Remembrance: by Rees Pugh

Rees Pugh                                         Remembering Mom                                       6/21/14

There was obviously a lot to my mother’s life that we, her children, can’t really speak to…we are very hopeful that those of you who were close to her in her younger years, or who may have a different perspective on the woman she was, will share stories and your memories of her with the rest of us throughout the afternoon (at the microphone, if you dare), over lunch.

            

We hope too, that you will continue to keep the memory of her alive by thinking and speaking of her often. She lives with us, through us and on- in future generations, through the words and deeds of us all, her descendants, relations and friends. As long as we think of her…as long as we speak of her, she is not gone. So I’d now like to ask for a moment of silence that we all use to remember how each of us came to know her. (pause) And now let’s talk of her, that she may be here with us again!  I’ll start! I’m Rees, her number three child.

Of course, I can only offer my own, middle-child perspective, and some of what I thought were simple facts, it seems, have been called into dispute just this week at this reunion of my siblings…but there are many things about my mother, Anne Parker, that were indisputable. Thoughtful, gracious, loving, supremely patient, energetic, strong, generous and tender-hearted… admired and adored by- dare I say it- everyone she met and incapable of offending anyone. 

She was by anyone’s standard, beautiful—inside and out, right up to the end of her life.  About 2 weeks before she died, a hospice worker saw her for the first time and said, “Oh my, they didn't warn me you’d be so beautiful.” At which point Adam murmured to me, “her case file should have a warning, ‘proceed with care, patient is EXTREMELY beautiful.’” But, as lovely as she was as a woman, I don’t think she ever forgot what it felt like to be awkward and ungainly pre-teen, who wore glasses for astigmatism and was taller than all the other girls at boarding school, where , in school plays, she was most often cast in men’s roles.

She was modest. On one of her last weekends, when visitors were pouring in from all around, she told her neighbor, Ann Cameron, that it would be the massive weight of the HALO her visitors were crowning her with, that would finally do her in. She felt she was far from perfect and would ruffle at the suggestion from any of us, as obvious as it seemed.

And she very funny in surprising ways. Weeks after my father passed away in 2008, looking back over her own journey from Grosse Pointe to Canton, she sarcastically complained, “He married a debutante and has left me a chicken farmer!” But based on the way she carried on without him…the care and attention she continued to give to this place and the birds, replacing lost ones along the way… I think she was glad of it. She did love it here.

She was very, very busy- in perpetual motion; couldn’t really sit down unless she was knitting, or hooking a rug or at the very least reading with a little pile of M and M’s nearby. She was extremely productive; she made a LOT of stuff by hand. She knit dozens of sweaters for her friends and family and entire wardrobes for Adam’s little teddy-bear family. Way back when, she often sewed her own clothes--but was wise enough not to ask us, in grade school, to wear home-made clothes to school. My father was not so shallow and had much of his wardrobe—shirts, socks, sweaters, gloves…crafted by her loving hands. She supplemented our family income by weaving place mats and rugs on a loom. There were some really wonderful creations –I kept my hand-made, goose-down vest for over 30 years… and some less successful ones—like the hand-knit, woolen swim trunks she made me when I was about 5…which, when wet, weighed more than I did. I didn't get much mileage out of those. She baked bread for us twice a week for decades,(or as I only learned this week, had Hester make the bread about 1/2 the time) made a huge batch of lousy wine, (I think there’s still some in the basement) experimented with home-brewed root beer, grew vegetables, kept bees and harvested honey, and prepared virtually every meal for whomever was here, for nearly 50 years. She was an original forager. Blueberries, grapes, whatever wild was in season…she sought out and made into meals. We NEVER went out to eat. When I got to college, I didn't really know how to order a meal in a restaurant. I had almost never been to one. Of course, I had no idea how spoiled I had been.

She was exceedingly KIND. She did VERY kind things for people. And they did nice things back. In December, she brought a pint of honey-from back here-to her hairdresser, Dimitri and said, “That’s it. That’s the last. I’m out of the business.” (She regularly brought him honey-my parents plied a lot of local vendors with it, it turns out.) He was back here, two weeks before she died, doing her hair up in her room. Tony, the guy who worked on their cars, is of middle eastern descent, I think. She told me that after 9-11, she was afraid he would go out of business. They brought him honey—a never ending stream of engine repairs— and she knit a blanket for his first grandchild. He told me the other day, “there just aren’t people like your mother and father anymore.” We shook hands and agreed that neither of us are ever that nice to anyone. Her auto mechanic. Our neighbor, Peter Pineo has been mowing the field every other day this week and Tony Franco has pruned and weeded practically back into the woods, helping us prepare for today…in large part, because they wanted to find a way to do something nice in return for her. Thank you guys…the place has seldom looked better.

She was very, very smart. As many of you know, she completed her bachelor’s degree AFTER she had five of us. She was book smart; a voracious reader. And people smart-like you can’t imagine. This, in my opinion, is one of the most remarkable things about my mother:

Impossible as it sounds, with six kids of her own, six kid’s spouses and sixteen grandchildren, I NEVER, NOT ONE TIME, heard her offer unsolicited advice or venture an opinion on the subject of child-rearing or domestic life.  As a result, it’s fair to say, that her extended family- her children-in-law-- developed an affection for her nearly deep as her own. It also meant that when advice was asked for and given, it was thoughtful, succinct and, in my case, life-changing.

Here are 3 examples:

-When in the throes of my divorce and looking for a little familial support, I asked her, “What should I do?” She reminded me that I was not the important person at that moment, gently chastising me by saying, “What your son needs from you now, is to stop being so mad at his mother.”

-When, embarrassed and humiliated by a substance abuse problem I was struggling with, now 17 years ago, she simply said, “well, cut it out.” That was it; no speech, no interrogation. The implicit forgiveness in the simplicity of this directive, would become one of the keys to my recovery.

-And more insightful advice came 6 years ago, when I said something like, “How do you like Kathy?” or, “Isn’t Kathy awesome?” she replied simply, “If you don’t marry her, I will.” I was so glad they hit it off.

She was adventurous. This past December, on my birthday, 2 days after hers, (I did love our “joint” birthday parties) she gave me a card with a picture of a kid in a crash helmet, arms crossed, scowling, with a cape around his neck…(the way I remember Adam looking until he was about 8 years old.) Inside, it read, ‘Whatever you’re planning, I’m in.” Even when she was very sick, she wanted us to think of her that way up for a good time, ready to take risks, game for anything.

She really REALLY appreciated what a difficult and miraculous journey CHILDHOOD is… she would laugh, when others might not…when asked for parenting advice recently, she said, “I just thought, if the children want to have a chocolate pudding fight in the kitchen, let ‘em.”

Her philosophy for living - and for raising children -  I’m fairly certain, was borne of her own upbringing; both, in reaction to, what we were told was a very restrictive household and also, because every summer as a child, she enjoyed what sounded like an entirely unrestricted romp in the woods of Upper Michigan. I strongly suspect it was there, on the Southern shore of Lake Superior, that so much of her inner strength, independence, resourcefulness, loyalty and self-reliance was uncovered. I am confident that it was  in a pine forest similar to this one that surrounds us here today, that her appreciation of the natural world and her place in it became a cornerstone of her personality. When I nervously told her about getting completely lost up there, she replied, “Oh, eventually, you’d hit  a road and find your way. I have faith.” And in my opinion, that was the greatest gift she has given each of us, her children: the time, the space, the patience…the faith… to get completely lost until we “hit a road and found our way.”