Remembering my Mother

 In January, my mother will have been dead 25 years.  We weren’t prepared for her to die.  It makes it hard to talk about her.  In the back of my mind, not talking about her keeps her alive.

Laurel was the youngest surviving daughter of Francis & Annie Esplin.  By the time she came along, Annie had already borne 5 other children and lost two of them to early deaths.  In a way, I feel as though Laurel was a sort of “forgotten” child.  There is no doubt that my grandparents loved her as much as the rest of the children, there are just so few stories about her because by then they were used to having children, it wasn’t such a big deal as the first, second and even third child was.

I wish I had been old enough to care about my mother’s childhood, or any family history, before my mother died.  It would be wonderful to know some of her childhood stories.  Unfortunately, that is not the case.  Therefore, what is written here is what I remember of my mother.  These remembrances are from my viewpoint.  It doesn’t seem right that there are so few stories about her when she was such a big part of so many lives.

Laurel was quite a beautiful woman, though I failed to see that as a child.  She was just my mom, I don’t think I considered whether or not she was pretty.  She went straight from her parents’ home to her marriage, common in those days, but unfathomable to me.  She had to have had a strong sense of self to become the woman she was.

We were lucky to have had a full time mother.  She was usually there when we got home from school and saw us off to school in the morning.  She sewed look-alike outfits for us and I always looked forward to coming home to fresh baked bread.  Her sewing became even more important when I grew to 5’9 and less than 100 lbs. by the 8th grade.  “Store bought” clothes wouldn’t work for me.  The ones that were small enough around the waist were too short.  We would go pick out patterns and mom would sew fashionable outfits for me that actually fit.  She even sewed my wedding dress when I married my first husband.

Although it was a full time job attempting to discipline the unruly lot of us, not to mention sewing for us and doing the majority of the cooking and cleaning, she was very active in Church and community.  Sometimes she did substitute teaching, she did books for a small business owner in town.  She did a lot of typing and had oh so many other interests and hobbies.  Despite, or possibly because of, her various interests, she always found time to help a friend or neighbor in need, regardless of race, religion or ethnicity.

 
Yet somehow, there was time for play.  I was probably 10 or 11 when my dad snapped this photo of Francis, myself and mom wading in the Bluewater Creek.

When she drove, she pulled back on the steering wheel as she stepped on the brakes, probably from years of driving wagons with teams.  My dad teased her when she did this, saying “Whoa! Nellie.”  Of course we picked it up from him.  My mom always laughed, but after the first few thousand times, I’m sure it got old.  At some point she stopped pulling back on the steering wheel.

Birthdays were a special time in our household.  We got to choose what we would do on our day, all the details, down to choosing the meals.  For me, my birthday breakfast was always Lucky Charms.  I remember the year we had a treasure hunt for my birthday party.  All the treasures were hidden and you had to follow a string to your treasure.  I “helped” set it up, but, oh my, what a lot of work that must have been.  She was the same way with all occasions.  I remember when I was in college, I got a portable hair dryer (a big deal back in the 70’s) from her for Valentine’s Day.

Even after she died, the gifts kept on coming.  Francis’ birthday is February 5th.  His favorite cereal was Cap’n Crunchberries.  When we returned to home from the hospital after she died, we discovered that she had his gifts ready to be mailed and a box of his cereal was included as one of his gifts.  A few years later, Gay opened a childrens’ book she had gotten when we cleaned out their house and found an inscription from my mom to Monika.  She sent that on to me. 

Our house was a cacophony of music, both singing and musical instruments.  Laurel played viola, but due to an injury she got while giving birth to Pam, she had to give it up.  Gay followed in her footsteps with the viola.  I played flute and piccolo, Pam the clarinet, Francis the trumpet and coronet and Mark the trombone.  We all took piano lessons for some of the years we were growing up, and sang all the time.   My poor mom, not only did she not wear earplugs (at least not that I could see), but actively encouraged our musical pursuits.

