Mother's Day Brings On ... A Scrapbook Of Memories
Our mother, Frances Elizabeth “Libby” Graves McTaggart, was born in the midst of the Great Depression. Mom died March 12, ironically amid another serious recession. She was 78.
Her illness with ovarian cancer and death in a seven-day span surprised the daylights out of my three brothers and me.
The cancer probably developed for a year, her doctors said, but none of us knew about it until the very end. It took time to digest.
It was weeks before I could write her obituary. Brother Will and I spent about 16 hours the weekend after she died sorting through her papers to find out the state of her affairs and glean information for an obit.
A bio I had requested my parents and grandparents fill out 25 years ago turned out to be my best resource.
I discovered several things in the excavation.
It’s been an archaeological dig of sorts. Deconstructing Mom, brother Scott called it. The unorganized layers led back through news clippings, photos and letters.
I learned there’s meaning in every photo we take but some of her very old, unidentified photos have lost their significance because we don’t recognize the faces or places. Conversely, identified and dated photos give us a history, a connection to our roots and continuity.
In addition to her contributions to urban planning, the national, state and district political scenes and the Washington state Department of Transportation, Mom also had a creative influence on her children.
She was an exceedingly skilled sketch artist. We all coveted her paintings, especially a watercolor of neighbor Miss Cooey’s cherry tree Mom made while looking out the window, seated at our dining room table.
She sewed a lot. She made red and green fabric banners for Christmas that said Bonne Annee and Noel and stuffed cloth character dolls of Santa, Mrs. Claus and Santa’s elves for my brothers and me.
One Christmas she made an Old West town of shops out of hand-painted cardboard boxes. They bore our gifts and had shop signs such as: Scotty’s Dry Goods, Annie’s Millinery, Billy’s Barber Shop and Bobby’s Feed Store.
She was a whiz with papier-m…ch/. As den mother in the space-struck early 1960s for Scott’s Cub Scout troop members, she helped them construct a puppet theater with a scrolling painted backdrop for scene changes and a riveting story line for the Martian and scout puppets.
I pined for a child-sized kitchen in which to play so she marched off to the lumber store, purchased the materials and whipped up me-sized cabinets, a refrigerator, a stove with knobs that turned and a sink with a little faucet. It was awesome.
She let our imaginations run wild in the backyard. We camped as pioneers in a cavernous, smelly, old canvas tent and built tree forts in the cherry and apple trees.
My particular favorite was digging to China. I was determined to bring back Chinese gowns, fans, tea sets and dishes after being fueled by the discovery of a broken crockery chip in our excavation behind the garage.
She might not have said it, but she probably thought, “Here’s the shovel. Knock yourselves out.”
She could and did frustrate us with a standard line that applied in almost every circumstance when she didn’t want to say no: “We’ll see, dear,” she’d soothe. That ended many a discussion.
Once we got past the teenage angst, the chafing against apron strings, the yearning for independence, the impermeable facade, Mom’s best attributes stand out.
Sorting through her possessions, I came across a collection of correspondence.
Among those missives was a Mother’s Day card I sent that reads: “Sally Johnson: Worst Mom Ever.”
As she runs past two bewildered children, the mother waves scissors over her head as she cries, “Wheeeee!! Running with scissors is fun!! Well, goodbye kids!! I’m meeting a stranger for candy, then jumping off a bridge with my friends.”
Mom and I both guffawed over that card.
“I wanted to make sure you know how much it’s meant to me to have you as my Mom,” I wrote her in a letter that accompanied that card in 2007.
All the laughter we had growing up, imbued me with a good sense of humor, I told her. Because of the environment in which we were raised, I have an appreciation for music, books, the theater, science, history, research and writing.
Mom’s role modeling in those early years made me a reasonably well-rounded person who cares about her children and family and has regard for others.
Because of the ethics and values Mom imparted, I care about my home, my work, the state, nation and world and being responsible.
I am inquisitive because I saw that in Mom. I can love others because I was loved at home.
Most importantly, I don’t run with scissors, take candy from strangers or jump off the Aurora Bridge (in Seattle where we grew up) just because everyone else does.
And Mom can rest easy because I especially don’t leave home with anything but clean underwear.
I carry her in my heart every day.
Taken From Union-Bulletin.com
In addition to her contributions to urban planning, the national, state and district political scenes and the Washington state Department of Transportation, Mom also had a creative influence on her children.
She was an exceedingly skilled sketch artist. We all coveted her paintings, especially a watercolor of neighbor Miss Cooey’s cherry tree Mom made while looking out the window, seated at our dining room table.
She sewed a lot. She made red and green fabric banners for Christmas that said Bonne Annee and Noel and stuffed cloth character dolls of Santa, Mrs. Claus and Santa’s elves for my brothers and me.
One Christmas she made an Old West town of shops out of hand-painted cardboard boxes. They bore our gifts and had shop signs such as: Scotty’s Dry Goods, Annie’s Millinery, Billy’s Barber Shop and Bobby’s Feed Store.
She was a whiz with papier-m…ch/. As den mother in the space-struck early 1960s for Scott’s Cub Scout troop members, she helped them construct a puppet theater with a scrolling painted backdrop for scene changes and a riveting story line for the Martian and scout puppets.
I pined for a child-sized kitchen in which to play so she marched off to the lumber store, purchased the materials and whipped up me-sized cabinets, a refrigerator, a stove with knobs that turned and a sink with a little faucet. It was awesome.
She let our imaginations run wild in the backyard. We camped as pioneers in a cavernous, smelly, old canvas tent and built tree forts in the cherry and apple trees.
My particular favorite was digging to China. I was determined to bring back Chinese gowns, fans, tea sets and dishes after being fueled by the discovery of a broken crockery chip in our excavation behind the garage.
She might not have said it, but she probably thought, “Here’s the shovel. Knock yourselves out.”
She could and did frustrate us with a standard line that applied in almost every circumstance when she didn’t want to say no: “We’ll see, dear,” she’d soothe. That ended many a discussion.
Once we got past the teenage angst, the chafing against apron strings, the yearning for independence, the impermeable facade, Mom’s best attributes stand out.
Sorting through her possessions, I came across a collection of correspondence.
Among those missives was a Mother’s Day card I sent that reads: “Sally Johnson: Worst Mom Ever.”
As she runs past two bewildered children, the mother waves scissors over her head as she cries, “Wheeeee!! Running with scissors is fun!! Well, goodbye kids!! I’m meeting a stranger for candy, then jumping off a bridge with my friends.”
Mom and I both guffawed over that card.
“I wanted to make sure you know how much it’s meant to me to have you as my Mom,” I wrote her in a letter that accompanied that card in 2007.
All the laughter we had growing up, imbued me with a good sense of humor, I told her. Because of the environment in which we were raised, I have an appreciation for music, books, the theater, science, history, research and writing.
Mom’s role modeling in those early years made me a reasonably well-rounded person who cares about her children and family and has regard for others.
Because of the ethics and values Mom imparted, I care about my home, my work, the state, nation and world and being responsible.
I am inquisitive because I saw that in Mom. I can love others because I was loved at home.
Most importantly, I don’t run with scissors, take candy from strangers or jump off the Aurora Bridge (in Seattle where we grew up) just because everyone else does.
And Mom can rest easy because I especially don’t leave home with anything but clean underwear.
I carry her in my heart every day.
Taken From Union-Bulletin.com
