Martha's Daughter's Diary - 2000
8 December 2000
It's always difficult for me to start writing. Not writer's block exactly, simply difficulty in focusing on what is still such a painful time for me. I guess it's the avoidance of pain that keeps me from writing. The odd thing is that by *not* writing, I can't avoid the pain anymore than when I *do* write. It's a no-win situation, I suppose, even after 3-1/2 years.Right now a family member is in the hospital facing critical surgeries and I have been there many days with her and her husband. I pray for her when I'm not there, and I cry a great deal when I am not there. In public, Annie always shows a strength of character and never sheds a tear. In fact I was thinking of how I gave Martha's eulogy, dry-eyed and clear voiced the day we buried her. Never shed a tear. Don't let them see how you are aching inside. I guess that is a big part of who I am and just who I was taught to be, more from my Dad than Martha.
All of this hospital stuff is getting to me now. Machines and sugeons. Waiting rooms and sick people. ICU's and Recovery rooms. We are up to surgery #3 this week with many more to go, and I so admire my cousin, her strength and her fortitude. She is a role model for us all. I am scared, too. And angry. And in the off times, I am filled with the losses of the past -- of my mother, my father, my husband, and so many family members and friends that it is impossible to even begin to count them anymore. I tell God that he has been unfair to me. I tell him that he has perhaps made a mistake by taking so much from me. And then I hear the whisper. The whisper that asks if I also complain about receiving too many good things and being given so much. Then I know I have crossed the line, that I need to give thanks to Him and to trust Him with my life and with my cousin's life and to believe that He will do what is the best.
Time like this are not easy. Not for any of us. Times like this hurt. There is more pain. I still, at times, can remember Martha with such joy and such love and there is so much to be thankful for. Especially the baby. My granddaughter. My mother's great-granddaughter. I wish they knew one another, and sometimes I think they do. Perhaps they passed one another in transit so to speak. One coming here, one going there. I like to think that. I really do.
12 November 2000
Martha voted in every election. Her husband only voted for Democrats. He said that was the working man's party. Martha wasn't tied to any particular party, choosing to vote for the best candidate. And this election would have made her crazy. I can hear her voice now, asking how many time and in how many different ways we will count the same small pieces of paper over and over. And how many accusations will fly from how many corners of the country? And how many lawyers do they all need, she would ask. And do you know what? Martha would be right. Enough is enough. Count the votes honestly, pick the winner, and be done with it. That's what Martha would have told us.
Of course Martha isn't here today. She didn't vote although I thought of her, as always, on Election Day. As I entered the booth, I felt that something was missing. It was, and it was she. Missing -- my partner in voting. I would tease her each year, asking who her candidate of choice was, tease her that if her choice did not match mine (and it frequently didn't!), that she should call a cab to get to the polling place because she would not be riding with me. Martha would laugh, and so would I. Then we would get into my car and go to the polling place and cast our ballots. Then we would have dinner at the diner, and over cheesecake for dessert, Martha and I would debate the virtues of our candidates, smile and one another and head for home.
Politicians. Listen up. Show some integrity. Demonstrate some dignity. Those who didn't understand the ballot they cast, learn a lesson for the next time and ask if you don't understand the format of your voting vehicle. Enough is enough. Count the votes. All of them that meet the guidelines to be counted. Count the overseas ballots. Count them all correctly (including New Mexico, please, and the other states). Then publish the results, name the president, and let's move on. And for the loser, whoever you are. Get over it. Move on. And better luck next time. That's what Martha would say to you all.
