Toward the end, my visits with
her were timed to coincide with major golf tournaments. I would arrive Thursday
evening at the airport, greet her with a big hug around the tiny, increasingly
fragile frame, and she would drive us in the tiny white Saturn to Applebee’s
for a snack. I sometimes would succeed in picking up the tab, but more often
she insisted I take the proferred cash for her share.
I believe our golf tournament viewing habit began when
Tiger Woods first won the Masters in 1997. The timing of my visit then was a
coincidence, but we were thrilled to see him win. He was one of her heroes.
At the same
time, I began to realize our time together was growing shorter – she wouldn’t
be here forever.
And so I began to visit more often, timing my visits with
the Masters Golf Tornament (my personal favorite – I will never again view
those beautiful vistas on TV without thinking of her), the British Open, the
U.S. Open and the P.G.A. Championship.
She had her dislikes among golfers, too. She detested
Fred Couples, because she heard that he had cheated on his wife. Remember,
there were rules to live by. I didn’t bother checking whether he had in fact
cheated – she was sometimes wrong about these things – because even if the man
was truly a saint, I couldn’t have convinced her.
She loathed Phil Mickelson, but that antipathy wasn’t
based on his behavior or a bad reputation; in fact, it was quite unfair. She
disliked Mickelson because he competed with Woods so effectively during that
time. She admitted to me once that she would whisper “Miss It” as Mickelson
attempted a key putt.
Of course, we didn’t spend all our time watching golf.
She had home improvement projects planned, projects that required my help,
living alone as she did. In fact, she would prepare a list before my arrival.
But she wasn’t a stern taskmaster. I have little talent
or inclination for complex home improvement projects involving carpentry,
plumbing or wiring, but I’ve a learned a few things over the years, and I can
do the simple stuff.
I’ve also learned, however, that I have little patience
when such projects go wrong, as they invariably will. The right tool isn’t
available, the instructions aren’t clear, or you drop the screw below you on
the floor and can’t find it.
It was then
that she shone. She encouraged me to postpone the project, relax, and maybe
watch a little golf. There was no hurry – we could get back to it tomorrow. In
fact, there were some visits that ended with my having completed very little,
although we tried. What I viewed as failure didn’t bother her a bit – we’d get
to it next time.
Late in 2001 and into 2002, her health deteriorated. She
had lung cancer and heart disease, and was hospitalized for a while. I visited
a half-dozen times in 2002, at times hopeful, despairing at other times.
Ironically, the woman who did so much for me was toward
the end reduced to asking me for help. I will never forget making a lunch of
grilled cheese for her on my last visit – it was such a pathetic little
offering for someone who had done so much for me. I felt puny and ineffectual.
I wished I could have made her one of those rare roast beef sandwiches on
thick, hand-cut Italian bread, generously layered with sweet salad dressing.
I believe
with bedrock certainty that the measure of a good mother’s love is infinite. It’s an
article of faith for me, one of the eternal verities.
It’s reaffirmed as I live my own life, by
seeing my wife’s actions toward our children. I joked this week with my son
about the embarrassing portions of food my wife jams into the storage container
for his lunch – the effort to do this simple act is animated by love. My
daughter received similar attention earlier this week. OK, I admit I get the
same treatment.
This love
is evidenced in acts, often small acts, not words, acts whose recompense for
the giver is as simple as a little time together with the receiver. I was
fortunate to have been the recipient of this love for so long, and have learned
much from it, about others and myself.
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