13 years later, but not forgotten

I've been sorting through boxes of old papers and memorabilia at our condo in California –– so much time and space and distance from our very old, family cottage on Seneca Lake –– when I came across a crumpled up piece of paper with my hastily written remarks from a memorial ceremony we held for her in 2005 at her home in Valois.

I decided I didn't want these memories to be buried so I'm sharing them with all of you.

Here it is:

"Some of you have heard me say that my mother was ahead of her time. She was an early feminist –– wearing Birkenstock sandals before any of us knew it was cool to wear comfortable shoes, and to work with a hammer and saw. She was no fashionista, no makeup, all tops/jackets/vests were based on the size of the pockets.

Louise in her garden

I've felt my mother's presence these past three weeks as I sorted through her things and worked on her home, especially in her garden.

I had the opportunity to remind myself of who she was –– not just over the past few years as her body started to fail, but the artist, the gardener, the collector (I wish I had bought stock in contact paper when I was 18!), the daughter, the sister, the wife, and yes, the parent.

It's been a great pleasure to go through her artwork from when she was an art major at CCNY and to examine her other palette –– her gardens. Spectacular, as you can see. So many of the plants were bartered with other gardeners, and I remember going on treks around the countryside where she would identify where the front of a old home must have been located, just from looking at the vegetation. And then we'd dig some up and take it home to plant around the cottage.

My most loving memories of my mother were of my childhood years when she served as Pied Piper of 'the cousins', a motley crew of us kids that she took creek-climbing and up slippery waterfalls, encouraging us to slide down the rocks into a natural pool of icy water. All the while carrying her little satchel with her cigarettes and lighter and anything else anyone was foolish enough to forget in one of our pants pockets.

Later we had so many laughs playing Twister on the porch, or singing 99 verses of Hey Lady, Lady, doing jigsaw puzzles or playing Euchre or Hearts. About a dozen kids of ages. And mom. By late evening heading up the hill to Sheik's Oasis, our home away from home, a local tavern where all ages were welcome.

She's given me a great extended family.

I keep waiting for Mom to come barreling up the hill to the house to see what changes I've made to the house that day. Or to see what I've thrown out. I can still see her peering into the dumpster as I clear out the back room, an exercise that was a great source of discomfort for her. I apologized. A lot.  But kept heaving. I told her what I had told her many times over the past two years –– 'Yes, it's a treasure. It's just not OUR treasure anymore.'

Many times over the past few weeks someone has told me, "You're just like your mother." Usually it's when I have a strong opinion or I'm encouraging someone to carry, fix, pick up or otherwise do something for the house.

I used to take that as criticism. But now I've decided to accept that comment as praise for a women who had a lot of strong opinions, who passed along the belief that most rules only applied to other people, and a sense –– based on her hope for me –– that the world was filled with endless opportunities.

Most of all, today, I'm grateful to my mother for passing on her love of Seneca Lake and for sharing a community that, despite a 30-year absence, still holds a place for me at the table, just because I'm Louise Schwartz's daughter."