My mother, Evie Busk, was born in 1914. That means she was in grade school—a one-room grade school—in the twenties. She dropped out of school after seventh grade. Nonetheless, her grammar was perfect—her subjects and predicates always agreed, and her verb tenses were right on, and she knew better than to end sentences with prepositions. (Please disregard the one at the end of the previous sentence!) And well into her eighties, she could still whip out NYTimes Crossword puzzles with wild abandon. Clearly a seventh grade education from those twenties is different from current iterations of seventh grade.
I was six years younger than my oldest sister and four years younger than the other. The first married within weeks of high school graduation. The second dropped out of school after her sophomore year, married, and had both her children by the time she was seventeen. She was also a card-carrying member of Mensa. If my mother had taken the test, she probably could have done the same thing.
But when it was time for me to enter high school, my mother wanted a different result, so she made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. She told me if I would take six solids every semester, I wouldn’t have to do the kind of housework my older sisters had had to do. Between homework or housework? No contest! I chose door number one. That choice put me on an academic track that lead to a college scholarship, a BA, Masters of Education, an Honorary Doctorate of Humane Letters, and ultimately a successful career in writing.
My serious writing started in my mid-twenties while I was teaching on the reservation. By then I had the first two degrees in hand. I ended up being caught up in that mid-seventies version of feminism. (Remember when Ms. Magazine was still a thing?) At the time, I also had a full-fledged case of youthful arrogance. That’s when I wrote the following poem:
Strangers
My hopes and fears are alien to her.
When we speak, it is as though our words
Come from two different languages
With no hope of finding an interpreter
To reconcile them.
She has lived her life by the old rules –
Spent her time cooking, cleaning, bearing children.
My abandonment of the kitchen
She regards as the ultimate treachery,
A final defection.
I see her as “just a housewife;”
See her years as mother a waste
Of human potential, of intellect, of being.
Until we both can look at one another
With minds washed clean of prejudice,
Until we can see the difference and the value
Of both separate lives, it will be
Impossible for my mother and me
To be sisters.
Talk about sounding like a know-it-all! By the time I wrote that, my mother had successfully raised seven children, none of whom ever ended up in jail. I didn’t have ANY children! You’d be surprised how much smarter my mother got as soon as I did, and that’s when we stopped being strangers. When my mother was in our fifties and her “kids” came home with jobs and kids of their own, my mother, with the help of a babysitter named Dolores Decker, ran a family-only, unofficial daycare with five kids under the age of five. How she managed that, I still don’t know.
I was always tall. Back in the Fifties before the time of school headshots, annual school photos consisted of having classrooms of kids line up on risers. I was always in the middle of the top row, along with Mike Marusich and Harley Hiett. I don’t know what became of Mike, but Harley and I remain friends to this day. When I started hunching over to make myself shorter, my mother would tell me, “Stå rakt upp!” (Stand up straight.). Or if I was gazing open-mouthed at something, she’d say, “Håll käften.” (Shut your mouth.) That was our secret. Lots of people in Bisbee spoke Spanish, but hardly anybody else spoke Swedish.
As I said that was back in the seventies. I was selling life-insurance then at a time when wearing pantsuits were still a no-no in the business world. My mother wasn’t big on handing out compliments, but that’s when she gave me one I’ve never forgotten. She’d been with me when I’d dropped my kids off at my sister’s house. I walked up to the front porch wearing my dress-for-success outfit—a ladies’ suit with a pencil skirt, high heels, and No Nonsense panty-hose. When I got back in the car she said to me, “You know, you’ve got good legs.” No one had ever told me that before, and no one has since, so I still remember it, and today writing this has reminded me of that bright jewel of a comment.
By then my mother and I weren’t strangers any more and we stayed that way for a long time until decades later when suddenly we were. My parents were married for 68 years. They had more or less counted on a Thelma and Louise exit until my father had a massive stroke and died, leaving my mother both behind and furious. “Norman had no business going off and leaving me alone like that!”
They had been living in an assisted living facility, but at that point she insisted on moving in with my younger sister. Over the course of the next several years, it was as though Evie underwent a personality transplant. This woman who had once been a positive, forward-looking influence on all of our lives became mean-spirited, angry, and manipulative. When she came to stay with us in Tucson for a time, her sarcastic remarks could have me in tears by the time I made it from the bedroom to the family room. Bill and I lasted for three weeks. My sister managed for five years.
After Evie passed away, I didn’t shed a tear at her funeral. She wanted to be with my dad, and now she was, but the next book I wrote was Exit Wounds. Remember the scene where the little old couple pack up their forenoon coffee picnic, load it in their Buick, and then go screaming off the mountainside in full Thelma and Louise fashion? That was an author’s way of grieving for my parents and an author’s way of honoring them. I shed buckets of tears while I was writing that scene.
