Letting go

My former mother-in-law, recently diagnosed with cancer, died. She would have been eighty-one in a few weeks.

My granddaughter wrote on Facebook, "We have about a hundred years on earth, that doesn't seem long enough."

I don't know if that was an unattributed quote or if it was spoken directly from her heart, but I'm sure we all agree.

Ruth was my mother-in-law for twenty-five years and she was in my life to some degree, since I was fifteen years old. She was the "proverbial" mother-in-law and I could write a book about problems, alcoholism, wounds and scars. I could toss in a few sentiments about marrying too young for all the wrong reasons. But then this post would end up being about me. Let me tell you some things about her. She had four children. My deepest sympathy goes out to her immediate family John, Ray, Carl and their late sister Sue; Ruth's sisters Betty and Rosie and her brother Terry, and all of the extended family members.

A tough exterior of gruffness, anger and/or orneriness is often a shield worn to protect someone who has been hurt in their early lives. Ruth suffered cruel emotional indignities at the hands of her own mother.

Early on, she fell in love with a man, and then she married his brother. She fell head over heels in love with her first-born and held onto him for dear life. She spoke her mind without temperance and didn't mind letting others know what she was thinking.

When she came to our wedding, I feared that she would drunkenly stumble down the aisle and cling to her son. Instead she sat sober in a pew, legally signed her boy over to me, and giggled with my mother who shocked everyone when she arrived, TIPSY. I was mortified.

She and my mom were the daring duo for a year or two during their mid-life crazies, one trying to be a religious goody-two-shoes and convert the other who had a devil-may-care attitude, but was baptized at the end of her life.

When her son was drafted and sent to Alaska, she took me in. I split my time between her house and my mom's (blocks apart). I was a married KID with two sets of dysfunctional parents and I couldn't wait those four months for that plane ticket to Alaska, my great escape.

They found me, even though we had no phone and only a post office box. On Christmas they called the State Patrol and dispatched him to the green trailer on School Road where buffalo and moose roamed freely. I had no money for a long distance call and so he directed me to the only folks in our area with a phone. I stood in their livingroom in the presence of authority and trembled with fear about who had died back home.

"Helloooo?"

I heard their voices, a duet if you will, one after another wishing me a happy holiday and singing, Beautiful-Beautiful Brown Eyes.

I have blue eyes, so I figured Ruth was singing for her son. She and my mom used to send their 'recordings' to him when he lived in the barracks, and he played them on an old fashioned clunky tape recorder.

So, there I stood in the elderly, retired school teachers' living room, suffering from complex emotions and pregnancy hormones, trying to maintain my composure, trying to look a little shocked at the "bad news from home" "HMMING" and "Oh my-ing", wanting to shout jubilantly, "Merry Christmas; what do you two think you're doing calling the Alaska State Police to find me?!" Instead I said, "I love you too and thanks for letting me know."

"Oh yes, officer, everything is okay back home. Thank you."

When I looked into her coffin last night and saw her wearing a sky blue chiffon dress and a peaceful expression, I released a torrent of silent laughter at all of the silly things she and my late mom engaged in.

I packaged up a prayer, tied it loosely with a ribbon of forgiveness, and asked her to take it to heaven to hand to my mom just in case they bump into one another.
Lord help the angelic choir if those two reunite and try to chime in.

DEATH LEAVES A HEARTACHE NO ONE CAN HEAL; LOVE LEAVES A MEMORY NO ONE CAN STEAL ~ inscribed on a tombstone in Ireland