A Walker in the Suburbs

It’s been ten years since Mom died. It’s been ten years and a day since I last heard her voice.

I heard it at Metro Center, where I was walking to the spot where I’d wait for an Orange Line train to Vienna. My phone rang. It was my sister, Ellen.

“I thought you’d want to talk to Mom. She’s feeling better.”

Mom’s voice was breathless and bubbly. She sounded girlish, giddy.

“Hi, hi,” she said. I distinctly remember that she said “hi” twice. Not because she was confused, it seemed, but because she was excited.

“Hi, Mom. I’m on my way home from work. I’ll be coming to see you tomorrow.”

Ellen got back on the line and quickly rang off. I’d be with both of them the next day; there was no need for conversation. Except there was, because that was the last conversation.

What I’ve thought since then is that maybe Mom’s final words to me were a replay of her first ones. I imagine her holding the newborn me, cooing and smiling and saying, “hi, hi.”

Mom and I were big talkers. Through the years we spent countless hours chatting, solving all the world’s problems. Could it be that this long conversation began and ended with a two-letter word, with a word that is little more than a breath?

Yesterday the world warmed and most of the snow melted, but late in the day a cold wind sprang up, and it’s blowing still today, bringing us back to winter again.

But nothing can dispel the wellspring of warmth that this day exudes. It’s a day devoted to love, love in all forms, all languages.

Night before last, I dreamed I heard a knock on the back door. It was two of my grandchildren, wanting to come inside. Later today I’ll see those two, and the rest of them, and give them big hugs and too much candy. It will be loud, chaotic, sticky fun. It’s a perfect way to celebrate this day.

Mom would have been 99 today. Today I cede this space to the person who inspired me first, and inspires me still. In this “guest post,” Mom muses on her earliest memory.

Where do I start to tell the story of my life? Do I start with the beginning? But what is the beginning? Is that cold early February morning when I was born, only minutes after midnight? But to write of those moments and the moments that followed would be only hearsay. So do I start with my own first memory? I think that would be the honest way.

My first real memory is of sunlight streaming through a window near the little chair where I sat. It was a rocking chair, red maybe, and I must have been fascinated with the way the light seemed to jump through the windowpanes and dance around until it chose to fall right at my feet.

Did I laugh at its playfulness? Did I try to catch it and hold onto it? Did I sit very still and wonder where it came from and where it would go when it left? Or did I just enjoy it while it stayed close to me?

There was a hush abroad in the land when I woke this morning. All I could think about was that there’s a new little person in the world who wasn’t here this time yesterday. On any given day this is always case. But yesterday was special because this little person is our newest granddaughter.

When the pandemic began in 2020 we had no grandchildren. Now we have six. Not that I feel old or anything. Okay, maybe just a little bit old. But mostly I feel blessed.

What we have here is an embarrassment of riches. What my daughter has is her newfound status as mother of three. As I helped her out yesterday, scrambling like crazy to get a preschooler and toddler out the door, dealing also with two large dogs and a cat, I wondered how she will ever manage with a third. But she will. I did (minus the two large dogs), and many manage much more with far fewer resources.

Our job as grandparents is to support the family however we can. Which is what I’m planning to do, starting … yesterday.

(Between them, these two “babies” now have six kiddos.)

,

Mom has been gone nine years today. Almost a decade. Nine rich years for me — though not always easy ones. Years she missed.

What I would give for one more heart-to-heart, sitting at the kitchen table with everyone else asleep. What would I tell Mom?

I would fill her in on the new additions to the family, the grandchildren and the sons-in-law. I would tell her about my work and my travels. She would marvel at it all, I’m sure.

And of course, as was our habit, we would try to solve the world’s problems. We would find it more difficult than we used to because the world’s problems have grown considerably thornier since she’s been gone. But we would give it a go.

There would come a point, though, when we’d say enough. Let’s end on a high note. And that would be this: I’d be sure Mom knew that the four children she left behind are always there for each other. We live our own lives, of course. But we are, and we always will be, a family.

Mom, center, in black shirt, with her sister, brother, sister-in-law, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews (1997).

At the reunion, my cousin Cindy reached into a little basket and pulled out what appeared to be party favors to give each of us. They were small tulle drawstring bags, tied with narrow white satin ribbon. Inside each was a thumb drive full of old family photographs.

Talk about good things in tiny packages! I’ve been spending time I don’t have today ogling the photos, ones I’ve never seen, glimpses of the past. 

One of my favorites is the one you see above. It’s titled the Cassidy Kids.  They are, top row: Kenneth, Christine and Bernard, and bottom row: Lois, Dolly and Frank. 

The only one who looks like a kid here is Dad, who wears short pants, and even he shares the solemn, muted expression that was expected in formal family portraits of the day. 

I have no date for this photo, but I expect it was taken in 1929 or 1930. These kids are gone now. But their kids, grandkids, great-grandkids and great-great grandkids live on.