Mama Mavis. There’s an old saying, you are a different person to everyone. This is who you were to me.
I learned so much from you. One of the first Sundays after I married your son, I walked into your kitchen wondering how to fit myself into the chaos and you told me to make gravy to go with the mashed potatoes and beef roast. It ended up goopy and lumpy. I dont remember your reaction, but I do remember that the next time you asked me to make gravy you gave me instructions on how to do it correctly and saved me from more gravy embarrassment. You taught me more kitchen things. How to efficiently can millions of jars of green beans. How to saute onions on the lowest imaginable heat to carmelized perfection to top a burger. And speaking of making homemade hamburgers. I learned all I know about those from you too. Most of all, I learned about how to treat people. I learned how to feed the proverbial 5000 even when you only cooked for 3000. I’m not sure if there are any specific tricks you taught me about this other than graciousness and faith. You gave what you had, and no one ever went hungry at your table. Somehow, there was always an extra burger or spoonfull of casserole for the unexpected visitor or the straggler that showed up just as supper was about over. And the unexpected visitors. You might’ve internally stressed and whispered in panic in the kitchen, but to the unexpected visitors you were always kind and calm and gracious. I’m not sure I ever heard you apologize for the horse hoof prints on the dining room floor or the shop grease all over the bathroom sink or the loudness of your very loud kid Teddy. You left your work, gave what you had, and then sat down and chatted among the chaos. It didn’t matter if it was a lonely neighbor or a local d**g dealer or a government social worker or therapist, or some of your kids’ friends that you really wished weren’t your kids’ friends, everyone was welcomed and respected. The people in your life made your life a drama-packed adventure and even though it was very hard at times you did love it. You regularly wondered, “what do people with normal lives do for fun / entertainment?” Your life was never boring that was something you liked about it.
Your house was a source of chaotic comfort. When I didn’t want to be home I came over and I was never bored. You always had horses in your house or fires by your chicken coop or thousands of green beans to can or updates on friends and relatives to relay. I could always call you for medical help or ask you child-training advice (which you never gave without being asked). You really were a mother to me, especially as I became a mother myself and I am devastated to be left without a mother nearby.
You gave every bit of yourself to caring for others. Even tired and sick you were busy worrying about little details of your little boys’ lives. Your generosity and endless unconditional love puts me to shame. I also saw how along with the unconditional love you sometimes had to learn to let go of some of the ones you loved in ways you didn’t want to do, and somehow you found a peace in that too. I have long said that I can never live up to your standards of selfless love and giving.
Right now I’m trying in the smallest way to fill your shoes caring for your Teddy. I told BigB last night that there were so many instructions you never got to give us. The specific care he needs when he’s sick. Which government contact to communicate with about what need. How to keep him from getting heat stroke on these super hot days. What kind of plan to make with the school for next year. How many buns he’s allowed to eat at supper. He’s the best gift you left behind for us, but I feel so inadequate to care for him.
You had a way of making each person feel important. You knew the exact detail about our life to ask about, the detail that maybe no one else remembered. You knew how to talk about hard things sometimes, for just long enough that we knew you cared but not long enough to make us want to run the other way.
Reflecting on the 9 years I knew you. I can’t believe it’s only 9. And that’s all I get.
