When I close my eyes and think about my mom I see her
sitting outside our house in St. Louis, sunglasses on, hair held back by a
bandanna, eyes closed and face toward the sun.
I close them again and I see her standing on the tennis
courts at Raleigh Racquet Club, racquet bag on her shoulder, chains around her
neck catching the glimmer of the sun.
Just one more time I close my eyes, perhaps a glutton
attempting to recall a long-forgotten story or memory, and I see her hands
filled with tomatoes or peppers, maybe even raspberries after a quick trip to
the garden to asses the growth, harvesting products of a partnership between
the earth, the rain and the sun.
The images are fairly consistent. My mom was pretty
consistent. She was consistent in her day, waking before the sun, working,
grocery shopping, home in time for General Hospital and to prepare a bite for
dinner before turning in, often times before we were even home from work. She
was consistent in her styling, when she and my dad met, tennis whites day and
night and as her focus shifted to raising us, always function over fashion,
tshirts and hoodies, leggings and headbands, sweaters or a sheer overlay if the
occasion arose. She was consistent in sharing her love, verbally with a “love
you schnuckie” or on social media with a big red heart or the words “my whole
heart,” mailed baked goods and tchotchkes carefully wrapped and sometimes a new
bill or two from “her friend at the bank” addressed to the littlest loves who
completely stole her heart.
Beyond what I can see when I close my eyes and what we all
could expect—my mom could be heard (without fail) before she entered a room, a
home, heck—the beach club. When she had an opinion, it was known—she often
spoke before she thought—and as the equally stubborn daughter of a fiercely
opinionated mother, not only was I on the receiving end of countless unfiltered
comments, I was the beneficiary of her advocacy more times than I could count.
I’m sure we all have a story, mine happens to have been in the Kleinfeld’s
Bridal Salon—when I came out in a gorgeous lace dress and her first comment was
“uch, you’re not going to get married in that...” In the moment, I was crushed,
but looking back, I now know she was leading with her heart, it just took me
until I was a mom myself to understand this unbridled desire to do or say
anything that (in her eyes) was to protect her kids. My mom taught me how to
use my voice, how to direct my voice and while most of the time our opinions
were not in alignment—I find so much comfort in understanding now that her
intent was never intended to hurt, she was always looking out for our best
interest.
My mom lived her life to make the lives of others easier.
Nothing she ever did was solely for her own benefit. It didn’t matter how many
times we encouraged her to do for herself, making time even for a haircut or a
night out took a back seat to cheering at Ben’s football games or baking for a
loved ones birthday, holiday or celebration. She was well into her 50s before I
remember her ever getting her nails done. Her mind held an almost encyclopedic
catalog of events. It was rare anything slipped though a crack—and if it did,
she was certain to over-correct to prevent any such lapse in care. I remember
one such morning, my sophomore year in college…I was in Charlotte, North
Carolina and a frantic call from Dad in St. Louis (a call I would not have been
awake for—had there not been an hour time change) stating Ben was ready to go
to school…but mom had forgotten to pack his lunch. In my revisionist history,
packing Ben’s lunch was not an overly complex task—a bagel with cream cheese,
peanut butter crackers, pringles, a string cheese, maybe some fruit snacks?
But, alas, she hadn’t packed it the night before and there dad was scrambling
in the kitchen to get something in a brown bag. The next morning…and for many
mornings to come…there was not one brown bag on the top shelf of the fridge,
but two…one behind the other, just to make sure school lunch was never a
reality.
These truths didn’t just extend to her family—for someone so
stubbornly convinced that St. Louis would never be home, she collected loyal
friends and fans, people who would go out of their way and pass 4 other coffee
shops to grab their drink from Lynn, who’d have already started their “usual”
as their car pulled in to the parking lot. My mom wasn’t just our biggest fan,
she became our friends biggest fans too. In the stands her voice did just cheer
for us, she cheered for all of our friends. On Friday nights, she wasn’t just
worried about us, she was worried about all of our friends. As we aged that
cheering turned to asking about our friends jobs and families and ‘Mama Mo’
genuinely wanted to know. There were so many instances of these acts, but just
This week, a friend shared a memory I hadn’t before known. One of my former “kids,”
a young adult she had met maybe once or twice before, was on a weeks-long bus
tour with a performance group…on their stop in St. Louis (a show my dad
attended, but I believe was past Lynn’s bedtime) my mom navigated their theater
location, found their bus and delivered fresh baked goods to these guys weeks
into their tour and with many weeks to go before returning to their own moms
and home cooked sweets. It’s just who she was—if it was important to us, it
became important to her.
My parents love was not the simple and easy kind of love. It
was the hard and genuine love, the love worth working for—because the love
always outweighed the hard. Ben and I are so incredibly lucky to have learned
this truth of about love—that when it really matters, it is worth working for.
Growing up, there was a copy of The Night Before Christmas in our home, a
simple and careful inscription reading something to the effect “Wes, one day
your children will enjoy this more than mine will. Always, Lynn” 42 years
later, not only have their children enjoyed that book together—but their
grandchildren will learn from the careful and intentional balance and
partnership we should all be lucky to have in our lives. As Lawton asked just a
few nights ago, “Mommy, how long are we going to be sad?” I could onlyI reply
honestly—we’re going to be sad for a while…and we are also going to be really,
really happy. It’s okay to hold those truths concurrently and mom would want
the moments of joy, at scoring a soccer goal, tasting a banana chocolate chip
muffin or hearing just the right song on the radio to make us smile. We are all
going to miss getting Grandma’s treats in the mail…but when we try our very
best to recreate that recipe, make the matzah ball soup, or write a letter
every SINGLE day to sleep away camp, we know it will hold her spirit and
continue to bring soothing to this still-fresh shock and sustained comfort as
we all continue to grow. May THIS be Gods will.
It isn't possible to upstage Grandma Toby on such occassions but Lindsey really delivered this eulogy with grace and style. The photo above is of of the Morgan support team who showed up in Ocean, NJ for Lynn's funeral. (clockwise from left: Matt Morgan, Wesley A Morgan, Chris Dewey, Rob Morgan, Greg Morgan, Wes Morgan, Allison, Ben and Yadi around the remarkable Lindsey)