11 November 2000
As I hung my flag out today in honor of Veterans Day, I thought of my father. Edward, a proud American, possessed an exemplary service record and was honored to have served his country. Here in what is known as my computer room, his war medals are housed in a frame of his making, and I see them daily, ever reminded of his bravery. On a very special day I enrolled Dad in the World War II Memorial; we are charter members, he and I. And another very special man. Dick Betts. Mr. Betts also served his country. And while covering a dangerous mission over the China Sea, Mr. Betts' plane was shot down. Neither he nor the plane were ever found. It was my honor as well as my duty and my privilege to enroll Mr. Betts in the Memorial for he died too young and never had children of his own. Thanks to his bravery and to the Divine, my father was spared, and I was later born. Say thank you to a veteran today and every day. And please support the World War II Memorial. It is time that we say thank you to those who proudly served our nation and helped to keep us free. These men and women are dying at the rate of 1,200 per day -- there are only 5.5 million left alive. It is our duty to thank them, to honor them, and to remember them. And to those who have sought to stop the memorial by filing suit to keep it out of Washington D.C. and off the mall, shame on you! SHAME ON YOU! Mothers everywhere sacrificed their sons (and their daughters) and it is up to us to shine a light on their special sacrifices and bravery.
July 9, 2000
Today is Martha's birthday! Her 81st! And I have been trying to think of a way to celebrate but can't come up with anything besides thinking of *her* mother giving birth to her and the joy she brought to her parents, siblings, and later on to her husband, friends, and most importantly, her daughter. I love you, Mommy. That's the song that is within my heart. It is sometimes still the only song I can sing. Not an hour ever goes by that I don't think of her, smile about her, and just plain ache for her. Last night Heather, Tim, Morra, Heather's sister Kat, and I were at a huge outdoor philharmonic concert with fireworks and I kept thinking about how Martha would have loved this. We ran into friends and neighbors there; Martha would have loved that. Martha really enjoyed life. She enjoyed everything and seemed to treasure each moment. That perhaps is the greatest lesson of all. Today we are making the memories we will dream about tomorrow. For those of you who join me here, I wish each of your mothers a happy birthday -- and may you make special memories today that you will indeed treasure tomorrow.
Happy Birthday Mommy From You Forever Loving Daughter!
June 17, 2000
Happy 23rd birthday to Heather! So many times I have wondered why your birthday was sandwiched in between the anniversaries of my parents' deaths. I guess it is a day to have joy and leave sorrow behind. Having you was the best day of my life. May God bless you always. You are a joy to me.
June 15, 2000
This is Martha's web site, but Edward was indeed a big part of Martha's life. Today is the *10th* anniversary of his death. Daddy I miss you. So many times I think I wish you were here to talk to me. Once Daddy dies, the little girl disappears. There is truly no one to protect her anymore.
Memorial Day 2000
It's 8:35 PM on Monday and I am in Amagansett without Magnificent Morra in tow. Magnificent Morra and her cast of thousands -- shopping cart, pack & play, high chair, play dishes, real dishes, play food, real food, books, blankets, clothing, diapers, wipes, swim diapers, bathing suit, and on and on. So much stuff for one small girl! She will be back tomorrow to use all those things we have brought with us and to share her smiles and joy.We had a wonderful weekend, Morra and I. Martha must be smiling!
26 May 2000
I sit here crosslegged on the bed in my summer place in Amagansett, Long Island, silently watching my delicious granddaughter, Morrighan Leigh, sleep. She sleeps crossways in the fold-up crib, her tiny legs gent at the knees with her feet propped halfway up the side of the crib. Delicious? Yes. I could very well eat her up, this one and a half year old munchkin. Her nedless smiles and find-joy-in-everything-you-do attitude brings the definitive pleasure of life to me, her forty-six year old grandmother.
Since my mother's tragic death in 1997 and Morra's birth in late 1998, I have found myself on a quest, a genealogical journey, that has brought me in contact with people and emotions I never dreamed I would find. It occurred to me that I should begin to document my search, this journey, along with documenting my family's history.
When did I begin? In 1989, my dear friend, Rev. George Byron Anderson, an Episcopal Priest and social worker employed at the human services agency where I work presented a workshop on Genograms. I was fascinated by the wealth of information contained in one singular diagram and immediately began to work on my own. I spoke to my father and gleaned from him some tidbits about his side of the family. Then I spoke to my Mom. The information they shared with me proved invaluable to me in my searches today as well as to the creation of my genogram more than 10 years ago. Although some information shared with me by my parents was later proven to be less than accurate when checked against source documents found in Ireland, New York, and elsewhere, I was truly grateful for the material. At the same time I was becoming acquainted with genograms, my husband, Philip Smith, aged 37, was dying of cancer. He eagerly shared all of his family information with me, eager to have me create a genogram for him in the final month of his life. I did create his genogram, placed it in a folder with mine, added some interview notes from my talks with my parents and put it all away.
