We Don't Pray and We Don't Cry

This writing snibblet is not from my distant past. Unless you consider twenty-five years ago my childhood. If you do, God Bless You and Keep You, and please see a doctor and possibly a neurologist.

This is the story of when we lost the little lady who was such a huge influence on all of us. She was a woman of a million talents and quite possibly the biggest supporter I ever had, although I didn't know it at the time. This one is for Mom.

It was July 3, 2000, when Tubby called me. Like Dad, Tubby hated talking on the phone, and receiving an actual call from my brother was unheard of. “I have bad news,” he said, his voice cracking, “Mom is gone.”

My first thought was, where in the hell did she go? Then what Tubby was saying became clear.

“Grandma Brown came to visit and found her.  She was on the floor, lying next to the table.  It looks like she was writing a letter to Donna, and her heart stopped, and she fell off the chair.”    

Grandma Brown saw Mom and, unable to wake her, drove down the hill to Tubby’s house.  Cathy contacted the local police officer, and they called the funeral home director. An unattended death meant that the police had to come out to investigate. The officer arrived and met Tubby and Cathy, as well as the funeral director, at the trailer house.

Mom had been under a doctor’s care for a while, having episodes of sudden irregular heartbeat, which Mom referred to as “The family heart thing.”  An elderly lady under a doctor’s care was not considered a worthy event for investigation. It was an open-and-shut case.

Or so it was thought. But then the officer noticed Dad’s old single-shot .22 rifle standing upright against the bottom cupboard in the kitchen. It was an ancient, bolt-action single-shot, wooden-stock, and rusted-metal nightmare of a gun.  In time, each of us siblings had learned to shoot that gun.  Tubby’s children were next in line to take over the gun, once Mom was done shooting varmints.

A few days before, Mom had called me crowing in victory to say that she had shot a skunk as it was “heading under the trailer, that son-of-a-bitch was making a beeline straight toward the house when I got it.”

Mom was so proud of her marksmanship that I told George I needed to find a stuffed toy skunk to send her as a trophy. For the next two days, I scoured Reno tourist shops to find the perfect stuffed skunk to send to Mom.  Then Tubby called.

The police officer turned to Tubby and his nineteen-year-old son, TJ, and asked, “You don’t think...?” pointing at the gun.

Before Tubby could respond, TJ spoke up, “Grandma? No, she would have shot somebody else before she shot herself.”

“Shut up,” Tubby told him, “Now your grandma is gonna be blamed for every unsolved murder in Minnesota.”

Donna paid for the tickets for George and me to fly to Minnesota. After three years of marriage and working two jobs, I had no savings account or emergency money left. Greg picked us up at the airport, and Donna and I would use Mom’s old car while we stayed at the trailer. A typical vehicle for our family, the front bench seat slid forward whenever the brake was applied. After a few bruised knees, the passenger learned to reach out and push against the dashboard when approaching a stop sign.  The driver was obligated to give warning by yelling, “Stopping!”

We tried to pack up my mother’s life, sift through her belongings.  I couldn’t.  It was too unreal to believe she had gone so suddenly. In my grief, it sickened me to think of dividing her belongings, tearing apart her life, and judging their value. There wasn’t much for Donna and me to do in the trailer except go through the accumulation of our mother’s life. Cathy was the co-signer on Mom’s checking account; the machinery, cattle, and farm were gone.

On the first day in the house with Donna, George, Donna’s four adult children, Cathy and her two children, and Greg, my ex-boyfriend, we drank coffee and told stories. I knew in my heart this would most likely be the last time all of us would be gathered in one place.  The reasons for our gatherings were gone.

Greg looked out the window when he heard Tubby driving up the gravel road after work. A few seconds later, he yelled, “He’s got a gun!”

Everyone in the family ducked down except for George. There was a loud explosion on the front steps, and Tubby walked in with an M-16 in his hands. Behind him, fur that had once belonged to a chipmunk or another furry woodland creature floated gently in the soft summer breeze.

