When my children tell me, "I'm going home," or "I'm at home," I always tell them, "No, you are not, because HOME is where your mother is," and in this case that is really true. The last sentence on my mother's obituary reads, "Mother always wanted to go home, and now she is HOME!" Every time we would go see her, at least for many, many years, when we would ask her, what she wanted to do, or where she wanted to go, she would respond, "I want to go home," or just "home." Her home was her castle, as I think mine is also. Home is where our "things" are and where are friends are. Hopefully we have made it a home and not just a house. Home is where our memories are ... our pictures and recipes, and heirlooms, and hopefully it is where we and our children like to be! One Christmas I made a pillow for my mother that says, "All hearts go home for Christmas" ... and they always did, at least mine did." I was always excited to go "home." I didn't like the drive or the flight, but I was always excited to go, except that often meant I had to leave my own "home" and children. I didn't like that ... usually, and it wasn't even that I had lived in that home for long. We had moved into our last home when I was thirteen. I left for college when I was barely seventeen, but it wasn't just the home, it was all that was familiar. Assiniboine Park, the Zoo, the lakes and rivers, even a drive by of sites important to my own history. We really had nothing, and I don't connect my mother with anything material that she gave me, because my family never had the resources for monetary gifts or contributions, but memories flowed when I was at home; her china, her crackers, the cheap pictures on the w
all of flowers and scenes of old Europe, her crackers and cookies (I loved the ones with the jam inside), the round pancake griddle, "Pancake Tuesdays, mother's always baking ...." tapestry sofas, the ironing board in the dining room, her salt and pepper shakers (I wanted the ones with the maple leaf on top), her table and chairs and china cabinet and sideboard. (Doreen has them now.) She told me she bought them second hand in Ochre River (I think) for $100. I even like to open the kitchen cupboards and see the Canadian food brands. You forget them when you are gone! I also loved to go into the cold room downstairs and see bottles, full of peaches, and pickles and sometimes pears. It reminded me of both my mother and my father. When we were children, bottling fruit was often a family project. My Dad, was great at it too! Sometimes there were old shoes in a galvanized tub. When we were younger we would recycle shoes. For a long time there was an old violin above the door with the gun and ammunition. My Dad, I was told, played a "poor" violin when he and his brothers would play for dances. And there was a tiny suitcase full of old pictures that I always like to go through. When mother was in the rest home, I cried when I had to leave, and usually she did too. I cried as I walked away from her room and left the building. I cried as I got into the car or took the bus. The nurses and staff would tell me they would take care of her, but not like I would take care of her ... they couldn't! She was MY mother! She didn't have to buy me anything or take me to lunch ... she was my mother. She gave birth to me and worked so hard to provide just the necessities. She owed me nothing and I owed her everything. Things were not perfect at home and she was not perfect, but that is life ... none of us are. Well, I took the door hanger to the right from a hotel we stayed in. It may seem inappropriate next to my mother's obituary, but it is all about saying good-bye and so many of the sayings were ones I heard as a "child," Mother introduced me to music, and television, and books and the power of multiple languages. So, "Au revoir," mother, "There's no place like HOME!" "Until we meet again!" ...
This I Believe!
When my children tell me, "I'm going home," or "I'm at home," I always tell them, "No, you are not, because HOME is where your mother is," and in this case that is really true. The last sentence on my mother's obituary reads, "Mother always wanted to go home, and now she is HOME!" Every time we would go see her, at least for many, many years, when we would ask her, what she wanted to do, or where she wanted to go, she would respond, "I want to go home," or just "home." Her home was her castle, as I think mine is also. Home is where our "things" are and where are friends are. Hopefully we have made it a home and not just a house. Home is where our memories are ... our pictures and recipes, and heirlooms, and hopefully it is where we and our children like to be! One Christmas I made a pillow for my mother that says, "All hearts go home for Christmas" ... and they always did, at least mine did." I was always excited to go "home." I didn't like the drive or the flight, but I was always excited to go, except that often meant I had to leave my own "home" and children. I didn't like that ... usually, and it wasn't even that I had lived in that home for long. We had moved into our last home when I was thirteen. I left for college when I was barely seventeen, but it wasn't just the home, it was all that was familiar. Assiniboine Park, the Zoo, the lakes and rivers, even a drive by of sites important to my own history. We really had nothing, and I don't connect my mother with anything material that she gave me, because my family never had the resources for monetary gifts or contributions, but memories flowed when I was at home; her china, her crackers, the cheap pictures on the w
all of flowers and scenes of old Europe, her crackers and cookies (I loved the ones with the jam inside), the round pancake griddle, "Pancake Tuesdays, mother's always baking ...." tapestry sofas, the ironing board in the dining room, her salt and pepper shakers (I wanted the ones with the maple leaf on top), her table and chairs and china cabinet and sideboard. (Doreen has them now.) She told me she bought them second hand in Ochre River (I think) for $100. I even like to open the kitchen cupboards and see the Canadian food brands. You forget them when you are gone! I also loved to go into the cold room downstairs and see bottles, full of peaches, and pickles and sometimes pears. It reminded me of both my mother and my father. When we were children, bottling fruit was often a family project. My Dad, was great at it too! Sometimes there were old shoes in a galvanized tub. When we were younger we would recycle shoes. For a long time there was an old violin above the door with the gun and ammunition. My Dad, I was told, played a "poor" violin when he and his brothers would play for dances. And there was a tiny suitcase full of old pictures that I always like to go through. When mother was in the rest home, I cried when I had to leave, and usually she did too. I cried as I walked away from her room and left the building. I cried as I got into the car or took the bus. The nurses and staff would tell me they would take care of her, but not like I would take care of her ... they couldn't! She was MY mother! She didn't have to buy me anything or take me to lunch ... she was my mother. She gave birth to me and worked so hard to provide just the necessities. She owed me nothing and I owed her everything. Things were not perfect at home and she was not perfect, but that is life ... none of us are. Well, I took the door hanger to the right from a hotel we stayed in. It may seem inappropriate next to my mother's obituary, but it is all about saying good-bye and so many of the sayings were ones I heard as a "child," Mother introduced me to music, and television, and books and the power of multiple languages. So, "Au revoir," mother, "There's no place like HOME!" "Until we meet again!" ... This I Believe!
