For my mother’s memorial service I offered a medley of poems I had written accompanying gifts to her, spanning from her 81st to to her 95th birthday, along with extemporaneous commentary. [Click images to enlarge].
1. I spoke of how I picked up the family light verse tradition from my father following his passing…
To Mom (on her 81st birthday)
Two times two
we tie the shoe
at first it seems so hard
three times three
we climb the tree
and look beyond the yard
four times four
we stamp the floor
and dance while someone sings
five times five
new friends arrive
we try out different things
six times six
we seek to fix
and learn to compromise
seven times seven
We cease perfectin’
It will take many tries
eight times eight
we delegate
our children grown and gone
nine times nine
We seek a sign
And climb onto a swan
Then may that ride
Move with the tide
and keep afloat till when
the sun sets all
the clouds ablaze
As we reach ten times ten
2. I spoke about her musical influence and performed the Prelude from Bach’s First Cello Suite
To Mom on her 84th (in 12/8)
This birthday brings us to the extent
Of this home's capacity for things.
(Even if only but ten percent
Of that housed at the Von Rosenvinge's).
Generations of Eckerts, Hamiltons, Steeles,
All here well-represented,
In photographs, keepsakes, aluminum wheels,
Obsolete or as yet un-invented.
How then shall we trace back to its beginning
This ancestral accumulation?
Who first had the thought that, instead of discarding,
Possessions just change their location?
Even J. S. Bach, cleaning out his drawers,
Was loathe to store in the basement;
Humbly accepting that all his great scores
Would get tossed out by his replacement.
But we who are mortal must put off till later
The disposal of our earthly goods.
And you who were matriarch must now be curator
Till we get ourselves out of the woods.
4. I appreciated Nancy and Tom for revitalizing the Folly Cove homestead and taking care of Mom in her final years…
Christmas Eve 2011 [age 86]
As much as we would like to think
we're setting our own course,
An invisible hand tugs on the reins
of our trusting invisible horse.
Perhaps the wave that brought to us
these latest techno powers
Washed away the seashells of
Our carefree, unclocked hours.
What, one may ask, did we once do;
how did we flex our mind?
What forest paths did we explore;
what wonders did we find?
Would we recognize the brains we used
before our first P.C.?
Were we cursed or were we blessed
with inefficiency?
Whichever the case, I must profess
what I do know to be true:
Of all the families I could have been in
I'm blessed mine was with you
5. I appreciated the Gloucester UU church, which was my spiritual home 1995-2000, where I got married to Monica in 2001, and where my mother attended and was active on the pastor search committee in recent years…
89th birthday
Your eternity of searching
Will yet be gratified
When the next I.C.C. pastor
Skips down from the sky.
Steps lightly from the cloud bank,
The one—so thought our brain—
‘Twould hold us up should we bail out
From an over-crowded plane.
There has been one cloud in the sky
That does support my weight,
Helping me to stay aloft
While in a burdened state.
For you have also been my rock
As well as in the strata.
(Now may we no more sully clouds
With all our worldly data).
6. I spoke of my mother’s mission to get people together and build relations between us siblings…
2015 [age 90, family reunion]
With each stab at birthday verse
The best that I can do
Is share those streams of consciousness
That may apply to you.
Unlike my father's precedent,
My rhythm varies little.
In a world chaotic and unglued,
It's easier to whittle
From that wood already milled
To uniform dimension.
May the woodshop of my mind
Carve it with invention.
What does a birthday mark?
What length the shadow cast?
Is it just that less time lies ahead
With more lodged in the past?
The cooking we have savored,
The flowers we have sniffed,
That they were long ago partook
Makes them no less a gift.
Better we accept with grace
The odometer's reading.
There is no hack can sneak it back
To aid us in misleading.
Bricks of time stored in the vault
Absconded by a thief.
Though it would not feel like theft
Had I the ego of a leaf.
To let go of my perch,
No thought of asking more
Than to take my humble place
Upon the forest floor.
For is it not the final gift,
Of our precious time on earth,
To feel and know a peace within
Transcending death and birth?