“Goddamn things will dig under the trailer,” Tubby explained as he set down the assault rifle and got a cup of coffee. The rest of us relaxed; Tubby was blind in one eye and not known to be the best shot, but the gun was now out of his hands. George stood frozen, leaning against the refrigerator for several moments, not making a sound. The rest of the evening, George seemed on edge, as though watching to see what other dangers would appear.

The next evening, the day before Mom’s funeral, we were once again gathered around the kitchen table, telling stories and laughing.  We heard Tubby drive up the driveway. Greg looked out the window and yelled, “He’s got a gun!”

Once again, we crouched in our chairs and leaned over the table. The grandchildren sheltered by standing in front of the refrigerator. This time, George reacted and leaned forward to make a smaller target for collateral damage. The shot was loud, and, once again, it was directly outside the trailer house's front door. When the door opened, Tubby was holding an AK-47. He had assessed the situation and decided that it would call for an AK, not an M-16.

“Damn skunk,” Tubby said. Of course, he didn’t need to tell us he had shot a skunk on the front steps; we knew as soon as the echoes of the shot had faded.

“SHUT THE DOOR!” somebody yelled.

Tubby was offended that we were angry about having a skunk shot off the doorstep with an assault rifle; after all, he had kicked the carcass a few feet away. We were subjected to his lecture on rodents, rabies, insulation, and wiring. At least that’s what I thought I heard above the sound of my family and myself retching and gagging. 

As each wave of stench drifted through the trailer, Greg announced, “I think that has to be the worst of it. I think it's starting to fade”. 

Finally, Donna’s second-oldest son told him, “Shut the fuck up, it’s getting worse all the time.” 

That night, before the funeral, it rained —a deep, steady thunderstorm typical of a Minnesota July. I realized the rain ruined all the hay mown in the field, meaning it would have to be raked before baling. Dad would have been frustrated; Mom would have been glad to get a day off and maybe do some baking.  As I lay awake, listening to the rain, I didn’t think of the consequences of the rehydration on the skunk scent that had been implanted on the steps and doorway of the trailer. 

Mom’s wake had been quieter.  Losing her just four years after Dad left us all feeling empty.  There weren’t as many funny stories like there had been with Dad. Now the three of us were orphans.  There was no going back home for any of us. We sat in the back with a pot of coffee, her children, their spouses, grandchildren, and the unofficially adopted son, Greg.

Relatives and neighbors would stop by and offer condolences as we talked.  We had some stories that had to be shared.  We talked about the time when Mom would go to the lane between the two farms to get cows for evening milking.  T.J., just a toddler, would run out to meet Grandma and walk with her to get cows and help her put them in the barn.  After work, Tubby would pick him up and take him home after he had helped Grandma with chores. This went on for a few weeks until Cathy overheard T.J. playing by himself in the living room.  T.J. had a small playset with farm animals and a barn.  As he played with the animals and put them in the barn, Cathy overheard, “Get in there, you lazy son-of-a-bitch.  God damn it, you cocksucker, don’t you turn back and run.  Every fucking night you can’t find your stall; it’s the same damn stall that it's always been.”

Cathy was horrified, as any mother would be, and promptly “grounded” T.J. from helping Grandma with chores.

We laughed, remembering Mom being the fastest runner in the world, claiming we could enter her in the Kentucky Derby.  All we needed was Mom wearing winter boots and carrying two five-gallon pails of feed and a horse following behind her as she ran.

We told the grandkids that their grandmother was a practical joker.  She would sew gifts of barbecue aprons to the neighborhood men.  When they put on the apron, a giant pink penis would hang out of the front of the apron. At bridal showers, she would bring a normal gift and then wrap it in a box, often using newspaper.  Inside that badly wrapped box would be lingerie made of silk and lace that would have made Victoria give up her Secrets.  Mom would send out anonymous chain letters to drive the superstitious neighbor ladies crazy.  I had heard these stories; Mom’s practical joker days were gone by the time I could remember. 

We talked about the time Cathy gave Dad a sign saying, “No Bitching.”  Dad hung it in the kitchen, and the next day Tubby stopped by to hear Mom bitching because she wasn’t allowed to bitch in her own house.    

