In the Labyrinth

My Mother's Face

A little indulgence here -- as I go through the family photos (there are a lot of them, expect to see them over the coming months -- this is a novel slowly unfolding). I was struck how much alike were these two "glamour" head shots -- the first of my mother at about 20 (maybe even a wee bit younger judging by her hair style). She had left the farm at North Dakota to go to school at Berkeley (at 16 years old) and then a year later at UCLA. Her mother, Jeanette Westergaard was working as a script writer in Hollywood (under the name of Mahoney...another long story) and thought her daughter needed up-grading. Hair, make-up and glamour shots, washing out the farm girl face. My photo -- taken twenty years later was a promotional photo for the theatre. I was, at 16 playing the role of "Sandy" in Muriel Spark's "The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie." Hence the photo for the playbook.

This second pairing is funny -- the same photo of me (different version) but my mother at forty -- and I realized with some humor that we are both wearing the same sweater. I can't remember now who owned it first. We lived together more like roommates rather than mother and daughter so it's possible that we would have shared this rather nice sweater. I think we both liked the slight ruffle at the neck. I have no idea who took this photo of her, but I love it. She was strangely ageless, and here, without make up and with those 70's bangs, she looks more like the North Dakota farm girl again.

Breathing In, Breathing Out.

 

 

My mother, Jeanette Marie Snyder, passed away early this morning, and though I am very sad to lose her, I am relieved that her long-suffering with cancer has also passed. And she picked a remarkable day for it is also the date on which Miguel de Cervantes and William Shakespeare died. And it is the feast of St George -- which, according to my daughter -- is celebrated in Barcelona by exchanging roses and literature. Perfect, and to add a Tucson twist, we will drink a few celebratory shots of tequila.

It has been a long journey for her -- and the last month was really hard. She was of the "do not go gentle into that good night" sort of woman, so it was a slow dying, with moments of angry rebellion, and then finally, with enough morphine to remove the pain, a more peaceful but still determined resistance to cast off the mortal coil. I know this about her -- she was stubborn. Even as her systems shut down, her heart was still strong. I awoke yesterday morning with the image of her, somewhere in her head, conversing with a group of confused angels, refusing to leave until she had fully explained to them the intricacies of Tibetan culture...a last and long lecture...to get out all she had wanted to say and write about these last years. Only when she was done talking, only when the light of understanding reached those heavenly and patient faces, would she then rise and go with them. I loved that about her.