My mother passed away three years ago today. When I first realized she passed on July 24^{th  —} which didn’t happen immediately, because the days had such a fog laying over them –  it gave me a sort of wry satisfaction. That’s because my mom was a Mormon (not a staunch Mormon — a school-teaching, feminist one — but a Mormon nonetheless) and in that culture, July 24^th is Pioneer Day, a special occasion and day of celebration.

It commemorates the day that Brigham Young and the first group of Mormon Pioneers entered the Salt Lake Valley on July 24, 1847. We never celebrated this day when I was a kid, or anything like that. Hell, we didn’t even go to church. But still in some esoteric cosmology type of way, I like to imagine my mom arriving in Heaven with all of her Mormon ancestors in the middle of a celebration. I like to think of them making a big deal that she was there to join them.

And then, more Earth-bound and closer to my own sense of how the universe should be (inclusive; equal-rights for everybody), this year, July 24 is special for another reason. Because, of course, today is the day gay marriage becomes legal in New York State. It makes me happy to think that so many people will be celebrating today, because New York is where so many of my own impressions of love and relationships were hatched. Here’s to you Mom! And here’s to love!

My Aunt Jan and I are in the car talking about my mom and dad – and the dynamics of their relationship. Jan says, “I think the funniest thing was when we were in the Home Depot and she was picking out lights for the bathroom.” My mom was the more emotionally demanding one (read: bossy) and my dad was the more seemingly laid-back one (read: passive-aggressive). My entire childhood my parents were remodeling their house. (By the time this incident that Aunt Jan is referring to takes place I’m in my mid-30’s and they are still working on their house). It was a never-ending dance. Jan continues, “She and I are looking at the lights she’s picked out, we show them to your dad, he doesn’t say anything — he just makes a call to make sure they’ll fit — so we load them in the cart. We all continue walking and all of a sudden she’s like -
“Well, Jeesus Christ if you don’t like ‘em just say so.”
And I look, (Aunt Jan turns her head back and forth in the passenger seat like she’s looking from my mom to my dad) like, where the heck did that come from? — and Bert’s like,
“What? What I said they were fine.’”
“Well I can tell by your breathing you don’t like them.”
And I started laughing out loud because I thought it was the most hilarious thing. I said, “How can you tell that?”
She said, “Well his breathing changed as soon as we started walking, I can tell, that’s what happens when you live with a man for 35 years.”

Today is my mom’s birthday. If she were here she would have 101 remodeling ideas for me and my house, enthusiasm and opinions galore (some of which would drive me nuts), as well as every kind of advice. She was a rallying force.  Here’s to you Mom.

That’s how my mom found the nest in the first place. It was the size of a walnut.  Perfect, tiny and masterfully constructed.  We never looked inside because we didn’t want to send the mama bird over the edge.  She seemed anxious enough. “Listen little bird you’re just going to have to get used to us,” I’d say. Or, “We don’t want to hurt you, we’re not going to touch your nest.” But the peeping and whirring and buzzing wings bombing happened every time we tried to sit in the back yard.

In this way the bird’s nest became woven into the fabric of the whole summer. For some reason, the mother bird whizzed past me with the most gusto.  I would bob and dodge my head and say, “Whoa, did you see that!” Every time the bird swooped close to my head, my mother would laugh.

We began pointing out the nest to any neighbor or visitor who stopped by. Someone told us that hummingbirds use spider webs in the construction of their nests.  It gives the whole rigging more tensile strength.

We observed the hummingbird’s favorite perches and flight patterns. We commented on her mothering skills like catty ladies at the playground, “She sure doesn’t seem to dedicate too much time to nest-sitting.”

My daughter and I had come to spend the summer with my mother with little more on our agenda than uncomplicated afternoons in the backyard. I say that, and yet it’s not really true, I knew it would be more complicated than that.  We knew a battery of tests, and chemotherapy drips, and doctor’s visits would pepper our summer with my mother.  But we had planned only to pass the time gently. Liam had flown with us to help get us settled, but he was only staying a few days before returning to work in New York.  My mother fairly demanded that my dad and Liam construct a swing-set in her backyard so she could watch her granddaughter play and they, grudgingly, had followed suit.

The hummingbirds were what had been normal about the summer, before everything went wrong, before we lost control of our plans.

***

I first met “D” on the day of the home inspection.  I felt nervous to meet her because, well, I was looking at her house, but she said right at the start, “You look like you fit with the house!” I was wearing a celery green A-line dress I got at the Tibetan shop back in Brooklyn — the neckline embellished with little greenish-blue beads — and a denim vest and red cowboy boots. “D” came back towards the end of the inspection because she had something else she wanted to tell me, “I just have to let you know there is a metal chime hanging in the patio. It’s in the shape of a fish and it has a little hummingbird nest on it, so it comes with the house. I wanted to tell you because I’m hoping you won’t move it.”

