RUDIMENTS, pt. 403
(mom at bud's hut)
There are lots of things I'd like
to redo; sure enough are. One
of them being seeing my mother
again. She spent the last 5 or
6 of her years - no help from
me - living alone. My sisters
took care of a lot of things and
I was idiot-scarce. I'd like to
now just have the chance of
goofing around with her, a hug,
a talk. Things I never did. Both
parents, with me, were a disaster,
but with a father it's different.
It's a guy thing; he's just a big
lunk, squirming by, and you know
that, without saying, so lots of
things are accepted that normally
wouldn't be. Everyone tries to
over-explain themselves, I
guess, as an antidote to emptiness.
Guys are different - they slurp
beers, go to ball games look at
girls, and make wisecracks.
Of course I never did any of
that, but it's the sort of thing I
see. With my own father it
was different - he solved all
his problems by eating. He
liked stuff; food, snacks, and
all. Beer too. We never really
bonded in the sense of buddies.
With my mother, however, it
should all have been different,
but I was a jerk. I was completely
unlike my father, yet I somehow
had picked up all the sensitivities
of my mother. A real mess, but,
whatever, that's how it went and
I guess that's where the writing,
poetry, observation and finesse
came from. I can't explain it,
except to say she was a lousy
driver, when it came to being
around trains anyway.
-
Her final years were a mess : she
stayed cogent and sane, and able
to do stuff. She'd always been a
bit daffy anyway, so much went
un-noticed. Though much was
noticed too. Like food, again.
The last few years, for instance,
no one would ever eat there. She'd
be bringing stuff out of the freezer
that had been frozen for like 72
years. No one ever knew what
they were getting, and fears were
rampant. Even the pound cake
was sometimes served frozen.
But it never bothered her, even
the critical comments - she was
Inman Avenue's very own
Queen of Cool.
-
It was always weird, weird, weird.
In an Avenel way of things, a
sense of the instantaneous, she
always got things slightly wrong -
like, in 1967, there was a Petula
Clark song. Titled, 'This Is My
Song' - it's got a nice melody,
it's a good tune, and she sings
it nicely though cheaply, by
which I mean a little too
transparently emotive and
heart-stringy. I walked into
the room one day and my
sister and mother are both
singing to that song, playing
loudly on the radio, and with
tears in their eyes as they sing.
Or misty-eyed and way affected
anyway. The problem was in
their factor of falling for such
pop-song drivel. They treated
it as a God-song from the
heights, (little did they know
but that was because of the
sort of tune it was - as I
said, heart-stringy). Fact of
the matter was that the song
had been written by Charlie
Chaplin, which was pretty
amazing but which they'd
have never known, nor
would know. It was just a
kind of the half-assed lack
of knowledge that Avenel
people thrived on. All you've
really got to do to get people
over to your side is entice
then with cheesy emotion.
All this Avenel stuff was a
perfect example of this idea.
The song was just a song but
its 'essence' was emotion, and
its force was the musical
selection - that progression
of tones that, without warning,
pull on the soul. Maudlin.
Emotional. Call it what you
will. It's all that too.
-
One of the last memories I have
of my mother, and this was a
little before the end (she had an
unannounced brain aneurysm
one morning, while working a
polling station, in fact - one
of those little Election Day
jobs she used to like having.
Essentially, as it was told, her
head blew out, massive blood
to the brain moved everything,
right off the brain stem or
whatever, and she was gone.
It was pretty horrid and tragic.
And really sad for me, as it
truly represented an ending.
I had missed a lot. Anyway,
one of the last things I remember
is dining with her at the old
'Bud's Hut.' We'd taken her
out for dinner, for whatever
reason I can't recall. It was
pleasant. I knew I'd missed
out on a lot of what I should
have had, by being a jerk often
enough. She recently had broken
a tooth, and was awaiting the
dental appointment for the
repair, or cap, or whatever.
With the broken tooth like
that, she looked pretty poor,
not much like herself, but it was
all overlooked. What I do
remember the most, and always
have, is her enthusiasm about
rice. 'I've always liked rice. I
like rice.' She said that, twice
like that. Now whenever I eat
rice, regular, white rice, I think
of that scene. It never goes away.
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