But it’s funny how pieces of my real life sneak into the pages of my books without my even noticing. In 2013, when I was doing the audio version of After the Fire, I once again came face to face with that poem from long ago, the one I wrote about my mother. And that’s when it suddenly came into focus, that the conflicts I’d had with my mother back in my twenties were the same kinds of issues Joanna was having with her own mother, Eleanor. They weren’t exactly the same, but close enough that I recognized them. As for my mother’s take on Eleanor Lathrop? She told me once, “Eleanor is the first character in fiction I ever met who really knows how the world works.” Obviously I’d done both of them justice!
Over the years and over the books, Joanna and Eleanor were beginning to understand each other, but then, before they had a chance to finally put all their differences aside, Eleanor and her husband were murdered. Now Joanna is living with the regrets of never having reconciled the issues that separated them.
The truth is, I’m living with some regrets as well. Over the years since my mother’s passing, I’ve come to recognize that what was going on with her—what I thought of as a personality transplant—was possibly some kind of undiagnosed dementia. If I could go back and change anything about that, I’d counsel myself not to take those off-hand remarks so personally. After all, how many times did the old Evie tell me “Sticks and stones, etc., etc., etc?”
Being able to remember the wonderful Evie, the vibrant woman who once was, and to share her with my readers has allowed me to stop remembering all the unkind words and hurts at the end.
Unwittingly, you, my blog readers, have all been part of this years’-long process of healing and forgiveness.
Thank you.
Excellent blog – as always! One question, though. What is a “solid” as related to your taking “six solids” in school? Inquiring minds want to know…
That’s what they were called in those days—academic classes rather than soft-core ones.
Thank you. No study halls for you then 🙂
Just finished the latest blog – oh my! Brought tears to my eyes! You have a way of “hiding the nail on the head.” Keep up the good work!
Another wonderful blog and thought provoking too. So glad you have been able to get to that “forgiveness” point.
As you recalled a few incidents in your books I was able to fully picture them. In particular the “Thelma & Louise” moment.
I thank you for stirring up memories again.
She made you into a wonderful person
Thank you for sharing. I also had a strained relationship with my mother. It was no secret that my brother was the favorite. I made a special effort to love and respect my three very successful and independent children. They are very special individual adults and I love each one. I love your books. I have a special love for Joanna and her family. I can not wait for more adventures.
I get it. Don’t beat yourself up. My mom had dementia for 10 years before she passed and patience was hard to come by. As a retired cop, I love your Joanna Brady and J.P. Beaumont books! I am going to be in Tombstone at the end of March and am going to go to Bisbee just to see some of the places you talk about.
I can relate to so much of today’s blog.
I can relate to this blog.
All your blog readers love Evie and you. Unwittingly or not, so glad we are able to give something back to you, as you give so much to us.
Blessing to you and Bill.
“Teach your children well, Their father’s hell did slowly go by, And feed them on your dreams The one they picks, the one you’ll know by. Don’t you ever ask them why, if they told you, you will cry, So just look at them and sigh And know they love you. And you, of tender years, Can’t know the fears that your elders grew by…”
Beautiful memories. Thank you ?
I’ve spent some time forgiving my mother as well. She was a WWII veteran, a radio mechanic for B-17’s at Las Vegas AAF, and she was “tough as old boots”, as the saying goes. My brother and I were a surprise to her (age 37) and my dad (age 45). She always seemed to favor my brother, as he was the only boy. I got my sister’s hand me downs and he got new things. Now that she is gone and I’m a woman approaching old age myself, I have a better understanding of why she was the way she was. The fact that she suffered from so many health issues (we called her the human zipper for all her surgeries) contributed much to her crankiness.
I, too, always being tall, and on the top riser in group class pictures, had “good legs”. A family friend told me this my sophomore year in high school.
Thanks so much for this trip down memory lane. The details are different, but the essentials are the same. I regret that my mother died when I was still in my teens so I never got to have that adult relationship with her.
Thanks for this moment of clarity in your relationship with your mother. For 36 of my 72 years, I tried desperately to win my mother’s approval-she never hugged or kissed her kids. All of my friends’ mothers showed them physical affection. I clearly remember at age 15, getting ready to board a plane for a Spanish Club 3-week trip to Europe, asking my best friend if she was going to kiss her mom goodbye. She responded, ” Of course I’m going to kiss Mama!” My parents just stood there and told me to be good, and I boarded the plane. I learned many years later that her standoffish behavior was learned from her own father, who never showed her any affection. Believe me, my three sons knew they were well loved with lots of hugs and kisses! Lesson learned on my part.
Your blogs have given so much to me, and I’m sure many of your other readers. We have helped each other along the journey of life. Thank you. ??
I see myself in Evie and you…thank you.
One of the things I like about your blog is how much it explains/echoes what I’ve experienced.
Both my mom and my dad seemed to experience personality changes before they died.
I had always felt closer to my dad, and really mourned the loss of the person he used to be. And also mourned the deep conversations we used to have.
