No Purchaser Remorse
How a book title was the message I needed.
The book illuminated itself to me.
So drawn to it, feeling a strong connection to my mother, I stood there, re-reading the back cover over and over and over to give sufficient time contemplating the purchase — my heart knowing full well the book was already in my mind’s check-out. Because I had felt such a strong association to Mom when it illuminated itself on the bookstore shelf, I gave it to her on Mother’s Day. I thought she would enjoy the memoir because it would help distill all her cherished memories of her Mom and Dad on the farm, of all her treasured Aunts, of her beloved Grandfather — of all the ancestry that sprouted her beliefs and personality. As Mom does, with any book, she squealed with pleasure when the mother’s day package revealed the book. Not at all unlike my Mom, the book-gatherer, she politely added it to her to-read pile.
It was not unusual to find my Mother sitting side-ways on the living room couch, feet curled up, reading a book. I felt confident that my gift would soon be read and she would be calling me to tell me how much she enjoyed it.
I also felt confident she had all the time in the world to read the book. I had all the time in the world to enjoy novel discussions — that and debates about the Royals. Would Prince Charles ever get to be King? All the time we needed.
And we did have all the time we needed until one afternoon in April, a doctor in a Stratford Hospital said, “Months, not years”. Then I proceeded to waste time contemplating how I was not ready yet. I was only 50 and that’s too young to start caregiving your mother. I had it all planned out. I would be 70. Mom would be 90 and I would be fighting with my siblings about whether we had the heart to put her in a nursing home.
Mom had plans too. She was going to write a book about her Grandfather. Grandpa Harry Gomm had been shipped to Canada as a little orphan from England. Bernardo Boys, they were called. She collected articles and information about the children who were sent to Canada. She even found out that Grandpa wasn’t an orphan as claimed. He had a mother who looked for him. There were hints she might have ended up in Winnipeg. The more Mom uncovered, the more a book was in the making of her mind.
It was perfect. A book-lover’s hand would morf from turning pages to penning pages. My mom, along with many things, gave me the love of learning. And books are the gateway to that process. She was called to teach. I, led by her torch, am Teacher too.
We needed a Plan B. Our self defined Plan A’s didn’t fit anymore. Mom was never going in a nursing home and that book would remain a concept, locking the history of memories. And so, instead of reading such a book, I listened. I spend hours in that living room, with Mom lying sideways on that couch, feet curled up. She told me stories. I asked questions, transcribed them on a computer page. These were the very stories my daughter read at the funeral. Mom’s book would have been shared with many but her stories now were shared with the 500 who had gathered in a little town church to commemorate a life well lived.
Laying in my childhood bed after her premature death, I turned my head to the right where her book pile strictly stood. The Mother’s Day book illuminated again. This novel-memoir, chronicling a daughter’s introspective of her mother post demise, was four years premature to my need.
The book was now a warm comfort in my hands as I re-read the title with newly framed eyes
“They Left Us Everything”.
“They Left Us Everything” by Plum Johnson, Penguin Books Canada, 2014.
