I realized long ago that my mother, like it or not, has been the greatest
influence on my life. My very first memories are of waking to her voice,
of hearing her whistling in the early morning air. I struggled to climb
to the edge of my bedroom window to see who made this wonderful sound; as
my eyes peeked over the windowsill, I searched down the roofline and saw my
mother moving along the clothesline, bright in the morning sun, the
underwear and sheets blowing in the breeze. Her tunes - sometimes (what
would come to be) a familiar hymn, sometimes an "Irish scat" - faded and
resounded on the wind. I called out to her, and she would look up and
say, “Well, good morning, Patricia Kaye!” I think back to those moments,
and now they seem almost surreal, even though I know they happened.

I grew up in a village tucked away in northwestern Minnesota called
St. Vincent. My house was the house my grandparents built, the same house
my mother grew up in. At one time, my grandmother ran a maternity home in
it; she, a strong-willed Irish woman, along with a Scot - a real-life
Dr. Quinn named Dr. Ada Wallace - provided healthcare for women in the early
part of this century. Out of this, my mother was given a strong sense of
self and the value of hard work. The shelves of books in our home and my
mother’s love of imagination and story instilled in me a lifelong love of
the same.

Yet, there’s always been a melancholy side to it all - call it the ‘other’
Curse of the Irish - but there’s always been a spirit of tension, of
frustration, of anger. It’s as if we’ve all felt there’s more, or at least
that there should be more, but we’re not quite able to get it, or do it, or
get there...And because we’re not, we sometimes lash out at the very people
we love the most. That very thing - that anger - that my mother and her
mother before her, have passed down to me as a sort of legacy, I have in
turn passed to my own daughter. The love between women in my family are
simultaneously filled with affection and warmth, as well as an underlying
anger.

My mother, daughter of a woman on her own since age 13, gave me a strong
sense of who I am, of who I can be - and part of that is the mystery of our
anger, something none of us has quite figured out, but each has come to make
her peace with in her own way. It has been the great motivator in my life,
this imperfection we share, this humanity...

CHANGES

Just yesterday, Mom was sitting on her patio waving to me as I left, smiling
saying how thankful she was I was there to help. Mom isn't all there in her
old 'fighting form', but much of her still is, and I greatly encourage you
both to talk to her every chance you get.

We've been a bit hard on her down through the years because she's not easy to
be around sometimes, but she's a really neat person. I wish I knew her better.
Sad to say that I don't know her as well as I wished, but none of us do,
in my opinion. There are deep waters there, much thinking and reflecting...
Just the other day at the clinic, Mom and I walked around and then sat
down when she was tired, and she commented on architecture of atrium, noticing
details and I commented back...Her mind is active as ever, but I see dementia
making it hard for her to 'keep ahold' of certain ideas. Mom knows she's changing;
she puts on a brave face. I cannot begin to imagine how scared she must be
sometimes. Other times, she seems blissfully unaware of any problem.

I love Mom despite the tensions we've had between us. When I wrote "Legacy",
I was trying to say that despite the tension, or maybe because of it, my
appreciation for life and the persons in my life have been sharpened. I
really do think it's a direct result from exposure to how Mom thought,
the things she and Dad both talked about, asking many questions,
and being thoughtful people, that I am the curious and open-minded
person I am today. Oh, I take a little credit, but it all started there...




"Are stories true?" I'd always ask.
"All stories are true," my grandfather said, "if you believe them."




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