Martha's Daughter's Diary - 1998

August 5, 1998

My mother loved her daughter; did your's?  Not all mothers love their   children; and not all children love their mothers.  I am lucky and unlucky   in this kind of love.  So grateful, Mom, to have been born.  So   grateful, Mom, to have been your's.  No exceptions.

August 1, 1998

I am reading a wonderful book that I bought on auction online.  It   is called "Hour of Gold, Hour of Lead" by Anne Morrow Lindbergh.  It   is the story of AML's life -- in letters and diary entries.  One piece   has stayed with me -- every moment of this day -- it was written about the   kidnapping and murder of her 18 month old son, but could apply to us motherless   daughters as well:

"Contrary to the general assumption, the first days of grief are not the   worst.  The immediate reaction is usually shock and numbing disbelief.    One has undergone an amputation.  After shock comes acute early   grief which is a kind of  'condensed presence' -- almost a form of   possession.  One still feels the lost limb down to the nerve endings.    It is as if the intensity of grief fused the distance between you and   the dead.  Or perhaps, in reality, part of one dies.  Like Orpheus,   one tries to follow the dead on the beginning of their journey.  But   one cannot, like Orpheus, go all the way, and after a long journey one comes   back.  If one is lucky, one is reborn.  Some people die and are   reborn many times in their lives.  For others the ground is too barren   and the time too short for rebirth.  Part of the process is the growth   of a new relationship with the dead, that 'veritable ami mort' Saint-Exupery   speaks of.  Like all gestation, it is a slow dark wordless process.    While it is taking place, one is painfully vulnerable.  One must   guard and protect the new life growing within -- like a child....

July 18, 1998

I'm feeling badly because my journal entries are becoming few and far   between.  That is not at all due to missing Mom any less or thinking   about her less, simply to time constraints and my own efforts to try to avoid   as much pain as I can.  Sometimes keeping this site going becomes more   painful than comforting to me.  That's when I go to the guestbook and   read the entries of my new friends, comrades in the trenches, those who have   lost their moms also (and some who have not).  Your strength and kindness   pushes me on!

July 9th would have been Martha's 79th birthday, but anyone who knew her   knows that she did not seem old.  Her sense of humor and childlike innocence   kept her young, not to mention the traveling and other things she did to   stay active.  On her birthday, scores of the wildflowers I planted in   her memorial garden began to bloom.  I added another balloon.  And   lots of water and TLC.  The vivid colors of the flowers remind me of   mom. She always dressed in bright colors in her later years.  I imagine   her still shining brightly.  Wherever she is.  

Wherever you are, Mom.  Please know you are loved.

I found myself working and thinking about last year at this time.    Heather and I were together, wading through piles of photographs and   planning my mother's memorial service, mass and funeral.  It is always   a blessing to me to see her photograph -- one more testament to her presence   and love.  I re-read the eulogy I spoke at the cemetary last June 24th.    A year later, it still says what I want it to.  She would have   liked it.  She did like it, for somehow I know that she has heard it;   somehow she is near to us now.

Tomorrow is Father's Day.  I am a fatherless daughter as well but   I wish all my dear friends and family a Happy Father's Day.  God knows   we need all the joy and celebration we can find.

June 19, 1998

D-day so to speak.  We hit the one-year mark today.  I made   it through -- spent the day with a special friend.  We watched a video   of my mother; a funny and cute and endearing one.  The first part takes   place in Atlantic City (one of her favorite places) and the second one on   a cruise.  Martha loved to travel.  Traveling with her was like   seeing the world through the eyes of a toddler -- everything was fresh and   new and fun and embellished by those sparkling Irish eyes -- her mother,   my grandmother, had those same eyes twinkling devilish blue eyes.  They   make me smile everytime I think of them.  My eyes are different; green.    I never understood why that happened since Mom and Dad's eyes were   blue.  I must be a throwback to something.  I guess in many ways   I am.  After the video we watched "Independence Day".  As usual   I am behind the times.  Most people saw that movie a long time ago.    When Mom was alive I didn't see many movies.  I was too busy laughing,   too busy having a good time.

