Life on the dash

Two weeks ago I was in Charleston, West Virginia, to inter my mother's ashes in the family plot where my Dad and his parents and grandparents are buried. Present were my brother Hugh, his wife, Maria, her son Curtis and my husband, Doug. We had a really lovely half hour or so at the graveside, very personal, very intimate. We had Mom's ashes wrapped in a jazzy piece of silk she would have loved. We took some pictures of the headstone with a photo portrait of my mother next to it, then we popped the cork on a bottle of Veuve Clicot champagne that my aunt gave us for the occasion. We sipped the bubbly and talked about this and that. There was bright sunshine, moderated by shade in just the right place for our comfort. A light breeze topped it all off. I really think Mom would have approved of the unconventional but highly personal tone of the event. After a bit, we went into town to a casual Italian restaurant we had found, had a tasty lunch and enjoyed each other's company. A perfect capstone.

I mentioned in an earlier post that I had only been to this family plot three times -- for my grandmother in 1959, for my Dad in 1973 and this year for Mom. It was interesting to see the stones covering the older graves and remember those other occasions. Looking at them, I found it curious to think that their whole lives were summarized by two dates separated by a dash. The two dates, while marking what are arguably the two most impactful experiences a person has, are only two moments in time. All the rest of the lives in question take place on the dash.

My mother was born in October 1918, just a month before the Armistice. The family story has it that my grandmother went into labor on a Sunday, at which time Grandaddy bundled her into the car and drove her to the hospital. The thing you night not know is that one of the things the folks at home did the support the war effort was to conserve gasoline by not driving on Sunday. So when Grandaddy's car went by, the neighbors, not knowing the circumstances, ran out and shouted at him for his unpatriotic activity. Hopefully they apologized later when the new baby came home!

My mother was the first and only grandchild in her mother's family and was doted on. She said the aunties (her mother's sisters) would put her on a blanket in the middle of the table when she was a baby and just sit around watching her. That seems like a lot of pressure. She went to a great high school and then to Wellesley College. Somehow she never felt as though she fit in, a girl from a family of modest means in a population that was mostly more affluent. She was smart and capable, but always felt awkward and out of place. I saw glimmers of that in her eighties as her mind lost hold of the present day, and fears thought long laid to rest resurfaced. She still managed to capture the attention of a quiet, kind, intellectual doctoral student at MIT. They married six months after they both finished their degrees.

Life went on for my parents as it does for many. They had three children -- two boys and a girl (ahem, me). Dad worked as an engineer and Mom kept the house, raised the kids, managed their social lives. They both found foreign cultures fascinating and loved to travel. Life was comfortable and predictable. Then, after 32 years, Dad suddenly had a burst aortic aneurism and died at the age of 62. That was 1973. He was the love of her life, and she was a real mess for a good year or more. As she came out of it and started to conceive of a life without him, she began figuring out who she was. She discovered she liked jazz and that she could manage her own finances and get credit in her own name. It was interesting to watch.

Mom did a great job making a new life for herself, both on her own and with Jack, her second husband, with whom she had 8 good years and 4 not so good ones after his stroke. Then there was Fred, a guy with a fierce intellect and what he himself described as "an excess of personality." He kept her life interesting for 10 years, as they travelled extensively, played bridge and otherwise enjoyed the time they had.

In a double whammy that left us all reeling, Mom and Fred were both diagnosed the same week of February 2005 with brain tumors. Fred's was a very nasty type that took him in only a few months. Mom's was less aggressive but relentless. She slipped away one little bit of clarity at a time and finally died July 4, 2005. By that time, it seemed poetic and appropriate that she died on Independence Day. Free at last from these earthly coils. 85 years of good followed by 18 months of ick. At least there was a point at which she really didn't realize anymore how confused she was. It was heartbreaking for the rest of us, but we had a chance to take care of her at the end of her life in a way that she took care of us at the beginning of ours.

That brings us all to the family plot in West Virginia, looking at the two headstones side by side. Mom and Dad, together again at last. The dash complete and the closing number etched in stone. Ann Webb Snyder Evans. 1918 - 2005. A full life on the dash, no matter how it looks to a stranger.