How I Remember

I write a fair amount about my mom, because in my mind she was a remarkable person. While she wasn’t a career woman or great scholar, she was intelligent with a quick and keen wit. We laughed all the time around the table, over the phone, and we had a great time teasing each other. Her name; Beverly, means “beaver by the meadow” and on occasion, I’d address letters to: Beaver By the Meadow Berg, just to get a laugh out of her. I’d be hard-pressed to find someone with anything negative to say about mom. She had a warmth that made anyone feel welcomed and loved. The various boyfriends I’d bring home to meet her, were all treated with a kindness and an openness that belied the fact that she maybe didn’t approve of them for her middle son. Her gift of diplomacy helped in the challenging role as a dutiful pastor’s wife. But her greatest legacy, was that in my mind, and in the mind of my siblings, we were made to feel like we were the special one, her favorite with a key to the inner sanctum.
As I age, I write about her to keep her memory more vibrant in my mind, so both Scott and Henry will know at least a little bit about her through me.

When I realized that it will be twenty-five years this November since she died, I recalled a Mexican saying about death. Each person dies three times. You die first when your body dies, then when your body is buried and swallowed up by the earth, and finally when there is no memory of you.
I know this is corny, but there is a poignant scene in Beaches when the Barbara Hershey character is dying. She, her young daughter and her best friend played by Bette Midler, has gone to her vacation home at the shore. Midler finds her frantically going through boxes of photos searching for a picture of her mother. She is desperate because she can’t remember what her mother’s hands looked like. The relief is so evident when she does finally find a particular photo that shows her hands. The message, of course, is that she’s terrified that her young daughter will no longer remember her when she’s gone.

Wanting to be remembered is a basic need for all of us. I think for some people, we try to leave a mark on this earth through our work, our good deeds and and possibly through our children. We have a desire to keep a little part of us in play among the living and for someone to keep the memory of us alive.

I have to admit that in these twenty-five years since mom’s death, it is difficult to conjure up certain things about her. I can no longer hear her voice clearly in my head. I’d obviously know her face, but not those subtle nuances; the creases around her eyes and the corners of the lips or the beauty marks that dotted her face and hands. It’s a sad truth about aging and the passage of time.
One day when I was working at Marshall Fields, I walked through the cosmetics department. Every bay had it’s own distinct smells and it was hard to distinguish one from another. But as I walked past fine fragrances I was stopped in my tracks by the unmistakeable scent of my mom.

It is well known that our olfactory system has an almost indelible memory. We may forget names, faces and why we came into a room. But a smell can jar you back to your senses. There are those smells that have a clear association with experiences, places and people. And in particular, we associate the scents of our fathers and mothers.
For some-people, it might be the smell of baking bread, a rich savory brisket roasting in the oven or the smokey herbal scent of bourbon. The memory may be found in camphor, spic and span, Jean Nate’ or a blooming lilac bush.

For me, I remember my mom through the perfume; Ysatis by Givenchy. That day when the fragrance hit my nose I had an overwhelming physical reaction. I felt the hair on my neck stand up and suddenly I had the sensation of my mom’s presence. In that moment I could see her face, I could hear clearly her voice and recall things about her as if I had just seen her. In that moment I also had a deep sadness similar to when she first died. My heart was so heavy thinking of her and missing her presence. I brushed tears from my eyes and made a quick exit.
Over the years I would go back seeking a whiff of Ysatis to kind of kick-start my fading memories. And with the resurgence of memories so too is the sadness. But I’ll take that deep sadness over and over in order to remember her. Mom has died, her body has been swallowed up, but she still lives in our memories. That’s what life is; a sweet and sad smell of memories. And the next time you see your folks, take a good whiff. Draw in deeply their essence, trapping it in the recesses of your memory bank.