The Eulogy

Last words. How do you write last words about a person? As if you can summarize the complexity of someone’s entire life into a couple of paragraphs. 

Maybe it would be easier if their lives were simple. But with someone like my mom it would take a novel as long as War and Peace and be would titled as appropriately. 

If I had to pick a single word to describe my mom it would be dynamic. She was funny, loud and excitable, full of constant change, forceful energy and plenty of ideas. Her thoughts lived outside of her; surrounding her like an aura. Sometimes I could see her grab one right out of the air and play with it for a while. Turning it over and over in her hands, fully absorbing it’s meaning before she let it loose again, saving it for later so she could move on to the next thing.

She was restless, as people that are blessed and cursed by deep thinking and a curiosity for the meaning of it all tend to be. Her restlessness was her captor and I believe it was this that truly took her in the end. 

She was the most beautiful woman that I’ve ever known, and not in the bias way that a child sees their mother, but in the way that doesn’t allow you to take your eyes off someone because you’re studying every detail in awe of their natural perfection, secretly hoping to find a flaw so you feel they could be attainable. 

She was funny and witty in a way that no one else was. Her thoughts and reactions always caught me off guard. She made me think, and I admired her for her quick comebacks and her laudable sense of humor always making me wonder how she came up those things. I see that in myself from time to time. As if her thoughts and words come out of my mouth and I have no idea how they got there. I always smile and wonder if I could be as dynamic as she was. If she gave me that gift, as one of the many quiet contributions I’m discovering she has passed on to me. I find myself wishing I had laughed at more of her jokes when I wanted to, but I would stuff down those laughs as kids often do, not wanting to give their parent the satisfaction of knowing they broke them down. She loved to torture and harass me; I’m sure not only me but it sure felt like it sometimes. I couldn’t get out from under her constant poking fun at me. Another trait I’ve seemed to acquire when it comes to showing love.

She was adventurous. Countless times she would just pull right over onto the side of the road and hop out into the woods, taking me on some spur of the moment creek hike to look for cool rocks or just get a whiff of fresh air. We would camp in the snow, hike in the river; sleep outside for no reason at all. She knew how to have fun. She was free in that way. Always living in the present, not concerned with the clean up. We had countless indoor water fights, summer sand parties in the winter and mud slides in the rain. She made adventures out of obstacles. I never knew our hardships were hard. She gave me the part of me that doesn’t need material things to attain happiness. She taught me every challenge is an opportunity for fun, and something as simple as “taking the back way” could make the day more interesting. I don’t think she even knew she was doing it. It just came naturally to her. I wish I could tell her these things now, but something tells me she already knows. 

She was creative not only in thought but in artistic ability. She was a talented writer and visual artist. Her drawings were life-like; I still try to mimic the perfect shading she could do with a colored pencil or the life she could capture through the lens of a camera. I’ve spent my life subconsciously trying to be just like her, and consciously trying to be nothing like her at all. In reflecting on her death I’ve found that I’ve succeeded a little bit in both. 

She loved cars, especially old ones that were difficult to drive and lacked the creature comforts of the modern world. Driving was her constant love. She could and would drive anything, anywhere, anytime- and she did. She would bring home old Mercedes stretch limos or Delorians and take my friends and me on rides. She’d brag about her cross-country treks through snowstorms with no headlights, following the taillights of 18-wheelers for hours to make it through. She was a badass and she knew it, it was a point of pride that she wore like a badge and it shined in a light that wasn’t arrogant or ego driven, but soft and proud and earned. 

She loved music. We went to the Folk Fest every year for more than a decade. She would wear her mini skirt & wild thing tee shirt causing every man to stand up and scream “you make my heart sing” as she walked by swaying her hips and laughing into the air, knowing exactly what she was doing. She played banjo and tried to sing. She listened to the Stones and Steppenwolf at deafening volumes with the windows down as she drove at speeds that gave her the nickname Lead Foot Lane. 

She was a non-conformist as was visible by the brightly colored paint choices of her homes and cars or her bare feet she often wore in the wintertime. She was a no-nuke shouting nature loving hippy with wildflowers in her hair and tiny garments made of natural fabrics always draping her petite frame. 

And she was kind to everyone; except herself. 

In her passing I am choosing not to highlight her problems, but they were a part of her and like all of us, she fell short of perfection. Those of us who were close to her cannot deny this, and I think the best thing to do is acknowledge it was a part of her that we all wish we could have healed. The most beautiful thing I have found through all of this is that her people didn’t give up on her. So many of her friends checked on her, loved her through her problem, saw the real person that lived in the shadow of her illness. They did it more then I was able to, because watching her die for so many years clouded my vision of her. As one of her children the pain was blinding, but in her death I see her more clearly then I ever have. It’s as if her conscience was released into my mine and I suddenly understand her fully. 

One morning shortly after her death I woke up from a dream with Neil Young’s My My, Hey Hey in my head on repeat. A song I hadn’t heard in years. So I put it on and listened and instantly knew that she had sent it to me when I heard.

Its better to burn out, then it is to rust.

Because I knew she didn’t want to rust, or fade away slowly. She wanted to burn, and she did, she burned bright and hard until she couldn’t anymore. In the end she lived the way she wanted, and when she didn’t want to anymore she made sure she wouldn’t for long. 

And so now it’s our job to make sure her memory never rusts. 

I love you mom.