My out-going, effervescent mother was shut down by a series of mini-strokes, and lived about 5 years in an oddly quiet state. She made up for it by smiling a lot and saying “Wonderful!” Her positive outlook couldn’t be stifled by her physical disabilities and her need for lots of sleep. But there was no more fun, laughter-filled conversations at the table.
Often when I read your blogs, I’m reminded of my own life and the path I’ve trod. (With the new English rules, do I need to write “treaded” ????? Or just give it up and say “walked” Ah – switch it for “traveled!” : That’s better anyway!)
I dont always remember to look at emails, but im always glad when I do and find a gem from you!
I’m reading the Joanna Brady books for the 2nd time , and the actual book I’m on is Exit Wounds. The scene you’re talking about in today’s Blog, really made me sad, but guess what! I totally understood why you wrote that into the novel. Getting old, after living a wonderful life, isn’t so easy.
Thank so very much for the window into your relationship with your mother. I was born into a family of all boys, on both sides. Said cousins broke my nose at age 7. But, out of four Italian sisters, the one who only liked sons, gave birth to me. Thank God, my aunts all stepped in to give me the love that she couldn’t give. When my mother passed, I was the only one to be with her. I didn’t let her unloving nature ruin my life. I forgave her and took care of her and when the end was near, she asked for my brothers even though they had abandoned her. It was ok.
As humans, we share how we react to situations and changes. Looking back, we have regrets, but also realizations (the lightbulb goes on!). We do the best we can, mostly. You are a champion.
Your memories and snapshots of your life always seem to evoke memories that your readers have too. Although your life and upbringing are your own, you are so relatable. I’m a little saddened by my own memories of trying to care for my mother in her final years as she struggled with dementia. That vibrant, funny, smart life being snuffed out by that awful disease. Also saddened by the experiences I’m reading from you and your readers. But time, I think, does allow us to see things in, hopefully, a more forgiving and understanding way. I’ve spent the last three years writing my memoir in which I wrote an entire chapter about my mother whose life is described as pretty amazing. As she truly was.
We all have clashes with our parents sometime during our lives. I’m so glad you’ve had this period of healing. By the way, my dad’s name was Norman too. He died 22 years before my mother did and even to her last days, she would get teary when having a serious conversation about him. At least she could mention his name in jest by then, but she missed him dearly.
Question: did you or did you not have kids? You said Evie had 7 and you didn’t have any but later you said you were dropping your kids off at your sisters. Did I read it wrong?
I had my first child when I was 28 and the second when I was 30. At the time I wrote that poem, I didn’t have any.
Thanks for sharing your relationship with your mom with us. All of us go through some rough times in our relationships with our parents, particularly moms and daughters it seems.
Yes, your mom probably had some form of dementia–now more easily diagnosed than it was then. Give yourself some grace about it.
I’m recently diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease and it does change your personality. I see it in myself and in my partner. We both have dementia and it is quite a problem. We, too, have recently moved into assisted living and along with the dementia the transaction is overwhelming. We are making the changes slowly and I must say reluctantly.
Dear kind soul you hit the nail on the head once again believing Evie had a form of dementia. When my sweet mother hit 94 she contracted a UTI and became “my sister “. Needless to say I learned things no daughter should be privy to. Her personality changed from sweet and caring to someone I didn’t recognize.
I remember my Dad saying “the older I get, the smarter my Father gets.” Very true. We do see things differently as we get older.
JA—you are one smart lady. We are all thankful for you, too. Insights into life at our older ages are always welcomed. Your writing makes us all richer. <3
I just left a comment that didn’t show. Crying.
Good luck to the Seahawks tomorrow in the Super Bowl!!
Way to go, J.A.! It’s never too late.
P.S. When is J.P. Beaumont reappearing?
What a wonderful recollection and realisation! I tend to file many of your weekly blogs and this one is now at the head of the pile. Thank you.
What a wise and emotional post. You had me in tears. I too have regrets about some things with my Mother who passed away 24 years ago. I’m sure many of us do. As the years have gone by I believe I see so many things more clearly and have learned to forgive the unintentional, I’m sure, hurts I felt and to also to forgive myself for not being more understanding. I know your Evie and my Evy both forgive us.
I wish you peace in your memories.
Thank you for this post! I recognize threads of my relationship with my own mother. I’ve realized one of the greatest gifts of aging for me has been clarity and “maturity” to allow forgiveness and some peace…for her and for myself. Blessings to you, and thank you so much for the gift of your stories!
This latest note was absolutely fascinating. Youth! Add to that “we just don’t know what we don’t know.” Forgiveness is there. You loved your mother beyond measure. It is obvious. Breathe…
Beautiful post gaining insight into your Mother. We live with regret for things we can’t change because it is too late but this story may give others a new prospective in time for them to NOT have regrets. Thank you.