Prefer to listen?
For over a decade, I have honored the death of my mother on or around March 4th. It involves blue flowers, cream spinach and potatoes, and memories. It’s my way of honoring what was lost all those years ago, and what I still hold onto.
It used to be a sad affair, a time to reflect on what would never be again. But now, 13 years deep, “Gnome Day” as it’s known in our home, is a day to share stories with my kids so that, while they’ve never met their nana Liz, they can know her in some small way.
I’ll never forget the day she thought I’d gotten my ears pierced. She didn’t like to talk about her feelings much. But boy did she show them. My aunt and I had played a little trick on her. The nose piercings were magnets, very convincing magnets.
Mom watched my aunt and I get out of the car with matching ruby studs jutting out of the sides of our nostrils. Even from a distance, I could see her nostrils flare. Without a word, she walked back into the house. All we heard was the banging of cupboards and the clashing of dishes.
I can’t remember if I rolled my eyes, but I was a teenager so I probably did. I followed the angry noises coming from the kitchen and removed the magnet holding the stud to the side of my nose. “Look, mom. It’s a fake.” My aunt and I showed here our magic trick as we laughed.
Mom didn’t think it was funny.
My kids love the stories that show I’m human, and subject to teenager antics like all of us. They love to hear that their grandma, as mythological as she is for them, was equally human. She’d probably hate that I tell them this story. But that’s one of the few up sides to losing someone. Their stories become legends and we’re left to interpret and retell them with as much flare as we want.
But my mom wasn’t just about bottling up her feelings and taking out her aggression on hapless kitchen cupboards. She had a wicked sense of humor, wicked as in cheeky and a little too smart, and my dad had a oversized sweet-tooth. That last detail is relevant to this next story. Ahem…
One time, it must have been April, my mom made a special treat for her family. She woke up early, as was her habit, and got to work. Sounds of sauces saucing, knives chopping, and parchment tearing, came through our bedroom doors, and the faint smell of melted chocolate followed. When curiosity finally won, I came out to investigate.
“What are you making, mom?”
“Chocolate balls… want one?” I can still remember her smile. I should have known.
My mouth was watering. I grabbed one and took a big bite. There was just one problem. It wouldn’t come away from the rest of the ball.
Mom leaned in and smiled. This should have been clue number two.
I was finding it impossible to chew! Where the nuggety center should have been, there was instead a cotton like substance that refused to be broken down and swallowed.
Out it came into my hand so I could investigated it properly.
And then noticed it. The silent laugh my mom was so well known for. It started in her belly and moved to her arms as she tried to conceal her guilty expression as her cheeks grew more and more red by the second. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she pointed to a bag of cotton balls on the stove. “Mom!!!”
The only good thing about being the first to fall prey to my mom’s jokes was joining her as everyone else was subjected to the same fate.
My brother was next, but he wasn’t outraged. He just ate around the cotton ball. Chocolate is chocolate, after all.
And then, for the moment we’d all been waiting for, my dad appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. My mom pretended to busy herself. I pretended to wash my hands.
“Ooo!!” My dad said, and popped a chocolate ball into his mouth.
My mom and I both tried to conceal our interest, tried to let him have his own moment of discovery, but we couldn’t help it. Eyes bulging out of our faces, we sat there and watched his reaction.
He was clearly enjoying the chocolate. Slowly, his expression changed from joy to confusion, confusion to frustration and frustration to disgust. “LIZ!!” He shouted as he spit out his chocolate ball to investigate. To be fair, he’d cleaned most of the chocolate off by then. “Cotton?!” He said in disbelief.
Mom practically fell to the floor, howling with what was now an audible laughter.
Throughout the rest of the day, little chunks of chocolate would disappear from around the left over chocolate balls. By the end of the day, all that was left was a sad little baking tray full of discarded cotton balls that had once been “chocolate balls.”
These are just two of the many stories I recall with fondness. I’d wager to guess you also have a handful of stories you hold in a similar regard. I hope that the rosy glow of nostalgia that wraps my memories in a blanket and cushions me from the sting of loss, is also something we share.
Gnome Day unfolds differently year to year. Adjustments must be made to accommodate the ever changing sands of life. But always, there are stories, and an opportunity to pause, remembering the people who helped us live deeply, connected-ly, with meaning and purpose. The people we lose are never truly gone. Honoring them through the retelling of their lives becomes a sacred practice and, in a way only stories can, keeping them alive for future generations.
My Book is Available for Purchase!