Laurel also loved to sing and had a beautiful voice.  She sang with the Church Choir. 

She played piano beautifully, accompanying us while we played our various instruments.  Although she paid to have someone else teach us piano, a wise choice, she gave piano lessons to various neighbor children. 



Grandchildren meant the world to Laurel.  This photo, taken about 3 months before her death at age 49 shows grandchildren from all three daughters with their grandparents.  Back row: Gay’s daughter, Sandi, Elrod, Laurel.  Front row: Val’s daughter Monika, Pam’s son Nathyn and Val’s son Chris.

 
When Monika was about 2, she had a quarter to go buy grandma a present for mother’s day.  We went to the grocery store (Monika’s choice) and searched up and down the aisle.  We finally found a box of black cherry jello.  Monika decided that this was exactly what she wanted.  I wrote a note with it telling her that Monika bought this for her herself and she said that was exactly what Grandma wanted,  and sent it along with my Mother’s Day present.  I don’t know what I sent her that year, but my mother treasured the present from Monika.  A few years later when we were cleaning out the pantry before selling the house, that package of jello was there, with the note wrapped around it.  I still have it.

She was a very sharing, giving person.  On the day she went into the hospital for her gall bladder attack, the day that turned out to be the last day of her life, she threw  a birthday party for a neighbor child whose mother was too sick to do it herself. 

Laurel Esplin Leany died on January 30, 1983 at approximately 5:00 p.m., even though her official date of death on her death certificate is January 31, 1983.  January 31 is when they turned off the machines. 

I know this because I turned 28 on January 27, 1983. She called to wish me happy birthday. I had not yet received my birthday present from her.  It arrived January 29, 1983.  I called her to let her know I had received it and we talked for a few minutes.  As we were getting ready to hang up, she said “I love you.”  My response was “you don’t have to tell me that, I know I didn’t turn out the way you wanted me to.”  It is with great regret that I admit those hurtful words were my last conversation with my mother. 

On Sunday January 30, 1983, my brother Francis was at my house to celebrate our birthdays.  At 5:00 p.m. (M*A*S*H was just starting), the phone rang.  It was my father. 

At the time my father called, he didn’t even know my mom had died, just that she was in the hospital for a gall bladder operation, but by the time we hung up the phone and I called her room, she had had her stroke.  This was not due to anything that occurred during the operation, the operation wouldn’t have taken place until the next day.

It took a couple of hours to find out what was going on, then we were just told by the doctor that she was “in a deep coma.”  Francis went home to pack, and I tried to pack at my house.  My husband ran to the store for some essentials, and when he came back, I was still wandering around the house in a state of shock.

We drove all night to get to Bluewater, went in the house there, then drove the 90 miles to the hospital in Albuquerque where she was hooked up to 17 separate machines.  Because they had attempted to resuscitate her, according to New Mexico law that they had to perform 3 brain scans and they all had to be flat before they could declare her dead.  The waiting was horrendous.  Dad sat at the bedside holding her hand, talking to her and crying the whole time.

It was easy to tell when coming in the house whether mom was there or not.  It had nothing to do with sounds or smells.  When she was there, the house was a home, it had a soul.   I was especially aware of this we came home from the hospital after she died, she just wasn’t there any more.  We had come home to a house, not a home.

After her death, people tried to comfort us, saying “well, I guess they needed her in heaven.”  Pam put it best when she said “well, I sort of needed her here too.”

Sometimes, I forgot she wasn’t there.  I dreamed about her a lot and in those dreams, she helped me through some pretty rough times, including my divorce.  Sixteen months later, my father died.  Shortly after I got home from his funeral, I decided to bake a roast for the kids & me.  I got it out and got it ready to put in the oven.   I couldn’t remember what temperature to cook it at, so picked up the phone to ask mom.  I had almost finished dialing when I remembered.  I sat down in the middle of the kitchen floor and sobbed my eyes out.

Yes, I still miss her.