As I reflect back on the past year, I question myself as to what has gotten   me through this.  The love of my family and friends.  And my faith.    The faith that Martha and I will be united again.  If I didn't   believe that I couldn't go on.  If I didn't feel that, I wouldn't go   on.  If I didn't know that ....  

Happy 1st anniversary in heaven, Mommy.  I love you more than ever.    I miss you more than you can ever imagine.  I know we will meet   again, laugh again, and I will see those devilish eyes twinkling again.

Do you know that you are going to be a great-grandmother?  And that   your baby (me) is going to be a grandma?  How did the years pass so   quickly my dear?  It seems like I blinked, and then you were gone.

June 18, 1998

I remember last June 18th -- it feels like it was just yesterday.  The   surgery.  The waiting.  More surgery.  More waiting.  Still   more surgery and more waiting.  The pain has not dulled; for today it   is as sharp as a nail hammered into my brain.  I am nearly immobile.    Unable to move.

This too shall pass I hear her say.  The voice is one I know so well.    It belongs to my mother.

June 17, 1998

There's a big empty space where my heart used to be.

June 15, 1998

Today is Daddy's 8th anniversary in heaven.  Hi Dad!  I miss   you.  I wish you were here, especially now when there's so much turmoil   and so much pain.  I remember you used to tell me to stop worrying so   much.  "Think about what you were worrying about a year ago, and I bet   you can't remember," you'd tell me.  I always remembered what I worried   about.  I still do.  It's a habit.  It's a hobby.  It's   a way of life.  But it was nice having Dad there to lean on and lean   against even if we did butt heads more than occasionally and were perhaps   too much more alike than either of us ever cared to imagine.  Years   ago I would have considered that comparison an insult; today it is a compliment   supreme.

This is an extremely painful time.  It has to do with the first   anniversary of my mother's passing over on Friday, June 19th, and my daughter's   21st birthday on June 17th, and Dad's anniversary today, and a new life which   may fall to the kindness of strangers when its own family and friends have   already formed a circle of love, which never in my wildest dreams did I ever   anticipate that this would happen, and for the first time in nearly a year   I am grateful that Martha is not here, that Eddie is not here, and that Rose   Dooley is not here to witness.  To say that their hearts would be broken   would be an understatement for them as it is for me.  To say that their   hearts would go out to her as mine does now would be minimalizing the love   of 21 years which grew daily; I thank God I did not choose this way, never   knowing her, and never sharing her with the family.  Reunions 20 years   hence never make up for each moment of a lifetime.  I want to tell her   that and more, but she does not listen and I am forbidden to speak except   to close friends and to images of my dear sweet mother in the darkness of   the night.

Also, my house is not in order physically; still a mass of destruction   from the truck incident back in February.  Now more walls are being   torn down.  What a mess.  I suppose this is a distraction from   the other, albeit not a welcome one.

Will I ever stop complaining?  When the dirt hits the box, I will   probably be bitching about something.  That's me.  And Martha always   listened and sympathized and empathized and understood.  That's the   kind of mother I have tried to be.  In a way that is the kind of mother   I am.

May 28, 1998

To see a world in a

Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in

a wild Fower,

Old Infinity in the

Palm of your hand,

And Eternity in

an hour.

(William Blake)

May 22, 1998

It is a surprise to any of us that as mothers we can be disowned, fired,   our employment terminated without so much as a week's severance pay or access   to a generous pension.  My mother was disowned -- without so much as   a pink slip or a slip of the tongue, thrown into the giant pool of nearly   intolerable pain reserved only for mothers by two foolish, childish, selfish,   and hateful sons who had nothing better to do with their lives than to torture   the woman who gave them both this wonderful gift of life and totally   unconditional love.

