Mothers-in-Law, Oft Forgotten on Mother’s Day

If I could just show you a photograph, it would tell you the 1000 words I’m having trouble finding myself. She would have been a slight thing with a mop of curly hair, dungarees, and no shoes. Her gingham pinafore was likely tattered by day’s end, which made her mother succumb to the rolled up dungarees. She always had dirt under her nails, much to the dismay of her tidy mother and proper sister. She frolicked in the fields and preferred an afternoon riding horses to playing piano. She was a rascally tomboy at a time society expected her to be a dainty flower. To this day she eschews dresses and describes herself as “sports-minded.” She favors natural hues like brown and green and dons sensible shoes, corduroy pants, and anything adorned with horses.

As we stroll to the neighborhood park through land that was once part of her family farm, she tells my sons about her life when she was their age. Her hands wave this way and that as she chatters about how rows of crops and barns gave way to ranch houses and sidewalks. Back in the day she pulled her dog in a wagon through the fields and weaseled her way into basketball games that only boys were playing. Her cheeky grin often earned her a front seat ride in the milk delivery truck that her sister’s beau drove around the village. When we pass the village cemetery she points out where her sister and her milk delivery beau (who had become her husband of over 50 years), were buried. There lie her mother, her father, and countless cousins, too. I am alarmed to see her maiden name on so many headstones. It’s then that I feel a palpable sense of mortality and lean in more closely to hear her stories.

When she met me for the first time 20 odd years ago, she remarked that it was the only time she was taller than an adult. I can hear her tickled giggle that made us both double over. This was before she began the wilting stoop that comes with age. She’s always been small but fierce. She has opinions that match her values and actions to back it all up. She’s tough yet tender, a product of a hard life on the farm in the chill of Midwest winters and in the throes of raising six children. She is a feminist of sorts, though I doubt that word is even in her vernacular. She’s been an avid reader and would put down her newspaper at day’s end to tune in to David Letterman. She cracks up at the irreverent jokes, nary a blush passing her cheeks. As a child, her mind and mouth were always running. It’s been much the same in the years I’ve know her. I imagine her as a female version of Dennis the Menace. Even now.

I never grew up around the elderly. I have only vague memories of my own grandparents and never spent any meaningful time with them. The first time I ever spent significant time with the aging was when I visited Manitowoc, Wisconsin back in the late 90s with my boyfriend (now my husband, Mac Daddy). It seemed that his small town was teeming with aging family members, and admittedly, at first I was a tish uncomfortable. Of course that has since all changed. Most of the people I met all those years ago have passed, the oldest living to 102.

Laverne, fragile and weak, remains with us. She is a testament to Midwest sensibilities and grit. There was a time we bickered about whose family passed down the stubborn genes. I think we can confirm they came from Laverne’s lineage. But gone are the days of her romping in the park like a giggling girl, splaying out on the family room carpet to play Perfection with the boys, or shooting hoops granny style in the driveway. She’s been a marvel all these years, a picture of spunk. It’s haunting to see just a glimpse of the spirited woman she once was. Her curly mop has thinned so that there’s more scalp than hair. Her cheeks are no longer round and rosy, her stature hunched, her voice a whisper. You’ll still catch her with newspaper in hand, reading glasses atop her head as if she too is denying the trappings of aging. She spends much of her days in the bed that’s been moved to the living room, a caregiver or family member holding constant vigil, ready to nurture and offer care as scant repayment for what she’s done for others all this time.

She speaks very little these days so we treasure her stories even more. We  find ourselves leaning in to hear her and furrowing our brows to make sense of what she’s uttered. Her memories are perhaps fleeting, and she wavers in an ethereal place that never quite reaches lucidity. From one moment to the next we question if she even recognizes us. We’ve learned to temper our expectations. But then there’s an ever so slight spark in her eye and a faint squeeze of her hand on my arm, and I know she knows. When we saw her last she told us to have a safe trip. The heft of these simple words are immeasurable and poignant as they were proof that she recognized us and knew we traveled from afar to see her.

Through the outbursts, confusion, and sorrow, there are flashes of brightness. Though dementia is beginning its grip on her, it doesn’t define her. They say that dignity is the first thing to go. We paradoxically transform from parent to child and vice versa as  we age. Such is the nature of things, the underbelly of aging that we shirk from but eventually succumb to.

I don’t think her story has ever been told. This is merely a start, for 87 rides around the planet make for a rich tale. While it seems a simple woman from a tiny town in Wisconsin has lead an unremarkable life, one that has not reached far beyond her own geographic borders, the contrary is actually true. Laverne’s life has indeed been remarkable. She’s been a quiet force, a steadfast ally, a loving mother, an indulging grandmother, an opinionated voter, and more.

I offer thanks to this woman, Laverne, for giving me her greatest gift, her equally tough yet tender son, my husband. She set an example for a young child who grew up be a feminist, a father who parents instead of babysits, and a man who sees the simple things and the fine things as synonymous. I look to her relationship with my husband, her youngest son, to learn how to parent my own sons. I see how he’s gentle and holds her hand, rubbing it gingerly as he remembers the years before when her hands were strong, her skin taut. Most importantly, she debunked stereotypes and taught both me and my children that mothers-in-law must not be beastly and grandmas can be badass.