Mom’s Legacy
Permission to live life loudly
I was talking with a boat neighbor this morning about a conversation I had with my Mom about 18 months ago. For those who don’t know me well, she died a couple weeks ago so she’s been on my mind a lot. Both conversations, the one with my Mom a year and a half ago, and the one with my neighbor, were about the stuff we collect in life and what it means to us. More importantly, however, they were about the process of reckoning one’s life, a process that I think we all do a lot more than we realize, and one that increases in intensity and frequency with age.
Mom, in her conversation with me a year and a half ago, was struggling with what was going to happen with all her ‘stuff’. She was sad that, in her mind, the proof of her success wouldn’t mean as much after she was gone. She was sad that none of her Daughter’s-In-Law or Granddaughters (Mom was cursed with all sons) would likely be able to wear her vast collection of clothes, that most of her jewelry was yellow gold and that, by strange coincidence, most of the Women in the family wore more white gold or silver than yellow gold, and that through our own marriages and prior inheritances, we had all the china, silver, furniture and art pieces we wanted. At the time I remember thinking, somewhat critically, that she was placing so much emphasis on possessions. I’m sure, I even offered the helpful cliché — ‘You can’t take it with you, Mom!’. (What a good son I am.) Looking back on that conversation, though, I realize I missed an opportunity.
For context — Mom grew up poor. She would say ‘Dirt Poor’. (This was a point she made quite clear in the eulogy she ghost-authored for herself). For what it’s worth — Dad was ‘Dirt Poor,’ too, growing up. Their entire lives started from a blank slate. Tabula Rasa. Those possessions, to her, were the visible evidence of the tremendous achievements and sacrifices they made to dig themselves out of the hole that fate put them in. And, lest you think otherwise, it wasn’t just Dad. Mom was successful in her own right and was damned proud of that fact. Deservedly so. Ok —point made. Mom was successful and she wanted people to know it. Here’s the sad part, and the missed opportunity.
At her funeral, despite the reading of the eulogy that she helped write, that told the story she wanted to be told about her rise from poverty and her economic success, nobody really talked about how much she accomplished in life. What people talked about, and laughed about, and cried about, was how they loved her spirit. Mom didn’t really abide by society’s rules all the time. If she was inclined to say something, she usually said it. If she wanted to get something done, and the ‘normal’ way of doing things wasn’t working, she found a way around. If she got mad — you knew it. If she loved you — you damned well knew it. If she wanted to chase my friend Dennis around the house, her in her 40s and him in high-school, trying to kiss him because she knew it would embarrass him, she jumped over couches to do it. (He both laughed and cried at that encounter at the funeral -him now 60). The ledger of accumulated assets and achievements was never talked about. The ledger of permission slips she gave to everyone — permission to love, laugh, scream, cry, go a little crazy, call you on your bullshit, and be irreverent, was.
I wish, like hell, I had told her then what her real legacy was. I know she was proud of her life when she died — and she should have been. I’m not sure she was proud enough, or for the right reasons. The legacy we leave is written on the faces of those who remember us. Maya Angelou had this to say.
“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.