Perhaps, to prepare each mother for this possibiolity of being stripped   of her title (like some time-worn prize fighter), without warning, a disclaimer   should be added to all birth certificates issued to new moms along with their   tender bundle of job, saying something like, "The mother named herein is   licensed to remain said child's mother only as long as said child agrees   to this arrangement.  This agreement may be severed at any time by said   child, with or without notice, and for any period of time desired by the   child with absolutely no spiritual, social, financial, or emotional consequences   to said child at anytime."

In this way, mothers would be forewarned that our days as moms are   numbered.

Martha used to say, "Anniegirl, the dogs are the only children who never   disappoint me. And you, of course."

I hear you, Mom.  I hear you loud and clear.

April 3, 1998

I am feeling ashamed of myself -- more ashamed of myself than I can put   into words at this point as I have been neglecting Martha's Kitchen (as evidenced   by the lack of diary entries as well as my tardiness in uploading updates   and memorials).  I apologize to all.  

I have been in a funk, a real funk of missing my mom, of facing the spring   and Easter and Mother's Day without her, of facing life itself without her.    And having my house hit by the truck, hassling with insurance companies,   contractors, and others has not helped my mood nor my disposition.  Mom   was the one person in the world who never criticized my mood (or anything   else)  -- it was that unconditional love of her's that always shined   through.  God, I miss that.  With all of my heart.  

The lady with the brown thumb (me!) decided to plant a memorial garden   in the real-world for my mom.  I have been buying seeds and tools and   am planning it as best as I can plan something I've never been successful   at.  I don't want to go to the cemetery to "visit" my mom, I want something   very beautiful to visit in her honor right here at home.  And so I am   giving this a try.  I figure it has to work.  Mom's there helping   me out (but she had a browner thumb than I do!).  Oh well, the love   is there.  And hopefully the flowers will be, too.  Happy Spring.    Happy Day.  Thanks for being there to listen and to share.

March 1, 1998

We're going into another month without you, Mom.  How can that be?    I never imagined that this world could continue without you.  I   never imagined that I would or could continue on without you.  Yet we   have, the world and I.  Keeping you close to our hearts.  I speak   to you often, sharing so much with you, listening so carefully for the whispers,   hoping that I will hear your sweet, loving sounds once again.  Spring   is coming, Mom.  My first spring without you.  Somehow the concept   of "firsts" doesn't matter anymore.  I have a feeling that years from   now I'll be writing, "Spring is coming, Mom.  My twentieth spring without   you."  And somehow, even then, I still won't believe that you are   gone.

February 17, 1998

My neighbor took pictures at the scene of the accident and gave them to   me today.  My breath caught in my chest as the realization of how bad   it could have been hit me.  We are all so fortunate here -- me, Tchotchkes,   Gildarad, Manda, and those who love us.

February 16, 1998

I keep reminding myself that this problem is fixable.  Yes, the house   is a mess. It's cold in here.  And it's rather depressing.  But   all of this, every last bit of it can be fixed.

I heard from my friend Melissa today.  She is grieving heavily for   her father who passed away after the holidays.  Melissa is a sweet young   woman, bright and articulate.  And although I've never seen her face,   I'm sure she is as beautiful on the outside as she is within. Please keep   Missy in your prayers.  Losing your father hurts so much, too -- and   Missy is far too young to have to be going through this.  She is a special   person.  Hugs for you, Missy.  I know it doesn't feel like it now,   but you will make it through this.  And your friends, the motherless   daughters, will be there to see you through.

February 15, 1998

I keep thinking about Mom -- about how she would handle this.  What   would she say/do to make us feel better?  The answers come quickly to   me:

She would say, "This could only happen toYOU, Anniegirl."

She would say, "Let's have some tea and cookies."

She would say, "Let's go shopping, and I'll buy you a toy." (probably   something for my computer)

She would say, "Let's go to the diner and have a nice, quiet meal."

Then she would say.  "Don't cry, Anniegirl.  We have each other.    Everything will be okay."

