“Life does not make up for death, but at least love makes up for life.”
Indulge me this transgression, today I move further away from fashion, retail, popular culture and design, but I’ll be coming back shortly with lots of photos of great store windows and stories on fashion.
Why the diversion? Several days ago, my mother passed away silently in her sleep. Today I wonder what she was dreaming as she proceeded into the next great journey. My mother was eighty years old. Eighty years is impossibly long, and all together too brief, but how can that be?
I had a very orthodox Catholic education, and was not well served by it. My Catechism is not working for me today. Death is an insult. Believers can say all they want about the mysteries God and heaven, but today there is little peace for me. Even with my limited intellect, I can recognize that leaves fall off an autumn tree with more order and meaning than the way people perish on this earth. God, if there is one, would be confounded to explain death's grand inequities to me. It is not a very efficient system.
Life is filled with moments, most seemingly meaningless and insignificant, at least when they’re happening, but when we look back, we begin to realize that it’s those seemingly trivial moments that best define us. Today I cannot tolerate all the little memories that rise up inside and pierce me like a delicate silk pin, almost indiscernible. Little jabs, tinier than a newborn wasp bite, each one telling me the same thing over and over again, don’t forget this, please don’t forget that. Collectively they are too profound to tolerate.
I could tell you a million stories about my mother, she was a character, but any one I share with you would rob you of the ten others I have to neglect to share with you. So I’m going to share two stories with you, one impossible sad, and one almost comical. My mother lived someone in-between these two stories.
First for the deluge. I need to take you back to Cheshire, Connecticut in 1958. A time so long ago, I call it “Christmas before the Kennedy’s“. My mother is only twenty-eight, she is young and beautiful and her life is laid out before her in a pre-fabricated split ranch with a bay window. The house is painted in a buttery yellow with white trim and dahlias and scarlet peonies surround the facade. After a few years of marriage, my parents already have two children, my sister Marianne who is two, and me, a "rolly-poly" overweight infant of one. My sister is described by everyone as a strangely beautiful child with platinum blond hair, blue eyes, and dimples. She is described as “perfect” and “absolutely perfect”, the distinction being ever so important to the story, so pay attention to this detail. Nat King Cole is playing on the hi-fi and he's singing "My Hearts Treasure". This song once sweet is soon to become bittersweet. My sister may be just a toddler, but she is social, sweet, and eager to be loved and to love. Every picture of my sister is a testament. She is always dressed in Polly Flinder’s smocked dresses, crinolines and patent leather Mary Jane’s. They say that man is made in the likeness of God, but I know so many unattractive people both physically and spiritually that I have reason to doubt it. That being said, my sister is absolutely perfect! If only God could be half that beautiful.
It is December 21st. My mother has read House Beautiful and decorated the Christmas tree in blue lights, nothing but blue lights with blue glass balls and blue decorations. My mother has even managed to find blue tinsel at Woolworths. The tree casts a melancholy azure glow over the living room like a warm gas flame. Outside a few inches of snow covers the ground, and when you step on it, it cracks below you, like when your thumb is stuck into an over-baked pie crust.
My mother has just come from the pediatrician in Hartford. My sister was born with a heart abnormality, Atrial Septal Defect, which was explained to my mother as a “hole in her heart”, a relatively common defect that many children outgrow. My sister has been monitored very carefully, and the ex-ray indicates that the heart has indeed closed up; there is no sign of the defect any longer. The doctor describes my sister as "absolutely perfect". A doctor to a mother is almost better than God. A doctors word is akin to Scripture. Elated beyond belief, my mother races home to call everyone with the good news. There are tears of happiness. My mother is exhausted from all the crying she has done. It is as if this is the first time in two years my mother has been able to breath. My mother places her two children in the crib, covers them for their nap confident that Christ has blessed her with exactly what she wanted for Christmas. My mother is a “good Catholic”. Best of all, Christmas is only a few days away!