Three months after my husband died, my father was diagnosed with cancer, too. He died three months later. The genograms and notes remained in their file. And, amazingly, I had not lost them nor had they been far from my thoughts.
Seven years later, a feeling quite unexplained, pushed me to review the genograms; I reviewed the material with my mother and asked her some questions. Three months later she died. And oh so recently I found the material again and thus began another part of the journey. Our journey. Back so far and yet so current. The study of the DNA and the stories of those who came before me and those came before Martha. I am so pleased at what I have accomplished. I wish Martha was here to share my pleasure.
10 May 2000
May is a difficult month for many of us -- Mother's Day is just around the corner. Mother's Day may bring back lots of great memories (I tend to think of the year when I was about 8 years old that I gave Mom 12 bottle openers as her gift. She'd been complaining that everytime she went to get one out of the silverware drawer, there weren't any. So Annie decided to stock up for her!). It was a time to spoil and pamper our mothers. I never thought of Mother's Day as a celebration of *me* for being a mom, only of my mom and her motherhood. I still feel the same way. And if it wasn't for my own daughter, Heather, and her motherhood and her celebration of mine, this is one holiday I would sweep under the carpet and ignore now forever, now that my beloved Mom is gone. It isn't the same, and damn it, I won't pretend that it is!
For now, I enjoy my daughter's newfound motherhood (and she really is a great mom to Morrighan!) and her insistence at celebrating mine. I guess what I'm saying is that I celebrate my mom 365 days a year and Mother's Day doesn't add to or subtract from that except that it is a blaringly painful reminder that she is no longer here to celebrate with me.
7 May 2000
A great author once said you can't go home again. I disagree! I went home on Sunday and found a wonderful sense of peace and remembrance, a sort of integration of the person I was then with the person I am now, a better understanding of Annie and her family.
Let me explain. For the past several months I have been actively pursuing my family history. In fact, "this genealogy thing" has become an obsession with me! On Sunday I drove into Middle Village, Queens to visit a tombstone of my ancestors. It was the hottest day of the year so far, and the cemetery was huge and it took a long time for me to find the area I was looking for. I had originally planned to visit another cemetery in Queens that day, but by the time I finished with the first one, it was too late. In New York, the cemetery gates lock at around 4 PM.
So I decided to drive into Brooklyn to see if I could find the house my family lived in when I was born, the house I lived in until I was three years old. Traffic was unbearable as I started my journey, but I pushed on. About 20 minutes later I had found and was parked in front of 17 Hausman Street in Greenpoint.
Some observations about going home again from Annie which may be applicable to you:
* The house looked so much smaller than I remembered! In my memory it was a massive structure; not so! Ditto -- The park I played in is tiny compared to the huge one I had in my mind.
* Neighborhood people don't like strangers photographing the houses and their block! It makes them nervous. They stare at you, and trying to explain to them what you are doing and why you are there makes it even worse!
* If you are going into a city and you are a country gal like me, practice your parallel parking before you go! It took three tries for me to finally manuever my RAV 4 into the parking space, further calling attention to my not belonging there.
*Be prepared to smile. The memories flood back. How did Mom ever deal with a fourth floor walk-up? Schlepping the kids, the carriages, the groceries up four flights of stairs? Remember all the times my brother slid down that banister? Remember when he fractured his skull right in front of Nana's apartment? Who was that older lady who embroidered that beautiful apron for me (I later found out from my cousin that that "older lady" I remember was younger than I am now!). What happened to Dave's Candy Store? To Mr. Weiss' Pharmacy? Mr. Weiss was the Dr. Marcus Welby of our neighborhood; he'd remove splinters from our fingers, debris from our eyes, and create concoctions for every malady that hit us, always with a smile and at a fair price (debris and splinter removals were free!). To Mr. Shields Grocery Store? (Mom once parked me in my carriage outside of the store while she shopped inside. She was home putting the food away when one of my brothers came in from school and asked where the baby was. Mom panicked! She had left me at Mr. Shields Grocery Store on Meeker Avenue! She literally ran down the stairs, down the block, and around the corner with my brother running beside her. There I was sound asleep in the carriage, right where she had left me. Mr. Shields told her that he was going to send the delivery boy around to tell her she'd left something at his store (my family didn't have a telephone at that time). The memories do flood back -- and I have enjoyed every one of them!
