When I do something that is particularly puzzling to my mother she often says I am acting like Maurine. I am like her in many ways; even I notice things I do that remind me of her. Sometimes those thngs are good--sometimes those things grate on my mother's nerves--bless her heart!
Maurine Drucilla Harris Moon died in Texas at the age of 83 on December 7, 2012. Born in North Carolina on June 26, 1929 she was my mother's older sister and one of my best friends. I did not always agree with her and she had a mouth that was salty, to say the least--but she was also easy to talk to, thoughtful, loved to read and not just books--she read people. And was fascinated by the ins and outs of their lives. She was, in a word, interesting. Always.
When you are a teenager--and not feeling all that confident as you wend your way through all the changes that go with that age--it's nice to be told that your hair is not light brown (when all your siblings are blonde, blonde, blonde) but is the color of a lion's mane--or dark honey. Maurine provided me with that happy thought long ago on her front porch. It's a thought I've kept with me for years. Maurine had a knack for boosting people up. She described people in glowing terms rather than plain ones. Even when the plain ones may have been more accurate. Beauty is, indeed, in the eye of the beholder. I loved that about her.
Cooking was one of her passions. She made her own jellies and jams and even once made homemade mincemeat. She grew her own grapes and let us pick them sometimes when it was jelly making time. As a scratch baker she never had much truck with new fangled mixes, preferring to do it herself. Even eggs had to be made just so--partly because Tump, her husband, had an ulcer and a touchy stomach and was the pickiest eater in the free world. Everything tasted good at her house.
I loved to sit in her kitchen and eat toast--I don't think we had a toaster back then, but she did-- and I thought it was so good because it didn't come out of the oven. Once I remember I ate six pieces and she raised her eyebrows at my Mom who told her to stop putting jelly on it and I'd stop eating all the bread. I think I was 9 at the time.
She sewed beautifully. I can remember patterns being laid on the floor as she planned a new dress for her oldest daughter Allison to wear to the prom or the Sadie Hawkins dance. I remember a blue one in particular--I cannot sew and have little desire to learn--but I always thought it a minor miracle that someone could make clothes like the ones in stores for the people they love--and they fit! I did learn the basics when I was a teenager--but if it fit anyone it was happenstance--not design. My talents do not lie in that direction. Maurine's definitely did.
Fearless about many things, she was quite the extrovert; never afraid of people. We live in a town where the oldest mental hospital in the U.S. is located. It was an open hospital, which means patients who were able to navigate on their own were often visiting or working outside the hospital in the town. Sometimes people like my mother-in-law were frightened by the possibility of someone wandering around who may not be all there in their mind. That thought never bothered Maurine. Once, when she was up reading late one night with only her kids at home--a man opened her front door and walked in her house. She stopped reading, took her glasses off her nose and said "Didn't you forget something? He stared at her a moment--she stared right back--then he turned, went back out the door and knocked. She got up and answered the door just like it was the normal thing to do. He asked to make a call and sure enough, he was lost and not sure how to get back to the hospital. Did she lock her door after that? No she did not--she said it would be unlikely to happen again.
I miss her and the way she talked about anything and everything. I miss her making us welcome--people always felt welcome in her home. Not just welcome--but eagerly awaited. She liked to stay up late at night and read--(so do I)--and wear nightgowns rather than pajamas--(so do I). She had a tendency to romanticize life--(so do I) and was never too busy to visit. I hope people feel as welcome in my home as I felt in hers.
Maurine lost a baby daughter, Kelly Maurine, years ago and I don't think she ever fully recovered from that loss. I'm not sure anyone ever really does. Kelly had an enlarged heart and the family was aware for some time that she couldn't live long with her condition. She was a beautiful baby with the prettiest little face. She was nine months old when she died. Maurine woke during the night and rubbed her little feet because they were cold. That morning she was gone. I still remember Allison driving over to see us that morning and how upset she was. I think I was ten. Maurine had Kelly buried on her tummy because that was the way she liked to sleep. She never really accepted Tump's death either, according to my cousin Allison and my Mom. I am always puzzled by that word--"accepted". In the dictionary that means to "receive willingly or with approval". Do we ever receive willingly or with approval--a death of someone we love? Maybe, when they are so sick as to need release. Maurine thought of Tump as invincible---as did we all. She is with them both now.
Tonight when I put on my muu-muu that Maylon picked out for me for Christmas and get out my latest book--(A Southern Woman's Story, by Phoebe Yates Pember,a true story about her experiences in a Richmond Civil War Hospital as a matron)---I will think of her fondly and remember that my hair is the color of a lion's mane--or dark honey. And know that she is happy to see her Mom and Dad and Tump and especially Kelly (46 years?) once again..and is comforted.
