24 NOVEMBER AND A FUZZY MEMORY

24 NOVEMBER AND A FUZZY MEMORY

By Andy Weddington

Sunday, 24 November 2024

Wrinkles should merely indicate where smiles have been.  - Mark Twain

Mom taught me to use a spoon.

Dad taught me to ride a bicycle.

Before and after those necessary life skills they taught. And still.

Yesterday I visited mom.

She capably uses a spoon. 

And tends to all essential personal needs.

All else, for moral obligation and legal responsibility, rests on my shoulders; happily.

Atop an extra-wide window ledge aside mom's recliner/rocker is an electronic photo frame. 

There's close to a couple thousand photos cycling through every 20 seconds from 0800 to 2000 daily. 

Her life, children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren flash before her; most faces look familiar but most names escape.

I sit in chair a few feet away and can see the frame when learning forward and looking right. 

Mom is listening but focused on frame.

Amidst chit chat she suddenly lights up and points at the frame, "Look!"

I lean forward. 

"It's you!"

And so it was. 

Not yet a year old in my 19 years-old mom's arms. [The image one among a pack of slides found (I did not know existed) when resettling mom in assisted living a few years ago.]

She cannot remember what eaten five minutes ago; "But it was good!"

Yet recall of 67 years ago crystal clear - happy days. 

She remembers me, name, and birthday. 

"Mom, there's a birthday tomorrow. Do you remember who's?"

"No. What month is this? It's seems to me someone has a birthday but I just can't remember."

Hint offered. 

"He was a good man."

"Yes, mom, not without fault but good man."

His senior year high school photograph was complemented with (slightly amended for tense) Shakespeare from Hamlet: "He is a man, take him for all in all, you shall not look upon his like again."

Under circumstances of courage and dignity, gone nearly 11 years.

He'd be 89.

I visited this morning. 

Later today with mom, ice cream and round of "Happy Birthday dear Boompa, Happy Birthday to you!" [I remember, like yesterday, that Saturday morning dad removed the training wheels. A much bigger and enduring lesson than merely peddling a two-wheeler. Still applies.  Wise. I've not again come across his like.] 

Dad's nickname since youth? 

Fuzz (some, kiddingly, added y and, "Wuzzy was a bear"). 

Such irony.