I am now planning other field trips for myself. Trips to see the houses where my parents were born, the first house my great grandparents from Ireland lived in in Brooklyn after their immigration and more. We'll see what emotions these trips evoke. Seeing my house again made me smile. I think seeing their houses will too.
7 April 2000
I went to a show today at the new Patchogue Center For The Performing Arts. Now if anyone knows Patchogue, Long Island, they would be a bit skeptical about the theater to begin with. I was. The parking was a nightmare. No spots could be found in the area; we had to park on the other side of town. But, surprisingly, the theatre was beautiful. High, high ceilings in a very old building with a stage that reminded me of the ones they had in movie theaters when I was a kid. Comfortable seats; a bar in the lobby. I was impressed! A friend had given me three tickets to see Mickey Rooney in his one-man show. The first friend I invited to join me responded, "Mickey Rooney, isn't he dead yet?" Then I invited my daughter, Heather. She said, "I'll come if I can get a babysitter." "I think he was good in Blue Velvet," responded my son-in-law, Tim. "That was Mickey Rourke," I answered. "This is Mickey Rooney, and he was in National Velvet." They shrugged; she couldn't get a babysitter, and I wasn't surprised. I invited my friend, Joann, who was also surprised that Mickey was still with us. "Yes," I said, "he's still alive. Didn't you see him on the episode of The Golden Girls where he played Sophia's boyfriend Rocco who pretends he is in the mob to impress Sophia?" "That show is fifteen years old," she reminded me.Anyway, Joann and I went to the 2 p.m. Mickey Rooney one-man show. Mickey was there, alive and looking well. He's 79 now. He told jokes and tried to sing a few nicely written songs that he'd penned, intermittently spliced with scenes from his movies. Then he introduced his wife who sang Patsy Cline songs with the voice of an angel. She made me cry. They have been married for 25 years now; she is much younger than he. They look happy. And as I looked around the audience I saw mostly white-haired men and women, many using walkers and canes, and I thought of my mother. Martha would have liked the show very much. Not because she was all that fond of Mickey, but because the show would have brought back fond memories of the first time she saw "Men of Boys Town" or "Young Thomas Edison", and she would have been sharing it with people of her own generation. For almost two hours, she could have re-lived her youth. (You weren't here, Ma, but I did it for ya!).
As for me, I am stunned by two facts. I still can't believe that Ava Gardner married him and then Sinatra (although that makes more sense than having it the other way around my friend Joann told me). I also can't believe that Mickey Mouse was named after Mr. Rooney. At the age of six, he met Walt Disney; Walt changed the mouse's name from Mortimer to Mickey. I think that was a nice gesture. Mickey will always live on!
31 March 2000
I received the sweetest email today from a man named Michael complimenting me on the site. He had originally written to my good friend, Char, in Louisianna because he was concerned about me because this site had not been updated in such a long time. There are such terrific people in the world. Thanks, Michael! And welcome to our site.I was speaking with a woman I know today. Her ex-husband is dying of cancer, and she is not sure where she fits into the picture. She wants to be there for him, yet she is not sure how to do it. I was sharing some of my history with her, trying to help her deal with this situation. Dead husband. Dead father. Dead mother. And she told me what a strong person I am. It's funny. I used to hate being called that -- strong. How dare they call me strong, I would rage inside. I'm NOT strong! I'm not, I'm not, I'm not! Somehow I confused being strong with not being allowed to need support. Nowadays I see the growth and know that I am stronger - and that in all things I can ask for support. Support from friends, from God, from you, from family. I am strong because of, not in spite of, these losses. I am strong and I no longer seethe with anger when someone stays that I am. I know that they would all be proud of me; my husband, my mother, my father. As I was proud of them. As I am proud of them. Think about your strength today. Go deep inside it, and pat yourself on the back. We have survived, we motherless daughters, and there is an incredible amount of strength in that.
