“Don’t be such an old fuddy-duddy!”
I can’t even begin to count how many times I heard my mother say that to my father as I was growing up. It might have been at 6:00 in the morning because she had decided that it was a great day to drive up to the White Mountains for a picnic, or down to Acadia with stops along to way to see distant family.
It could have been when he demanded coffee before presents on Christmas morning, or when he grumbled as we piled into the car to drive down to Boston to take my brother to a competition.
Though Dad grumbled, Mom was always able to prod him into action – to go somewhere, to visit someone, to do something out of the ordinary.
She did things. With Dad, with us, and by herself.
Which in and of itself might not sound like much, but if you stop and think about it, it is really one of the most amazing things.
When was the last time you spontaneously created a day of adventure? How long has it been since you’ve knocked on the door of someone you haven’t seen for years, just to say hello? How long since you addressed a birthday card by hand and dropped it in the mail? Or dropped off flowers or cookies to someone who doesn’t get out?
These are the things my mother did often, despite living in a body not built for adventure. Given the choice – and the choice was always hers to make – she’d choose to slowly make her way to the edge of the beach every time, rather than sitting comfortably at home and letting a broken body steal her life.
I am not certain, but I don’t think my mother has ever been bored. She always found ways to fill her time, whether it was on weekend adventures, work, or volunteering at doctor’s offices, medical libraries, schools, or campgrounds. No matter what, she always, always did things.
And so many of those things were in the service of others, they were things that mattered.
As my brother and I grew up, we rolled our eyes at some of her ideas and sat slouched in the backseat on the long drives to make short visits.
But the same sense of adventure and love that drove Mom to drag us across the state to say hello to an elderly aunt we didn’t remember was the same sense of adventure and love that compelled her to open the home she had with Dad to our friends as we moved through high school and beyond.
What began as a day or two with an unexpected guest when one of my brother’s friends fought with his family and needed a place to stay, turned into friends staying longer and longer until finally our little family of four could never really be counted. Sometimes we became five, sometimes six, sometimes even more. If they were there at Christmas time, then they had the same Christmas as us, complete with gifts and stockings. Though once or twice there may be been some coal at the bottom – a small reminder to be good.
She did things, and she did them with a generous heart, for her family, for her friends, and for strangers.
Little brought her more joy than Christmas, and every year she bought toys and clothes at Christmas for families that were struggling to make ends meet. She’d don the ugly red Christmas sweater festooned with bells and jingle her way slowly through stores to make sure that everyone had gifts.
She bought your kids’ Boy Scout popcorn and Girl Scout cookies, the overpriced fundraising wrapping paper, and the magazine subscriptions we didn’t need.
She brought food when you lost your loved ones, and shopped for tiny clothes when someone in your family was expecting. She called you when you were down, and mailed birthday cards and letters until she could no longer write.
She helped plan your weddings, your funerals, your anniversary parties, and your reunions.
And she did all of these things for only one reason. She loved you.
As weak as her body was, the strength of her heart kept her going, kept her doing things, kept her loving people.
The neurological disorder she had stole more and more of her ability as the years went by, and she became unable to do, but she still loved, and she still gave. Sifting through her belongings, I found letter after letter, started but not sent, the penmanship slanted and going the wrong direction on the page as she tried to continue reaching out to those family members so far away.
Just weeks before she passed she gifted her bible to her nephew. It bore an inscription written while she still had control because she knew that when it was over she’d want to give him that final gift.
Even at the very end, when forming each word was a struggle and we had to lean close just to hear them, the last ones she’d say at the end of each visit were I love you.
And for her grandson, when she could, she added, “be good.”
For all the ways we could remember her – an obituary in a scrapbook, prayers, or flowers on the cemetery lot come spring, the best way, to remember her is to do what she asked.
Be good.
Do things. Go on adventures while you can. Go to beautiful places that make your heart happy. Help people. Mail letters. Visit your family and old friends. Love.
Don’t stay stuck in the habits of daily life until you can’t do those things.
Be good. Do things.
And don’t be such an old fuddy-duddy.
Comments