February 12, 1998

It's difficult to focus here.  A truck hit my house and much damage   was done to the house. Thankfully, the pets are fine, no one was hurt, and   I suppose the damage will be repaired.  It's really difficult to deal   with this though and I find myself wondering about Mom's reaction (if she   were still here).  She'd be trying to help me all the way -- and I'd   be there for her, too.  I feel her near me now, so I suppose little   has changed with her passing.  In my heart it feels like everything   has changed.  The world, my life, the structure of my house.  Walls   are gone.  Doors gone.  The house is boarded up like a shack, broken   and worn, shattered pieces like shattered dreams littering the landscape.    This is a problem that can be dealt with.  It's one of the fixable   ones.  It's the unfixable things that we cannot deal with.  The   loss of our loves, the loss of our moms.  Broken hearts.

When the contractor called for directions to my house, I directed him.    Then he said, "It's dark.  How will I find your house?"

My answer came quickly.  "It's the house with the red pickup truck   parked in the living room and the front of the house blown away.  It's   the only house that looks that way on this road.  You'll see it, "  I   told him.  "You can't miss it in fact."

"Is one piece of plywood enough to board up the hole?" he wants to know.

I shake my head, forgetting that he cannot see me.

"Can the door be put back on its hinges?" he asks.

"What door?" I ask.  "What hinges?"  "There's no door, there's   no hinges, there's no doorframe, the wall is gone, too.  You'd better   bring a truck load of wood," I tell him, "and a huge box of Kleenex for   me."

If Mom was here, she'd be handing the tissues to me one by one.  An   angel if there ever was one.  I'm lucky I tell myself.  I still   have a roof over my head -- even if it's half gone and sagging.  I know   that somehow all will be well.  Remember I remind myself.  This   is one of the fixable problems.

February 3, 1998

7:45 P.M. EST

January 24, 1998

You know Jack ("Book him, Danno") Lord died this week.  He was   77.  One of Martha's very favorite actors, he starred in the television   series "Hawaii Five O".  In 1992, I took Mom on a vacation to Hawaii,   and she was thrilled because one of the hosts at a luau we went to had appeared   on one of the "Five O" episodes.  He wasn't a famous actor; in fact,   neither we nor anyone else at the luau knew who he was (he was murdered in   the very first scene of the show I recall him saying), but Mom was delighted   to meet a real actor who had worked with Jack Lord.  Jack retired to   Hawaii after the show stopped production and lived there until his death.

 I remember teasing Mom, telling her that if she wanted to marry   Jack Lord, he would have to agree to move to the mainland as both she and   I were one of the few people who disliked Hawaii.  We did have a lot   of laughs though -- we giggled throughout the day and night that the drapes   were stolen from our hotel room and we both laughed when, after a 24 battle   to get to Hawaii, we finally made it to our hotel, only to discover that   our luggage had not.  We were hot, tired, grubby, and more.  I   said to Mom, "Listen, I'm calling the airport.  I want to go home.  I   just hate this place.  Our luggage will catch up with us whenever."    Martha dangled her swollen legs in front of me and  laughed.    "You'll have to fly me home in a body bag," she told me.  "I'll   be dead before we reach California," she laughed.  Then she said something   about how she had her panties on so long that they could probably walk back   to New York by themselves.  Then I complained about the tiny beds in   the room, the soiled carpet (but at least our drapes hadn't yet been stolen),   and we collapsed in the room laughing our butts off.  We giggled half   the night.  Especially after I told Mom how I managed to get her luggage   (and the treasured panties) back pronto.  I told the airlines that she   was diabetic, that her insulin was in our lugage, and she needed it NOW.    We had our suitcases (all six of them, we were never known for traveling   light), within the hour and tried to make the best of the rest of the trip.    By the way, Mom wasn't diabetic.  There was no insulin in our   bags.  But we both had those Cheshire Cat grins on our faces as we slipped   into our fresh underwear.

So, I lied in Hawaii.  It was just a little white lie.  It was   instrumental in getting our luggage back.  Okay, I'm guilty.  I   admit it.  "Book me, Danno".  And Mom?  Jack's on his way   up.  Give him a big hug for me.

