My Mother's Eulogy

There comes an age when the natural order of death takes place.  We lose our parents, friends, relatives.  For some of us that age has come too soon, when we were too young to understand or even fully know who the person was that we lost.

 The word Eulogy means, A piece of writing that praises someone highly.

We mostly associate the word to those that have died.  Had I known the meaning of the word before, I would have written this while my mother was alive and we would have celebrated her life with her.  Let’s face it who else but my mother would enjoy an evening of compliments bestowed upon her? 

She was a woman who never grew tired of hearing how beautiful she was.  And she was.  But it was not her outer beauty that defined her.  It was her actions in life that  made her beautiful.

 The way she loved our father and was able to remain friends with him until his own death.

The way she found the true love of her life, Morty and blended a family of wild teenagers.

 Her beauty came from the beauty she saw in life, the art she admired and collected.  The way she looked through a camera lense and could see things others didn’t.

On one vacation I swear she took an entire roll of film on a piece of driftwood.

Ann Marie Jonas taught everyone here how to celebrate, how to live, and let people make mistakes.  She raised her children in what some would call an unconventional way.  We had freedom to succeed and to fail.  No matter what the outcome, she was there to love and inspire.

She was a woman who had no fears in speaking her mind, or offering her advice.   I asked her once what the happiest time of her life was.  She said when we all lived in Mountain Lakes.  She told me she  loved the activity and chaos of the house.  Many people will tell stories about her that all begin with, “Well I was sitting in the kitchen with your mom…”

She loved that time I realize now because it was so full of life and adventure.  She never knew what she would be coming home to after a day at the gallery.

If you walked in the house, you were family.

She welcomed everyone in to her house, and in to her heart.

Having raised five children, there were a few times when I would call her for parenting advice, and more often than not she would listen quietly and then pause before saying, “You wanted to have all these children.'

Mom was a Jonas woman.  To be a Jonas is to be loving, accepting, always getting their way and having a laugh that is unlike any other.

My mother had many pieces of advice that the family called “momisms”  If you do whats right, you never go wrong” was probably the most often stated.

She also called her Evers children, Evers Achievers.  She believed in us, she believed we would all find our paths.  She believed that of everyone.

Earlier yesterday I was laying down and I could hear my cousins laughing.  It sounded just like my mother’s laugh and it made me smile. 

So rhetorically I ask how do you say goodbye to a woman who was a mother, sister, aunt, grandmother, daughter, lover?

The answer is simple.  You don’t.  You do not need to say goodbye to someone who lives on in all of us.

In the faces and mannerisms of our children, in the love that last almost 40 years with Morty.

In the laugh heard by cousins. 

Ann Evers truly was a beautiful woman, but it was her heart that she gave willingly to all of us.  It was the time she spent listening, observing, loving.

She would not want you to stand here and eulogize her.  She would want you to eulogize and celebrate your own lives.

There was another thing my mother always asked everyone.  She would say, “So tell me, are you happy?”

That was what she wanted most.  For everyone to be happy.

Be sad now because it is right to feel the loss of someone so larger than life.

But after this, to truly celebrate the life we now mourn, do what is right, and be happy.

 

Do that for her.

Meow

Writers tend to be readers.  One of the most annoying and delightful things is when a writer finds another writer who is brilliant.

Oh the jealousy and delight of reading something and thinking, "why didn't I write that?! She is so brilliant.  I love her.  I hate her.  I am funny too.  I have depression too!"

Do I start writing about my my struggle to lessen my under arm flap to maybe the side of a large ferret?

Do I write about the insanity I feel when invited to go somewhere outside of my comfort zone (my house, or possibly even my bed)?

No.  I will be writing for a magazine about fashion and music.

Believe me any writer is happy to get a gig.  See? Already using musical terminology!

I am excited about this new venture.  It not only means writing, but also immersing myself, and interviewing people.  I love getting people to talk about themselves.

I will go to fashion events, of which my not so small city has an abundance of.