My mother lies down on the couch looking at the blue lights on the tree thinking how wonderful life is and like a babe, contentedly falls to sleep thinking that life is "absolutely perfect!" An hour passes and my mother awakes upon hearing the radiator in the nursery hissing, almost calling her like a tea kettle. As my mother enters the room, my sisters alabaster skin is tinged with blue hue and the veins in her cheek are laced like indigo colored cross-stitches. It is not the light from the Christmas three in the living room. Something is wrong. It is a sickly blue. My sister is curled up in a little ball, the white crocheted cover nooked under her chin. She looks like a little snow drift. My sister is as limp as a dishtowel and her eyes will not open. My sister has passed away silently in her sleep.
The doctor was mistaken. Accidents happen. How do you fathom the unfathomable? You don’t. It can’t be done. Even God in all his glory cannot explain it.
Now is when the story gets dark, too dark to commit to words. Too disturbing to share. We all know that death is a thief. Death directs the trajectory of our lives in ways, which we would never entertain, but that were obligated to abide. My sister was buried on Christmas Eve. The gifts under the tree were never opened. The dolls and the dresses and the storybooks are only reminders of what was never goingto be. The gifts in their happy Christmas wrap were placed in the rafters above the garage with every unpleasant thing we wished to hide away. This is a time before group counseling, analysis and online communities. The tenir of the times calls for denial. So I will tell you this, my mother seldom spoke about my sister, she couldn’t, when she did, it was brief. Sometimes, albeit very rare, my mother would express her bewilderment. I knew my mother was seeking reassurance, but how do you reassure someone (your mother) that "It’s okay,” when you know its not. I’ll tell you what you do. You lie! Even if you are a child. You learn how to become a very skillful liar. You say things like… “I understand”, "I know", “They’re still here, in spirit” They’re at peace,” and “They’re with God”, but in your heart of hearts, you know what I know, it stinks! It’s unfair, and it’s not right. So what did I tell my mother, I simply reminded her that she (my mother) was loved. That I love her. Sometimes love is all we have when everything else falls away, and here's the truth...its still not enough.
How does a parent survive the wreckage of the soul? How does a mother go on, each night wondering if death will visit her other children? My mother was a devout Catholic, the Church gave her prayers and promises of heaven, all well and good, but alas, we live on earth and are mortal. I reason that throughout her life my mother said 21,900 Hail Marys. My mother did not belive in a lot of what she called "malarky", but she did belive in the power of the Rosary and the Hail Mary. When the Hail Mary did not assuage the pain my mother medicated other ways. Rest assured, the other ways did not assuage the grief either.
Sometimes my mother would call me in October, the month my sister was born, and each year she would tell me, if your sister was alive she'd be twenty one, thirty five, forty two....
Now over fifty years later, my mother has passed away in her sleep too. My youngest sister finds her. My mother is curled up in a little ball, the white coverlet is nooked under her chin. She looks like a little snow drift.
How do you fathom the unfathomable? You don’t. It can’t be done. Even God in all his glory cannot explain it
....Now a funny story.
We are living in South Orange, NJ. Its 1975...give or take. My mother’s best friend in the whole wide world lives door. Our two families the Knoth's and the Jochnowitz's could not possible be more different, but we adore each other. It’s like one extended family. It’s bliss! My mother, Gloria, and her best friend Carol are like sisters. They are devoted to one another. Not a day goes by without them sharing a cup of coffee. These two women talk and talk for hours every blessed day. It’s adorable.
Our neighbors love animals, and have beautiful rabbits in a hutch behind our garage. The rabbits are docile and every kid in the neighbor is smitten with them. This rabbits get the best care, best food, and all kinds of attention are lavished on them. One of the two rabbits is named Casper.
We have a purebred German Sheppard named Duke who is trained as a watchdog. While obedient, he is willful, and takes every opportunity to intimidate everyone in the neighborhood, or anything that moves. In fact, experience dictates that the mailman will not deliver our mail if the front door even looks ajar. He just throws the bills and birthday cards in the vicinity of the porch and runs like hell.
Duke has repeatedly escaped and goes straight for the rabbit hutch knowing that his prey is there and vulnerable. For Duke, Casper is dinner. Duke does his best to scratch through the chicken wire and paw open the latch. This is a smart dog. This has happened so often that the bunnies have developed a nervous twitch. Duke has made their annihilation his chief mission in his life. After a few close calls, Carol has begged my mother to do something... anything about our dog. Carol’s kids love their pets too. These rabbits are so good-natured. Carols kids take such good care of them. The situation has unfortunately escalated and is jeopardizing their friendship. "Please contain your dog" Carol admonishes. So my mother has promised that she will take care of it. It’s done! Duke has been chastised, but it is no avail.