January 23, 1998

A difficult situation recently arose for me which, unfortunately, I cannot   share here.  The people involved and the situation are not that important   anyway.  What is important is that feeling utterly frustrated and impossibly   challenged, I looked upward towards the heavens and pleaded with Martha to   sprinkle some of her angel's dust on the people involved to help them see   the light of reason.  Thanks, Mom!  I know you are always there   for me!

January 22, 1998

Today I am borrowing a journal entry from Henry David Thoreau.  Here   is his 0h-so-very-touching entry dated January 22, 1856:

"Most were not aware of the size of the great elm till it was cut down,   ... I have attended the felling and, so to speak, the funeral of this old   citizen of the town -- I who commonly do not attend funerals -- as it became   me to do.  I was the chief if not the only mourner there.  I have   taken the measure of his grandeur; have spoken a few words of eulogy at his   grave, remembering the maxim de mortuis nil nisi bonum (in this case   magnum).  But there were only the choppers and the passers-by to hear   me.  Further the town was not represented; the fathers of the town,   the selectmen, the clergy were not there.  But I have not known a fitter   occasion for a sermon of late.  Travellers whose journey was for a short   time delayed by its prostrate body were forced to pay it some attention and   respect, but the axe-boys had climbed upon it like ants, and commenced chipping   at it before it had fairly ceased groaning.  There was a man already   bargaining for some part.  How have the mighty fallen!  Its history   extends back over more than half the whole history of the town ....Methinks   its fall marks an epoch in the history of the town.  It has passed away   together with the clergy of the old school and the stage-coach which used   to rattle beneate it.  Its virtue was that it steadily grew and expanded   from year to year to the very last.  How much of old Concord falls with   it!  Our town has lost some of its venerableness.  No longer will   our eyes rest on its massive gray trunk, like a vast Corinthian column by   the wayside; no longer shall we walk in the shade of its lofty, spreading   dome.  It is as if you had laid the axe at the feet of some venerable   Buckley or Ripley.  You have laid the axe, you have made fast your tackle,   to one of the king-posts of the town.  I feel the whole building wracked   by it.  Is is not sacrilege to cut down the tree which has so long looked   over Concord beneficently?"

This passage brought our mothers to mind.  Strong, sturdy, and loved.    Chopped down too early.  Too soon gone.

January 21, 1998

Some special wishes for some special friends.  Love to Pam and her   son, Ben.  Ben undergoes open heart surgery in New Orleans today.  Our   prayers are with you.

A special hug to Melissa Noel whose dear father lost his battle with lung   cancer on January 4th, 1998.  Melissa please know that you and your   family are in our prayers, too.

January 18, 1998

Today would have been Martha's wedding anniversary.  No, not the   one with my father.  Her wedding anniversary with her first husband   ("the hunk") -- they would have been married 62 years -- but they were separated   after 3 years (1939) and divorced in 1945, and then she married my father.    I wonder if she's seen her first husband since she's been in the new   place.  She used to wonder aloud if she would see her parents, her brother,   her sister, her friends, her grandparents who died long before she was born.    Ma, are they up there?  Are you happy now?  I wish you could   come home for just a little while.

January 17,1998

Well, I'm almost afraid to put these words down on paper, but I think   I am finally getting over the flu.  Oh yes I went to work all week,   kind of dragged myself around, pretending not to notice the dirty looks clients   and staff gave me as I coughed all over them. "Well," I wanted to say, "someone   gave this to me!"  

Unfortunately my telephone line has not recovered from the recent noreaster,   and I am, once again, unable to get on line.  I really miss it, too.    In lieu of talking to my Internet friends and updating my web site,   doing some CL work for Wellesley, surfing the net, or working on a web site   for a friend, I've been painting moldings and hammering them back into the   wall.  There was one particular piece of molding that seemed to be   impenetrable (I hope there's such a word) when it came to me trying to hammer   a nail through it.  A big nail, a small nail.  It didn't matter   what size nail I tried to blast through that wood or what kind of hammer   I used, I simply could not get that sucker to go through it.  So finally,   I called on my father, a truly talented carpenter who has been dead since   1990 and asked him to help me.  Lo and behold, less than a minute later   that sucker went through the wood into the wall and voila -- the molding   was in place. ( Never mind that I hammered it in upside down....).    Finally it was in and right side up, too.  I was a mighty proud   homeowner.