And so to you my mother,
Who gave my soul its entry,
Your deeds surpassing mortal thanks
For serving as my sentry,
Patiently encouraging
My gifts all be explored,
Passing on the tools to build
A life of vast reward.
The most important lesson,
You taught despite distraction:
I am enough just as I am,
No need for further action.
In parental mentoring
We were truly blessed
By your offering of thought and skills;
Our friends were so impressed!
You encouraged us to not conform,
To give questioning looks.
Which left us, sadly, ill-prepared
To rid ourselves of books.
We gather here to celebrate
The last of a generation,
And for our collective willingness
To stay in good relation.
May that willingness stay strong
Wherever we may roam,
Such that within the other's heart
Each one may count a home.
7. I reflected on the nobility shown by both my parents in spite of what had been modeled for them, their unconditional love for their children…
2016 [91]
Twenty-nine years, twenty days between
The dates on which we came
Into this life, onto this earth,
And each received our name.
From that name we made attempts
To go against oppression
That our privilege both brought about
And left us space to question.
We helped ourselves to music,
Fine art and seaside dwelling,
Accumulating memories
For later storytelling.
Which deeds will be remembered
By who it matters not;
So long as it is known within
We gave it our best shot.
8. I talked about my mother’s receptivity to change and reinvention…
2017 [92]
One more reunion where I stand before
An aging grey relation
Who I have known since the days
That followed their gestation.
When TV sets were black-and-white,
When hi-fis had one speaker,
We said, “No, thank you” not “I’m good,”
And the “Jordan” was a “sneaker.”
This all means I came from somewhere,
Some place I can rely on,
With roots that may grow deeper
Than the stubborn dandelion.
And from the stem we flower;
May the wind convey our seed
To those who never did deserve
To live in such great need.
And the gift I have to offer,
Seeing value in the other,
Was one of many I received
By grace of my dear mother
9. I appreciated how my mom never pushed me toward becoming a therapist myself, but was excited when it happened…
One common counseling practice,
When reviewing our excesses,
Is to scan our early childhood
For the source of our distresses—
Such as our earliest memory
Regarding sex or money,
Why that which makes me feel morose
Is that which you find funny.
We may have process addictions,
Unveiled when we take stock.
Meaning a counselor may well ask
My earliest memory of Bach.
In fact I can remember
When first I was afflicted:
For as in many families ‘twas
My mom got me addicted,
Playing that First Cello Suite
With her bow and D-string,
Denying the long-term effects
It might have on her offspring.
This exposure may have started
At the tender age of six,
Finding me at 65
Still desperate for each fix.
Yet my mother also nurtured gifts
Ill-suited to the stage;
Modeling compassion
And principled outrage,
The leveraging of privilege,
Holding space for others’ pain—
Yet again to be a student,
Calisthenics for my brain.
Did she foot my tuition
Just so we could talk shop?
Well, the end-effect was humbling,
Baring pretense I could drop;
I came a slight bit closer
To living in the world,
With movements yet imperfect,
My sails hastily furled.
Music remains my ordered place
To where I may retreat
From the emotional chaos
Of those who feel defeat.
And when I start accounting
For all they failed to get
The less I take for granted
What’s so easy to forget:
That my mom was there for me
Through things both large and small,
Discerning what made sense to say
When first-born hit a wall.
What I’ve come to value most,
However much I know,
Is to keep alive the memory
Of what it is to grow.
For this my mother models
Right up through today,
Digging in her garden,
Painting like Monet.
Remaining forward-thinking
While chronicling the past,
She celebrates the present,
A first who shall be last.
More than ever we now need
To hold our elders dear;
For she is the one who leads us
To face changes without fear.
10. I introduced the hymn “In Heavenly Love Abiding”, recalling how mom had many hymns memorized in spite of not fully embracing Christianity. What I forgot to mention was that she led this hymn for my father’s memorial and that the last time we saw her alive–which was on zoom, other family around her in-person–Monica and I performed it for her. She passed a few hours later, making it likely the last music she heard.
