I was talking to my sister Friday evening, and she started one of these, “You’re never going to believe what grandma said…” conversations. These are typically entertaining forays into the world of octogenarian logic. Wit and wisdom conveniently sprinkled with bitterness and paranoia. The statements are true, but the incidents that lead up to them are usually built on a crumbling foundation of science fiction and Dr Seuss.

Grandma disclosed to my sister the REAL reason I moved. Apparently, I relocated because I didn’t want to be part of the big decision making. She sort of neglected to mention which big decision making she was actually referring to. She could be referring to herself as she is absolutely paranoid that she will fall asleep one evening in her ginormous king sized bed with her beloved cat, Cry Baby only to wake up the following morning restrained on a single bed, in a sea foam green room, that smells like urine and baby powder. She IS eighty-eight, so it is a legitimate concern. What she doesn’t realize is that is completely out of my jurisdiction. I am her grandchild, not her child, so effectively my voting power is nil.

I have obvious affection for the woman. I gave her eiswein for Christmas, in spite of her protest of being a baptist. I don’t bat my eyes when she says, “shit”, and I still eat her home cooking, though its glory days expired prior to the Y2K scare.

She could have been referring to the situation regarding my in-laws, but let’s face it, I don’t, nor have I ever had, any influence of their care. Maybe that’s a good thing, maybe it’s a bad thing. We will never really know, will we?

Maybe she was referring to my responsibilities regarding my own mother’s care. Today, my mother is completely able to handle all her basic needs. It isn’t like she has two feet wedged on the gas pedal trying to outrun the staff at the nursing home. She does need help with larger task: trimming shrubbery, removing pine straw from the roof, taking animals to the vet.

Over the past two years, I have spent as much time preparing my mother’s house to be put on the market (her idea to sell) as I have my own. She changed her mind after the appraisal. Sentimental attachment has no influence over fair market value in the midst of a real estate slump. Frequently, I have shown up at her doorstop to take care of maintenance without being prompted. I have made arrangements, and enlisted help to relocate an ass load of furniture from one antique mall to another one three hours away. I don’t take it upon myself to pitch in because I’m looking for praise or credit (and I’m not looking for credit now). I do it because it is the right thing.

Few things Grandma says surprise me any more, but this one…. I thought she knew me better, or at least had an inkling of type of person I became. I don’t have difficulty accepting responsibility, nor do I have difficulty making decisions and accepting the consequences. I don’t even mind admitting fault when it is clearly mine (this took a lot of work). I can’t be expected to take responsibility of those who CHOOSE not take responsibility for themselves, and as for those confined to a small cell chewing thorazine and creating macaroni and glue sculptures, on some level, they become the responsibility of all. What I struggle with, is determining the best path from where I am to where I want to be. So there is a molecule of truth in what she said, but not enough to merit a sweeping statement. I wish she had listened to me more, so she might have gotten to know me better.

I waited for the inevitable phone call since I posted this . Every time I heard the suspicious ring I wondered if this call would announce the culmination of a hellish week for my Mom. Surprisingly the phone call never came.

Two days ago when I was preparing dinner, the Mister came in with the mail stopping at the kitchen island to sort it. Immediately, I zeroed in on a later addressed to me in familiar handwriting.

I paused chopping squash to examine the envelope. It was addressed to me in my mother’s distinct penmanship. Instinctively I knew this letter bore news of the “inevitable” I had anticipated for days. Quietly, I opened and began reading as the Mister proceeded to educate me on all the new and exciting developments in this month’s Pop Sci magazine.

It is done. And for the best.

I was overcome by peculiar feelings. Not sadness. Not loss. Mostly relief. I had said my goodbyes. To be accurate I said goodbye each time I saw her over the last three years. She looked like a skeleton strutting around in a shabby gray coat, and yet she insisted on living. Every week. Every day. Every hour. Until the last second. She wanted life and badly.

It’s difficult not to ponder mortality when faced with losses of companions, especially those embracing youthful vigor. I suppose I accept such things with all the grace I can muster under the circumstances. I’m not much of a crier or prone to pinning. I acquiesce the inescapable nature of loss, and for some inexplicable reason, I don’t contain much fuel to mourn death properly. I suppose my head is to blame. It presents arguments for not being publicly emotional. I feel the loss, but it’s difficult to surmise the construction of it when you stare into my vacant blue eyes.

Reluctantly, I asked my mother, if she would be capable of making preparations for Itchy to be buried on the family property when the time came. I didn’t want to ask, but I wasn’t in a position to return and handle the matter myself. By preparations, I mean dig a hole deep enough to prevent wild dogs from digging up the remains. She assured me, it was her desire that the matter be handled in that fashion. After living on that property for eighteen years, she could find no reason to move her now.

