Seventeen years ago this month, my mother, Elnora Sydnes Wald,
died. She was only a few weeks short of
her 96th birthday. My last
visit with her had been difficult, since I had trouble admitting to myself that
I might not see her again, my own home being in a distant state from hers. She was realistic, as always, about life and
death, living with good grace for eight years at the retirement home, though as
time went on her disabilities began to color her various small pleasures with
pain. Her bones were bad and she
suffered from occasional spinal fractures; in addition, arthritis took its toll
on her knees, wrists, and especially her fingers to the point where she
couldn’t hold a fork. One of her table
mates cut her food for her or she would place a slice of meat on a piece of
bread to eat it from her hands. Yet, she
always maintained a cheerful disposition with a gentle undertone. Her nature was one that sought simplicity and
refinement, this attitude also evident in matters of dress and décor.
She was a lifelong Christian, telling me of the strict requirements she
dutifully met as a young person being instructed by the Lutheran pastor at
her home church in Slater, Iowa. Her
parents were second generation Americans of Norwegian extraction, and that
language popped up even during my growing up years when Mother and her sisters
got together. I was given to understand
from the paroxysms of laughter that the jokes were what Mother would term as
“earthy,” for that family was not prudish even with their devotion to their
faith.
Norwegian author Sigrid Undset tells of an untranslatable word in her
native tongue that expresses ideal characteristics, a combination of qualities
most admired by that people. I always
associate those attributes with my mother as defining her personality and
character. The qualities are threefold:
one doesn’t put oneself above another person, one is emotionally controlled, and one is imbued with the milk of human kindness.
I wrote the following two poems telling of the last year of my mother’s
life.
“. . . some
sweet oblivious antidote”
She began by returning my own
family’s photos,
poses at special events and
on trips.
“They’re really yours to
keep, you know;
I haven’t room in this small
place.”
Without looking about I knew
it was so.
Only one room and one drawer
in the mahogany escritoire
to store the memories of one
life
and more.
Later she dismantled the old
black albums,
tearing snapshots from their
moorings.
“Take these if you want. It’s
all so long ago.”
Pictures of her and Dad in
their early married days,
standing beside the Model A,
newly bought.
Family groups of aunts and
uncles, cousins,
grandparents, all at a picnic
or on the farm.
A shot of my brother and
sister in a little wagon.
Or of myself on a swing or
sitting on a log
holding the wild bunny my
brother had caught.
Next to go were those of
young faces;
the babies, graduates, and
wedding parties,
mute tokens of a long and
full life.
Tossed out with seeming
disregard.
“Don’t you want to keep a
few?” I asked,
unsure of taking away all her
past,
“So you can look at them from
time to time?”
She sifted through the
discards but only said
she’d like to have more
recent photos.
“I don’t want reminders of
the old days;
It’s too sad.” And I
understood at last
the need she had to rid
herself
of those backward views
that spanned the decades.
People, times vanished
like spring rain
into the earth.
At the last, having to leave
her small apartment, she went into the Health Center’s hospital-like room.
A Preparation, January 1998
At the end of your life,
 | ||
| Elnora, Confirmation--1915 |
now defined by one small room
a revolving circle of attendants--
slow walks for food--
rests in bed--
visits from those who love you,
you’ve settled lightly in this place,
and still have the wits
to stand your ground.
No telephone, you say,
the talk that drains
that strains the wrist
and your resolve
to leave us.
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