What's the point of this story?  Well, do you ever find yourself   chatting with your mother (or your father) who is not on this earth anymore?    It's a pretty healthy thing for us motherless daughters (and fatherless   daughters) to do, you know.  Asking them for help.  Sharing the   challenges of our day.  Sharing our love with them still.  I often   find myself speaking to Martha, asking for advice, telling her how loved   and missed she is.  I can almost hear her talking to me now.  "I'm   here, Anniegal," she would say.  "I'm listening."  And then there   would be that adorable Irish chuckle.  "And, tell me Anniegal," she   would continue, "Daddy wants to know how you ever hammered that molding on   the wall upside down."

January 13, 1998

I'm tired tonight, very tired and just recovering from 10 days of those   "flu-like" syptoms, but I had to get online to check out Martha's Message   Board and to check my email for any memorials for Martha's Memorial Garden   that came in and to look at my guest book.

When I read the message board and the guest book, I cried.  There   seems to be so much pain surrounding the deaths of our mothers, and most   of the time my pain seems to be overwhelming and I cannot manage to see through   it.  It covers everything in my world with this thick, foggy film that   light can barely get through.  And then I read one of your notes (*you*   -- the women who visit this site regularly) in the guest book or in my email   or on the message board, and I realize that there are motherless daughters   whose pain is even greater than my own.  My heart goes out to you, you   know, more than I can say.  My love goes out to you, and my arms    reach out to hug you.  This is a unique and lengthy journey that   we are on now.  I'm so glad, so very grateful that we are walking this   road together.  Thank you being there; thank you for taking the time   to share.

January 9, 1998

I have been unable to upload the updates to my web sites.  I have   been unable to retrieve my email or to access anything on the Internet.  In   a word, I have been offline.  Isn't that depressing?  No, my ISP   isn't down.  And my modem is working.  It seems that there are   problems with my telephone line due to our recent rain hemmorhage.  Hmm.    What problems you ask (and so did the Bell Atlantic Repair Operator).    Problems like tremendous static on the line ("I don't hear it," the   operator told me, "You sound clear as a bell.").  Problems like my telephone   ringing in one room and not the other.  Problems like eight people on   the line at once ("Yes, I counted the voices, operator, and I'm sure there   were eight.") and not one of those eight people can hear me!  

It used to be (only last year in fact when NYNEX was our telephone company) that when you had a repair request, you dialed 611. I tried that today -- a bad move! Now that we have Bell Atlantic (and frankly my dear, that Hollywood voice that announces Bell Atlantic scares me. And it scares Heather, too), we must dial a seven-digit number rather than six-eleven. Then you press 1 for this and 2 for that. You get the picture. And then finally we hear a live human voice (I believe that's what it was), and we're told that there isn't any problem with our line but that within a week someone will come out to check it. Life really isn't simple anymore is it. And in fact, I want to install second telephone line again, like the one I had when my mother lived here, but I still have the flu and I'm concerned about having enough stamina to get through the phone call. That can wait until next week.

And so I prattle on. What's the point? Heather would ask me now.There is no point really, except that I'm sick and isolated from my family, friends, and work, having only mom's cat, and Gildarad, and the unibeagle here for company; except that I am offline and unable to communicate with the world. And being sick, the point is that I have no real life. And that realization came to me at the very second that I was watching Newt Gingrich eulogize Sonny Bono, and tears were running down my face. I realized then that I have to get over this flu -- and quickly -- before I lose my mind all together!

Yes, Mom, I'm okay! I'm feeling better by the day. I promise that I won't cry over silly things that don't really affect my life anymore.

January 8, 1998

It has been raining here for so many days now that I am seriously considering building an ark. Any takers?

