The Glue Has Dried

My mother died just eight months after I graduated from college. Her death was unexpected, at least to me. She was emotionally unhealthy at the time, still grieving the death of her marriage and the future she had imagined for herself.


When I see a picture like this one - of her in the moment, appreciably devoid of pretense in any physical way - my power to recall her in both flesh and spirit ticks up a thousand fold.


The photo conjures lots of memories. For instance, I still have the red Coleman cooler being used as a picnic surface by my mother, as well as the L.L. Bean canvas carryall pictured in the foreground. I remember the wavy design of the waxy paper cup from the stack in the kitchen cabinet by the sink. But when I look closely, I notice the things that I always noticed about my mother's appearance while living with her and seeing her every day. My eyes go to her long, rounded finger nails, almost never covered with polish (she preferred to buff them). I see the age spots covering her hands and face. I notice right away her canine tooth with a bit of a twist to it, just the way the identical tooth in my mouth sits.


While my mother died at an age most would consider young, she had plowed through most of the hard stuff of parenting. And though she died before meeting my husband or children, she took with her something that I didn't realize had gone missing at first. She was the family glue. As much as I thought that perhaps I could be the glue after her death, I was wrong. Siblings share a lot when they live under the same roof, but feathering a new nest quickly takes priority in the world of grown-ups. Of course, that's not to say that some families can't remain close after a matriarch passes.


In my case, I know that if she were still alive I would benefit emotionally on many levels. Her home would surely provide the holiday headquarters missing from my own holidays. And I have a feeling, though I can't be sure, that my siblings and I would easily reprise our dynamic family roles whenever we got together under her roof. Always the cockeyed optimist, I have spent much of my life dreaming of taking a grand vacation with my brothers, perhaps cruising to some balmy destination with their families. When I watch a movie (even a zany one like Wedding Crashers), I extract dangerous ideas like playing touch football with my entire family during our next Thanksgiving together. 


Maybe now is a good time to admit that these things will never come to pass. If I want this kind of closeness in my future, it has to begin with me: a new generation of glue, to keep my children focused on the real prize and richness of life. A future that centers around family, in good times and in bad. There is great stuff here under my roof providing daily incentive to keep this ensemble going strong as long as I'm alive: loads of laughter, amazing stories, tears and triumphs, great food, friendship and always... unconditional love.

Slippery When Wet

I have to tell you, I thought I was hot shit whenever I wore the t-shirt in this photograph. I had it all going on; rockin' the Levi's®, ponytails, acne and the “I know it all” half-smile. At this time in my life, my brothers were gone (college!), and I was forced to adopt the solitude I think of when I consider only children. Thank God I spent hours and hours talking on the telephone, rearranging my room and chasing neighborhood boys, but I still felt lonely. I remember eating out at restaurants, and vacationing at Disney's newly opened Epcot as a tidy, downsized version of my real nuclear family. Alone with my parents wherever we happened to be, I lived for the occasional, albeit shallow interaction or sighting involving random cute guys. And since my family has always loved to dine out, these “cute guys” were usually waiters. Guess what? I still love eating at restaurants!

Memories of Mom

Backside reads in her script:
October 1972 Claudia's Birthday
Claudia & Mommy

A day doesn't go by that I don't miss my mother. And why should it be otherwise?  When I think back, trying to harvest bits of my past in an attempt to bridge time with memory, I'm always left wanting.


There are certain things I can remember with almost no effort. For instance, I remember when, on multiple occasions, my mother would come home with a bag (or bags) filled with clothes from Marshalls®. Those red stickers made me giddy. The more clearance items my mom saw that she thought I might like, the bigger the bag. "You don't have to keep anything you don't like," she'd say. She had such great taste. 


Most of my memories are non-specific. I remember the kind of music that always played in the background when she was in the room. She instinctively connected with music and blended it into our life. Big band and jazz standards set the perfect mood for impromptu dance lessons in the kitchen, in between chopping one thing or another.


I remember the two of us getting take-out pizza and practically inhaling a large between us. 


And whenever one of life's barbs would cause me pain, I remember the way she held me. She held me tightly and completely, whether I was two or twelve.   And despite my predictably brazen show of tears, her impressive calm restored me, every single time. 

Splendor in the Grass

My mother was 38 years old when this image was taken. My family rented a lake house during the summer when I was too young to remember. And while I don't recall ever seeing this photo, it was taken while my family was on vacation. Of course, right away, I marvel at how flat her stomach appears just ten months after giving birth to me. 


For the time, I was a late-in-life baby. My brothers were born in 1958 and 1959 respectively, and then there was Martin, the brother I never knew, stillborn, who bridged the span before I came along in 1968. My mother always seemed old to me, but mostly because I was surrounded by friends with much younger parents.  


Seeing this picture of my mother is bittersweet. On the one hand, it reminds me why I'm the kind of mother I am. You see, I do that - I lie on the grass when the sun is warm. I wrestle my dog to the ground and do cartwheels on the lawn. For me, this pose is standard fare. 


She looks relaxed, so carefree. I wonder who held the camera. Was it one of my brothers? Or could it have been my dad? Could he have had the sentimental insight to capture this rare display of my mother's calm, centered connection to her younger self? 


She died when I was 23 and never once did I see her lie in the grass. 

Picture with Santa, 1971

Claudia McDonald, age 2, probably at Sears in Hamden, CT.  But who knows for sure?

I was two when this photo was taken. My only memory of this particular occasion is the photo itself. Outside of knowing that the photo exists, and knowing that the child reflected back at me when I look at it matches other images I'm told are me, there's no other connection for me. 


I love this picture, and even though I don't look through my childhood photos as often as I used to, I have always remembered this photo. But it's really just an image. I don't remember seeing Santa, let alone sitting on his lap. I don't recall wearing the blue jacket or the red checked pants. And I can't tell for certain if I was allowed to eat the candy cane used to still my toddler nerves.  


I revive my existential center when I think about how many moments I've experienced that don't link up with present-day me with any tangible breadcrumb trail to trigger a memory. 


I'm glad I have this picture, and I'm glad my parents helped to create this memory, however buried it remains. It seems like the kind of photo a person ought to have.