29 March 2000
I owe too many apologies to too many people, and apologies never were my strong points. Many people have written to me asking me to update this site, and I feel like I have let you all down for sometime. Part of the lack of updates was busy-ness, and part was due to laziness, but mostly I avoided this web site because I couldn't deal with the pain it took to sit here and write and feel the things I did not want to feel. Maybe I'm better now because I am sitting at the keyboard and writing this. Maybe I'm beginning to heal more fully and completely than before. Maybe I'm growing up. I can share with you one very profound thing I've learned since my dear mom, Martha, died: We never fully grow up until we lose our mothers. We may think we have; we may pretend we have, but trust me on this, we never fully enter adulthood until our mom's are gone. And that is another sadness, but one which we can deal with. The point is there is no choice but to deal with it; no choice at all.
Martha has been gone nearly three years now. During that time I tried (in vain) with the help of a dear, caring, and gifted attorney to bring legal action against the doctors who (I am legally required to add the word ALLEGEDLY or IN MY OPINION here) were responsible for my mother's death. The action never went anywhere due to my mother's age. Can you believe that in NYS when a person is old or young, their life is worth nothing in terms of lawsuits or litigation. I find that so sad. Not that I wanted the money. In fact I didn't want any. I had thought I would take what's left of the family on a trip and donate the rest to a charity in her name as I didn't want the money. I wanted some kind of satisfaction and closure on this. It didn't come. Sometimes our system works, and sometimes it doesn't. If I sound very angry, it's because I am. And that anger will probably be with me always.
I am now working on forgiveness, trying to forgive the doctors for their errors, for their attitudes, and for everything real or imagined that they did wrong with this. It's not easy, but I believe that when I am able to accomplish this I will be granted more peace. Not that I haven't found peace, mind you, but I could certainly use some more of it!
Some wonderful things have graced my life since I last wrote in this diary! My daughter Heather presented me with the most wonderful gift I've ever laid eyes on! Morrighan Leigh was born on December 2, 1998. She is gorgeous and loved and happy and HOME! She spends lots of time with Nanny (I couldn't be "grandma" as that was a name I felt was reserved for MY mother!). Morra is now 15 months old -- 2-1/2 feet of love and energy and pure innocence. Morra reminds me so much of Heather, yet she is definitely her own person. At times this is bittersweet - Martha is not here to see her Great Granddaughter, but maybe they met at someplace in time before Morra arrived here and Martha arrived there. I like to think that. I really do. For those of you who haven't seen her, here's Morra:
Heather and long-time beau Tim were married on March 16, 1999, and just celebrated their first wedding anniversary with a trip to Niagara Falls. They are very happy together and just moved very close to here.
In my spare time I have become very involved with genealogy and searching my family history. I had sort of begun this when my mom was still alive and even before when Philip and my Dad were still here. I took notes (well I scribbled some stuff down!), but now I am doing real genealogical research and enjoying that journey. I need to know where I came from, who I came from, and whose mitochondria I carry in every aspect of my being.
I won't make promises here that I can't keep, but I will try my best to keep up with the web site and the diary (which is the most popular part of the site). I wish KimBoo York would contact me again -- KimBoo, if you see this, please get back in touch! I want to know how you are doing! If anyone wants to contribute an article please email it to me, and we'll add it here. Ditto for the memorials which are always welcome. Although the site hasn't been updated, I placed each and every memorial I received during my hiatus.
Aren't we very special women, the daughters of our mothers? Think about it. We are giving and caring and we do stick together and try to help one another. I am blessed to have had Martha in my life. I am blessed to have so many things in my life. Even with the blessings, not a day goes by that I don't shed a tear for Martha and me and what could have continued to be and wasn't and what was and can't be anymore. But life is good, and we move forward. We carry our memories and our tears with us. We carry them for a lifetime, and hopefully, beyond.
May God give you many blessings today. May you share them wisely. Thank you for sharing them with me.
With warmest regards,
Annie