“Oh my gosh. Really? Thank you for telling me.”

“They come back every year — my daughter and I have enjoyed watching them. It’s one of our little things.”

I’m a bit speechless and still nervous, and tongue-tied, but it also feels like the burning spark of a match has been let off inside. I feel like this is the house.  A month and a half later it is our new home.  The hummingbird nest is visible from the window above the kitchen sink.

I spend Saturday driving to Snowflake with my mom’s two best friends. Ann shows up with large vanilla lattes for everyone already sitting in the cup holders of her Dodge Challenger. Nelda has little bundles of lavender for each of us picked from her garden. We have a really nice day together — visiting the cemetery, having lunch, a little antique shopping.

For lunch we head to a restaurant called Trapper’s, which is a bit of a tradition. The restaurant has a not-meant-to-be-hilarious section of the menu called “Light Eaters”. The choices are Chicken Fried Steak, Grilled Ham Steak, BBQ Beef, Boneless Chop, Chicken Strips, etc. There’s not really anything light about them. Plus the meals come with a choice of potato, roll, soup or salad. But, the menu says, the meat portion of these meals is approximately half. Thank god, we joke, we need to save room for slices of pie with ice-cream.

We talk about a lot of things driving down the highway, and it’s not like this little story has any big significance or anything, but I keep thinking about it. Ann says your mom was driving herself to a doctor’s appointment in Flagstaff in the winter. She was by herself, of course. And as she’s driving she notices a god-awful smell in the car. She can barely stand it. This is horrendous she thinks. She takes out her cell phone to call my dad who is on an eastbound train in the opposite direction to tell him that he has got to do something about this. He has to figure out what the heck is causing this horrible smell. Finally she gets to her doctor’s appointment but as she’s waiting there she starts to smell that smell again. Only then does she realize she has dog shit on the bottom of her shoe and she starts cracking up. She tries to hide her shoes in a corner when the nurse takes her back into the examination room. It was cold outside, but when heaters on the floorboard of the car hit the dog poo it warmed it up and sent the aroma wafting through the car, getting stronger and stronger. We all laugh. It’s funny because my mom was fastidious. It’s funny because her first instinct is to chew out my father rather than check her shoes. It’s funny because this is the kind of situation she found very amusing.

Back at my dad’s house, there are 80 pairs of my mom’s shoes lying on top of the bed. Each pair sealed inside a Ziploc bag. I pick up a jaunty, nautical looking pair and try to squeeze my foot inside, but my mom’s feet were more petite than mine and I feel like the ugly stepsister trying to wedge her foot into the glass slipper. I seal them back up in the plastic bag. It’s not lost on me, that I don’t fit in my mother’s shoes.

I mean it’s no secret that my hometown is Winslow, AZ — as in “Standing on a corner in Winslow, AZ”.

“Oh god. The Eagles,” says my friend Amy, “you must really never want to hear them again after growing up in a town with at least one store that plays that song on a continuous loop”.

That song would be “Take It Easy”.

Standin’ on a Corner in Winslow, Arizona.
Such a fine sight to see.
It’s a girl my lord, in a flatbed Ford,
slowing down to take a look at me

For a while, this was years ago, I was contemplating getting a horseshoe tattoo with the word Winslow written in fancy script inside the bend. I wanted the ink-work to look like tooled leather. Like a western belt that has a cowboy’s name squarely stated on his backside, like “Chad” or “Justin” or “Clayton”. I felt that strongly about my hometown’s hooks in me.

Winslow doesn’t have a lot to crow about, but we try to make the most of it. Which is why the townspeople have taken that one lyrical mention and carved out a whole cottage industry.

In downtown Winslow a “Standin’ (there is no g) on the Corner Park” was built in the early 90’s. Complete with a painted mural of a girl in a flatbed ford and a bronze statue of a man with a guitar standing on the corner.

And every September the town celebrates a Standin’ on the Corner Festival. It’s a two-day music festival culminating on Saturday night with the performance of an Eagles cover band, Hotel California.

There are food vendors, beer, music and lots and lots of dust. The town is packed.

The summer my mom passed away she had arranged for the extended family to take a cruise together in Alaska. One of the more memorable stories of the whole trip involves my Uncle Tom, his sister (my Aunt Jan), and Liam getting drunk together and troubling some poor piano player in the bar to play “Take it Easy”. When the piano player did play the song, Tom announced in a loud voice to the entire ship’s casino, “That’s us. We’re from Winslow!” Which has become a sort of mantra for us all.