One day my mother comes home from grocery shopping and sees that one of us (my brothers and sisters) have left the back kitchen door open. My mother calls for Duke who is clearly nowhere in sight. Terrified my mother already suspecting the worst goes to the back door and calls for Duke who appears from behind the garage with his ears cast downwards, tail lowered, but gleefully skipping over the back yard with the dead bloody body of Casper the white rabbit in his mouth. Duke had apparently just killed Casper. Duke is happily swinging Casper to and fro, this way and that, as proud as can be. My mother is mortified. What is she going to do? How can she explain this to Carol? Carol will never speak to her again!
Like some inane sit-com the story goes from the sublime to the ridiculous.
While some mother might exercise honesty and beg for forgiveness, it’s too risky for my mother. Some mothers would have just disposed of the evidence and feigned ignorance, suggestting the rabbit was stolen, but even that might implicate Duke. My mother is a resourceful person and we (my brothers and sisters) are called into action, you get the shampoo, you get the conditioner, you get me a towel and my blow dryer; you go back and clean up the rabbit hutch. Into our kitchen sink goes Casper. CPR is not administered, it’s a done deal Casper is dead, but still gets a full body shampoo and Herbal Essence creme conditioner rinse. Remember its rinse, lather, and repeat. Casper is blow dried with our Vidal Sasson blow dryer and combed out with my mothers good beaver bristle brush. Casper may be no Lazarus, but looks almost as good as the day he was brought back home from Bucks Rock Art Camp. Granted, there are a few clumps of hair woeful missing, his stomach is skinned and his eyes are glazed yellow. The Visine has not helped! I am instructed to careful place Casper back into the hutch, lock the latch, clean up any paw prints and sworn to secrecy. My mother hopes Carol will come home and think that Casper has just died of natural causes in the hutch.
Carol comes home from work. My mother sees her car drive into the driveway, and true to course, Carol runs the garden hose to give the rabbit’s fresh water. Carol goes to the cage. My mother hears the perfunctory scream and sees Carol run into her house. What seems like an eternity passes before the phone rings, my mother picks it up. Carol is hysterical.
CAROL: (In tears) Gloria you won’t believe what just happened? It’s crazy!!!
GLORIA: Carol calm down. What is it? Are the girls okay? Did Joe have an accident?
CAROL: There are some sick *#!?$… sick *#!?$%*@… people in our neighborhood!
GLORIA: (Playing innocent) What are you talking about?
CAROL: That rotten rabbit finally died a few days ago and the girls buried it, and some sick *#!? dug it up, cleaned it off and stuck it back in the cage. Now my girls are hysterical! Who would do that?
GLORIA: Oh, Carol that’s just awful. I just don’t understand some people. ..Why don’t you come over later and have a cup of coffee and tell me all about it.
CAROL: I’m just livid!
GLORIA: Maybe it was just a prank.
CAROL: I think it was anti-Semitism.
GLORIA: I’m sure it wasn’t!
CAROL: I’ll tell you one thing Gloria, if it’s the last thing I ever do I’m going to find out who did this.
Over the subsequent decades Carol sometimes referred that the story and her quandary that she never figured out who was responsible. My mother was a great actress. The longer that time passed the more difficult it was to share the truth. That story was never mentioned for over thirty years. Carol was at my mothers wake and funeral and apologies to my mother, but Carol, as were we all, in need of a little levity so we finally confided the story, which had everyone in stitches, as it’s exactly the kind of crazy thing my mother would do.
And now we go back to “normal”, or at least the "new normal". The casseroles have been consumed. The prayer cards have been distributed. The guests have departed; we retreat back into the routine of our lives. Yes, we are aware of the absence. It’s a shame that we seldom love the people with the same intensity of how much we can miss them. Maybe we can’t. Maybe we’re not designed that way. It’s too overwhelming.
At the services, everyone asked me “How are you? I lied. I’m a skillful liar. I said “I was fine. In truth, I’m just bereft.
“Life does not make up for death, but at least love makes up for life.”
