What I hear is her voice.
In the kitchen. Singing along with Elvis. She pulls cookies from the oven and stirs the chili in the crockpot. "I’ll have a blue Christmas without you. I feel so blue just thinking about you.” Then, she stops crooning. “Levi, you’re standing under my feet, ornery cat!”
Mom tells us kids to bundle up and get in the car. But not before I sneak a warm chocolate chip cookie from the baking sheet and devour it whole.
She sees the crumbs around my mouth. I’m 9 years old. I say, “Wasn’t me.”
In the car, I stare out the window at the sparkling lights around our deck. Mom carries a ladder into the house and gets in the car, but Dad is nowhere to be found. My 13-year-old sister Joyce goes back inside to grab her gloves. She spies Dad on the ladder pulling presents from the attic. He fumbles words, “Ohhh, uh... don’t tell your brother and sister.”
He shoos her back to the car. Soon enough, Dad slides into the driver’s seat, and we’re off to spend Christmas Eve with Uncle Bob and Aunt Carol. Around the dinner table, Uncle Bob and Uncle Ed tell stories of their shenanigans from younger years. Dad listens and laughs along too. All I can think is that the fried catfish tastes icky.
I can’t wait to get back home to Mom’s homemade chili. Our second dinner. When we walk into the house, the crockpot is keeping the soup warm, and presents cover the living room floor. My 11-year-old brother Steve says, “Where did these come from?”
All of us gather around for my greatest joy of Christmas: opening presents. I pick up a squishy package with my name on it and rip into the angel wrapping paper. My eyes grow big. I see a piece of fur and pull out a winter coat. I beam.
Dad disappears downstairs, only to bring up three more gifts. Joyce shrieks as she sees a red and orange electric guitar peeking out of the wrapping paper. She runs off to her bedroom and starts strumming. Our brother, Steve, is so upset with not getting a guitar he runs to his room crying and the BB gun beside Grandma’s chair goes unnoticed.
Mom wraps a blanket around Grandma’s shoulders and hands her a cup of tea. My mom says to her, “Mom, Mom.” Grandma ignores her, playing the not listening game, grinning at me, while Dad sits in his chair with new socks and underwear on his lap. He laughs a little eyeing Grandma, knowing her game. She smiles at me and says, “Patti girl, what do you have there?” I look down at the square box. Opening it slowly, I sit for a moment, stunned. It’s a beautiful blue and white record player. How did Santa know?
Later, I would learn that keeping the magic of Christmas alive involved much more than buying the right gifts. When I was 33,I flew home from Boston for Christmas. I wanted to make what would likely be Mom’s last days merry and bright.
Joyce, her girlfriend, and I decided to take Mom out to the mall. We stopped at Max’s Lounge for a glass of wine. I looked at Mom and hoped we could help her feel normal today. We ordered a round of Rodney Strong Chardonnay. With a straight face, Joyce told the server, “Rodney is our great-uncle.” Mom smiled slightly and shook her head.
When we left the lounge, an older man wearing a headset walked past us. I blurt out, “Joyce, it’s the Bald Ambition Tour!” Cracking up, we both started dancing saying, “Madonna, Madonna, Madonna!” Embarrassed, Mom sent Joyce and her girlfriend off in another direction. Then, she looked at me and said, "Thank you, Sweet Pea.”
A few days later, Mom was getting ready to go to bingo at the boy’s club like she had done for the last decade or more. When I was younger, I loved fixing my mom’s hair and makeup. She loved it, too. This night was no different.
Mom sat on the stool in the bathroom, and I began curling her permed hair. When it was time for mascara, I moved the brush closer to her lashes and stopped. I couldn't. Looking at her brown eyes, I began crying. Cancer treatments and drug trials had turned her beautiful long lashes into stubs. I put the mascara away. I dabbed her lips with peony pink lipstick and off we went to the boys’ club, together, for the last time.
This holiday season, while I hang Mom’s ornaments beside mine, bake chocolate chip cookies, and make a crockpot of chili soup, I will sit alone in my living room at night, quietly sipping a cup of tea, underneath a string of soft-lit red bells, as my mother and I so often did together. And I will remember: what I hear is her voice.
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Ode is a storytelling series where community members tell true stories on stage to promote positive impact through empathy. It’s produced by Siouxland Public Media.
We’ll be hosting Ode’s 2nd Anniversary Show on Friday, February 2.