January 7, 1998

When I heard the news about the death of Sonny Bono yesterday, I thought of his chidlren, espeically Chastity, the one we know more so than the others, and her new role as a fatherless daughter. I am one of those, too, It is painful to lose your father, and in this case, it seems it's not easy for America to lose our fine and funny friend and congressman either.

Moving forward probably won't be any easier for Chastity than it is for us. The amount of fame and money in your pocket doesn't matter when you must bid a parent adieu prematurely (and when isn't it premature, I wonder). I still hold my dad in a very special place in my heart, and as I grow older, I find that I become more like he was during his life -- strong and intelligent -- and yes, a BIT belligerent, eccentric, and at times (though I hate to admit it) compulsive about certain things.

Perhaps Chastity will follow in her father's footsteps and throw herself into the political ring. It's quite possible, you know, that she too will follow in her father's footsteps. While I am not an air conditioning engineer like my dad was, I know that I am (at times) belligerent, eccentric, and compulsive. I am proud of that! She must take after her father, too. To that I say, "Go for it, girl!"

January 6, 1998

I hate being sick. And when I am sick, I hate being alone. At this very moment, I am both alone and sick *cough* *sneeze* You get the picture! Dealing with an albeit minor illness on my own is not, as you now know, one of my favorite things. Although I am battling this flu-like thing that I have (it cannot be the flu can it? After all, Annie was a good girl and got a flu shot, which also gave her flu-like symptoms, back in October), I am finding a sense of comfort in caring for myself through this illness.

Hey Mom, I am surviving another freakin' growth experience! Do you hear me, Mom? I'm doing it!

January 4, 1998

I found myself watching a re-run (often referred to as an "encore presentation" in the same way that automobiles formerly known as used cars are now referred to as previously owned) of "The Rockford Files" this evening -- my mom's favorite television show.  Martha had a "thing" for James Garner, she felt a sort of vicarious fascination with him.  She saw a close physical resemblance between Jim and one of her sons which she translated into an emotional and spiritual resemblance as well.; To me, the physical similarities were minimal, the spiritual and emotional non-existent, but I never came right out and told her so. I didn't want to burst her bubble.

Anyway, there was a scene on this show where the location reminded me of the Atlantic City Expressway, just before you encounter the casinos and the "new" Atlantic City. That scene reminded me of the many three and four-day trips Mom and I took to A.C., our fascination with the eight-miles of boardwalk as well as its tiny, bargain-basement shops, the remains of the Steel Pier, the beautiful architecture of old. Most of that architecture is gone now, mere memories of days gone by. Much of the old came crashing down to make room for the newer buildings, huge skyscraping, oceanfront hotels and casinos with names like Trump and Caesar's. Mega-stores like Warner Brothers and mega-cafes like Planet Hollywood dot the beachfront landscape as well curiously seeking to suck the very life out of the frozen custard and the salt water taffy stands.

Do you know what though? The casinos fascinate me as much as the old buildings do. Yes, at first I hated them; later on loved them, and all because I dared to give the new buildings the chance to charm me.

And so I now attempt to incorporate this Atlantic City epiphany into my 1998 life; to allow its newness to seek its level and find its own place among the memories and sometimes even the ruins of my older life.

And do you want to know something? At least for right now, during this very minutes as I type, I am filled with a sense of hope that the old me and the new me, the marvelous memories as well as the wretched ruins, will learn at last to co-exist peacefully and become one. And I think this is Martha's wish for me.

January 1, 1998

A sense of dread overwhelmed me last night, enveloped me, like a suffocating cloud. I did not want to move on to this new year, fought against it ferociously.It was a silly idea really, to think that one solitary motherless daughter can stop the clock. I gave it a good try though. I was unable and unwilling to go peacefully into the new year without my mother. This is the first year I entered without her, and somehow I felt disloyal at leaving her behind in 1997. The memories came with me. And so did the love.But my mother is in some faraway other place. She is in a place where I cannot now dare to go, and I am in a place where I sometimes cannot bear to be.