce and I were
under strict orders to perk coffee before leaving for school, dire consequences
to follow should we not comply. In an
attempt to regain some semblance of normal, (as opposed to just being selfish
little twits,) we badgered her about not making us breakfast until one morning
here she came, clomping down the stairs, poured herself a cup of coffee, then
put a pan of water on the range and said, “when it boils, add the oatmeal”
before clomping back upstairs to her bed.
Bruce and I gazed at each other open-mouthed. (This a far different behavior than later
years. Tyler says “Grandma spoiled you so much she
even poured the milk in your cereal every morning.” I contend that was a
control issue to get her little darlings to the table at the same time.)
A new normalcy slowly came into being. Mom went back to work, met Neil, they married
in 1976. But before any of that, he had
to survive the ordeal of meeting the children, so she brought him home for
dinner. So there sat we three savoring
her nervousness and pulling our traditional inside jokes. “Mom, I don’t think Neil likes the
salad.” Neil of course sputters a
denial. Mom serving scalding hot gravy
spilled some on Neil’s lap. We three are
cracking up while Mom is hovering with a towel.
That story’s gotten lots of mileage over the years. Mom said she didn’t know Neil well enough to
wipe the gravy off him. He carried the
day with the quip “That’s okay, I’ll just save that for the potatoes in my
pocket.” I liked him from the get go. In those early days we encouraged Neil to
come for dinner so Mom would whip up an elaborate spread. Later Neil would turn the tables and
encourage us to come for dinner for the same reason. And good company, of course.
There are so many happy memories associated with that
house. During intervening years Mom
married off us three, who duly produced four grandchildren, who in turn occasioned
traditions of sleepovers, Easter egg hunts, picking up bothersome fir cones for
a penny apiece, cinnamon toast, good grand-parenting stuff.
Those thoughts came later though. In my post dream state I was so certain Mom
would be waiting for me in the kitchen, and I was so anticipating seeing her,
but the realization that wasn’t possible filtered through. She died six years ago. But I’m visualizing her standing in front of
me, smiling. I thank her for her love
and admire her graciousness in life. And
I’m still learning from her.
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