Ironic, I wanted a proper burial for my childhood cat, but ever since I can remember I’ve always wanted my own remains cremated. When I was about fifteen, I used to tell my dad, I want to be cremated and I wanted my ashes to fill the pepper shakers at Huddle House. I told him that because he spent almost every afternoon in that diner drinking coffee and gossiping with all the other retired old farts.

In truth, I don’t care where my ashes are spread. My only desires are that there be no service, no marker, and no statue (unless of course it is a tasteless one). When I am gone, just make way for the others who will need my place.

*our girl. It was time

**Casey, mentioned in the letter, is another of my mother’s cats. Apparently she plans to ascend the power ladder and become the new reigning queen.

*** I love that my mother still mails hand-written letters.

**** In spite of the macabre tone of this post, I am not sad, depressed, or suicidal. I am in mood suitably cranky for my personality, and a good deal lighter since I have unburdened here.

I am the same age my mother was when she gave birth to me. I never considered the age particularly significant, but I have spent much time considering similarities and differences between us. I don’t compare terms like successes and failures, but in terms of which traits we share and where we differ. I’m not competitive by nature, and prefer to improving my shortcomings rather than compete against other’s accomplishments. Spoken like a failure? Maybe, but success isn’t black and white like corporate America would lead one to believe. Sometimes the best you do is simply to better your previous attempt. It isn’t a recipe for curing cancer, but it implies the desire to continue growing.

I shudder when I consider my mother was parenting three children when she was my age. When I see people younger than me, with a one child, I question whether or not they could really be ready for all the responsibility and selflessness it entails. It’s hard to imagine being altruistic and postponing the things I feel driven to do with my life. I always worried that a child would need more of me than I am prepared to give. Habitually, I always hold a little something back from relationships. Even the relationship with the Mister. Restraint is necessary in parenting, but so is being real, and being emotionally available.

Both parents were influential in shaping who I became. As I grow older and more contemplative, I am aware my father had a definite advantage in passing first. As a ghost of my memory, I am less likely to compare myself to him. There is a reverence achieved when life suspends. People are often hesitant to speak of your shortcomings in your absence of defending yourself. Although, in southern cultures they feel free to say whatever they damn well please provided it is prefaced with well bless his/her heart.

My mother and I are alike in many ways, some for better others worse. We are stubborn, self-sufficient, hard working, and determined. We are also easily frustrated by setbacks, non-confrontational, too quick to jump to conclusions and not easily forgiving. I hope I am more flexible than she is today. Aging suppresses flexibility. Maybe she was more flexible at my age, but she was firmly planted by the time I became a teenager.

I wonder where she thought she would be in her life at the age I am. Did she aspire to be more than a wife and mother, or was that enough? She once told me she had considered joining the army after nursing school, but she became smitten with my father and accepted his proposal instead. I also wonder if the army was really HER dream, or one my aunt had thrust upon her. My family has a long history of woman assigning their dreams to their progeny. My grandmother, my mother, my aunt, all guilty. I suppose that’s another tradition I would have chosen to abandon had I become a parent. Everyone should choose their own dreams, without the burden of vicariousness thrust upon their shoulders.

I hope her stubbornness will be beneficial in the right ways. That it will give me the strength to persevere and find my way in the world. The notion of independence is ironic. On one level, I think it pleased my mother to raise three independent children, but on the other hand, I think she wished I needed her more and was more malleable to her influence. Like her, I have my own ideas and do not change my mind without considerable thought. Unlike her, I don’t give a shit if you believe in the things I believe in, and I have no desire to change your beliefs so they imitate mine.

Approval is unimportant to me. I consider whether or not my actions are knowingly inconsiderate to others. I place value on common courtesy. My rights shouldn’t infringe upon your rights, but if my actions offend your sensibilities, you’ll have to deal with it on your own. I have difficulty living up to my expectations, don’t be disappointed if I don’t consider your expectations of me.

People grow and change, and yet adult children still access their parent’s strengths and weaknesses from the point of view as teenagers, and aging parents still treat their adult children like eleven year olds who don’t have enough common sense to come in out of the rain. My mother mentions how proud she is of her adult children, but she seldom praised our accomplishments during the ages it mattered most. She always clung to the notion we holding on out, or that we should doing better. All our accomplishments weren’t worthy of praise, but undermining our self-confidence was a hardly an effective motivator.

Unfortunately my thirteen year-old memory is more vivid than my thirty-plus year old memory. My default reaction is to associate her with the disapproving matriarch of my youth, just as her default memory of me is the irresponsible thirteen year old who was too uncoordinated to master a steak knife. I suppose that makes us even.