My normal self doubt comes in.  That evil little monster who thinks I deserve jiggly underarms and thighs permanently connected is laughing its little head off.

"YOU? Write about fashion?  You own 20 tank tops and 10 long skirts! You wear a pair of maternity pants and your baby is sixteen."

Okay so my evil creature has a point, but maternity pants are comfortable.  Oh God, the word no designer wants to hear!

Fashion is not comfort!  It is being fabulous and miserable at the same time!

I do own some high end pieces in my closet.  But because of my aforementioned love of my bed, I would only be wearing them for them for my cat.  Who would climb on me and make biscuits thus ruining the item.

Sorry kitty, I love you, but DO NOT TOUH ME!

Me? The currently (I still say currently even tho this has been my body figure for well over ten years now) plus size girl write about fashion?

You know that garment would not fit over your cankle.

But here is the thing about both writing and fashion.  Both are to be admired.  Both are pieces of art.

Both can elicit the same, "Damn I wish I wrote/wore that!" reaction.

I know a lot about fashion.  Not just because I was a Sex and the City fangirl, or wish Tim Gunn was my Uncle.

I have worked in it, styled it, bought it, drooled over it, obsessed over it, and even dream of it.

I am going to dress my evil voice in Gaultier to distract it.

 I don't really have cankles.

But I do have a killer Chanel bag, and yes I can spot a fake from a mile away.

I will get out more, I will say hello to familiar faces that I have stepped away from for a few years respite.  I will say, "Oh no I am not doing the hair and makeup for this show, I am writing about it."

I will hear, "I love what you are wearing! What is that?"

"Oh this? It's cat hair."

Does God Do Windows?

Next to sympathy the thing I am worst at is asking for help.

There have been a few times in my life when I have been forced to ask for help because I just simply could not handle things.

I remember every time I have ever asked for help, because it was so hard for me to do.

When my husband was sick I got better at asking for help.  After he died I reverted back to my own ways, and made some major mistakes by not asking for help.

Now that my mother is in the hospital and I am trying my best to be in three or four different places at the same time, I am still not able to ask for help beyond that of my partner.

People are sweet and offer help.  I never know if someone is serious when they say, "Can I do anything for you?"

If I am asked this my brain starts screaming, "YES!  I need someone to clean my house, go grocery shopping, I would love a home cooked meal. My child has not seen a vegetable in a month!"  My mouth says, "That is sweet of you thank you, but I think we got this."

No.  We don't "got this"

My idea of good parenting has turned into getting a Cliff Bar and some Naked Mango juice for my daughter.

Our refrigerator has empty pizza boxes and various rotting delivery cartons.  My pantry has a few cans of beans. and maybe some rice.

No.  We don't got this.

Meredith sits at the hospital while I drive around my daughter around, or vice versa.

We pass by the grocery store but instead turn into todays choice of fast food.

There is dog shit in the dinning room again, because no one was here to let them out.

Yet for some reason I can not ask for help.

A few days ago I sat in my car at the hospital and spoke out loud.  I said, "I do not know who to talk to...God?...Peggy?"  That made me laugh. Peggy is my mother in law and I think she would like to know that I spoke her name knowing that she would answer.  Still I did not pick up the phone to call her.

I have my brother coming in this weekend to help with mom.  Maybe we will be able to at least get groceries while he is here.

Why is it so hard to ask for help?

For appearances?  Not wanting to show weakness?

I would tell anyone else saying this to get over it.  I would reassure them that we all need help at times and we have to suck it up and ask.

I have always been terrible at following my own advice.

So if you see me and I have a dust cloud of Pigpen dirt around me, know I have not yet asked for time to shower.  

Chances are good that you won't see me.  Unless you are working at the hospital, or drive up next to me at a red light.  I will smile and wave, wanting to reassure you that I Got This Damnit!

I have baby wipes and deodorant in my purse, I can take on anything.

Only, I can't.

Now I fear this blog will elicit sympathy.