Anyway, all of this should explain why this concert with Aunt Jan is not to be missed. Turns out, we have good seats and as the show gets under way Aunt Jan reaches over to give me a hug and I think, “This is the closest I will get to hugging my mom again”. Aunt Jan’s body feels familiar, similar.

When the band starts playing “Hotel California” I am transported. I am 6, maybe 7 years old, and I am cruising through the bright desert with my mother on our way to New Mexico. She is wearing Famolare sandals and big sunglasses, which she considered very chic. I have on knee-high socks with sandals. She is singing this song and we are cruising through the desert and it is just the two of us.

My Aunt Jan is a natural cheerleader. She whoops and cheers at T-ball games or ballet recitals louder than anyone. When any one of us graduates high school or scores a goal it is Aunt Jan who we will hear. She is the kind of woman who sticks four-fingers in her mouth when she whistles.

That night there were plenty of whistles from my seat-mate. The Eagles sang for three and a half hours and we had to wait until the encore to get our moment. As the band re-took the stage and began to sing “Take it Easy” it was our moment to say, “That’s us. We’re from Winslow”.

Fred is my godfather, but he and I didn’t meet until I was 27 years old when I moved to the Bay Area.

This week I attended the funeral of Fred’s mother, 96-year old Carlanthe Turner at the Mt. Olive Missionary Baptist Church in Chandler, AZ.

Liam, my dad, and me walked into the church and scooted into a pew near the back. From where I was sitting I could see the back of Fred’s head. And I can’t tell you how a small-thing like that — seeing the back of Fred’s head — filled me with such positivity and happiness.

The church was small but packed; a pew a few rows in front prominently filled with old women all wearing white dresses and white hats.

When Fred was growing up he was the youngest of seven children. His father was a farmer and then later a cotton contractor. He hired crews and paid them for the number of rows they chopped. Growing up, Fred’s father would take a handful of bills and put them in a coat pocket. Whenever the kids needed money for something they would ‘go to the pocket’. You don’t like what your older sister is making for dinner – go to the pocket. Want some candy from the drugstore – go to the pocket.

When my first marriage hastily ended and I needed a place to go, it was Fred’s door that I walked through.

For a time, I lived with Fred in his house in the Oakland hills. He made it ok to rebuild my life. Through sharing his household and drinking many glasses of wine, he gave me a pocket — a compartment of space to regroup. Need to heal – go to the pocket. Need a place to grow – go to the pocket.

The eulogy given by Pastor T. E. Wiggins was around the theme; It’s a Matter of Time. Be ambitious with our time here and prepare for our own going home. There are no goodbyes in Heaven, said Pastor Wiggins, just See-you-in-a-whiles.

Pastor Wiggins said, “She had a sense of humor. But I don’t know if she was funny.”

I think of a story Fred tells. One time, not so long ago, Mother Turner already in her 90’s was attending church. Her hearing was not what it used to be. As she is leaving the Pastor says to her, “Mother Turner I like your hat.” Mother Turner is testy and indignant. She tells her family that Pastor got fresh with her. She thought he said, “Want to get me some of that”. Fred said, “Well Mamma if that’s what you want, just go ahead”.

And of course Fred losing his mother makes me think about losing mine. About mother loss — how I wish I could pick up the phone and tell my mom about Mother Turner.

There is a Jim Croce song, “Operator” that I remember my mother playing over and over. She was about twenty-five and beautiful and it reminds me of lying in bed with her in the middle of the afternoon, being a very small child and pretending to take a nap. The chorus goes:

Isn’t that the way they say it goes
But let’s forget all that
And give me the number if you can find it
So I can call just to tell them I’m fine and to show
I’ve overcome the blow
I’ve learned to take it well
I only wish my words could just convince myself
But that’s not the way it feels

More about “Mother” Turner here.

We also talked about his mother’s cookbooks. Lovingly annotated and with hand written notes to herself, they were actually three ring binders, some retrieved from her kids. “My brother’s math binder with some girls name written in a heart.”

And of course, all of this brings to mind my mother working for weeks (despite feeling really lousy) on three-ring binder cookbooks that she gave to my brother and me, and a few cousins, in the last year of her life. She wrote “This is a collection of some of my favorite recipes. I have collected them from family, friends, magazines, and recipe books. I hope you enjoy having them. I love you. Mom.”

I can’t tell you how valuable this cookbook is to me now. I’m so glad to have it.

Here is my piece on Robrt.

In the Kitchen With Robrt Pela