The day of Mom’s funeral, I was still slightly miffed about buying Mom’s burial dress the day before.  I went shopping at the clothing store in Detroit Lakes. When I asked where I could find a size four dress, the clerk looked at me and responded, “You mean four X?” Donna and Greg found it hilarious that I was offended by the clerk’s insinuation that I wouldn’t fit into a size four regular dress.

  Donna and I dressed up, trying to make Mom proud. The day before, she had asked me to help color her hair dark brown to cover the gray.  I thought I did a good job until we both realized that I had dyed a dark brown thumbprint in the middle of her forehead by holding onto her head to make her sit still. Donna was a bit upset; her foundation only made the spot darker and more apparent.

The three of us wanted to give Mom the dignity and respect she had always sought. Donna and I took special care to look presentable. Unfortunately, the rain intensified the smell of the skunk that lingered in the trailer, and the July humidity seeped it into the fabric of our dresses.  As we walked toward the front door, the smell of skunk was overpowering.  As we descended the steps, the scent seeped into the fabric of our dresses.

Mom had always said that when she was dead, she wanted one thing: “I want flowers, enough flowers that I can smell them.” At the chapel, flower and houseplant arrangements surrounded the coffin.

  I walked down to the front and looked down at Mom in the coffin, my husband on one side of me and Greg on the other.  With her arms folded across her chest, Mom wore the largest wrist corsage of giant lilies I had ever seen. The flowers practically touched her nose. Mom could not help but smell the flowers. Attached to the lilies was a card that read, “To my second Mom, Love Greg.”

I started to giggle.  Of all of us, Greg had remembered her request.  And being as stubborn as Mom was, he made sure she could smell the flowers.  Greg smiled at me, holding my hand tightly.

It’s a good thing family members are traditionally seated last and by themselves, as no one else could have sat next to us without gagging. Mom's children were getting along, friendly, dressed nicely, and sitting in church.  Mom would have been proud except when the fans rotated, and the breeze stirred up the smell of skunk.  Donna and I mumbled and held our hands under our noses to block our own stench.

Tubby whispered to us, “Stop it, you’re just showing off,” and insisted that it wasn’t that bad. The mourners in the pew behind us were leaning back against the pew to get as far away from us as possible. I knew I would discard the dress I wore that day because it would remind me of my grief, and the skunk smell would never thoroughly wash out.

We laid Mom to rest in Spruce Grove Union Cemetery, next to Dad. A vault had been purchased to prevent the gravesite from sinking or collapsing. The funeral director approached me and whispered, “By law, I have to have a family member verify that the vault has been installed.” He took my arm and directed me to inspect the vault. The image of looking into that empty hole, waiting for my mother, continues to haunt my mind.  The grave was so final, so cold and dark, to lay that tiny, worn woman to rest.

There would be no more public embarrassment, no more comments and complaints about my appearance. As tough as she was, Mom was mortal after all.  I had no more chances to try and “fix” my mother.  I had no more days in which to attempt to erase her trauma and make my mother happy.  Without my mother to resent and love, what was my purpose?  I didn’t have the self-awareness to look at my current life and realize how much I had become my mother’s daughter. 

Donna was staying in the trailer with us, and the night before she left, the three of us, with my husband and Cathy, sorted through the remaining mementos.  We found the receipt for the sewing machine purchased before I could remember, with the five-dollar-a-month payment plan. We gave Donna the receipts from the hospital payments on the thirty-five-dollar bill for her birth. Mom kept every receipt for every major purchase she had made in her life.  Each piece of paper was a story of her life and ours. 

  Donna, planning to fly home in the morning, went to bed early. Tubby and I gathered all the old pictures Mom had collected over the years. Picture frames were a rarity at the dump or yard sales, so Mom would put pictures in front of old ones in the frames.  It was a treasure hunt to open the back of each picture frame.  We gathered the ugly pictures and hid them in Donna’s suitcases.  Each picture had the worst poses, ugly haircuts, or styles.  Or, as Mom would say, “Your father’s ugly relatives. Or maybe that is one of my ugly relatives.”

The day we left to return to Reno was sorrowful; Tubby announced, “We are orphans now.”  I realized that from now on, there would never again be an option in the back of my mind for home.  I knew now that there would never be a reason for us to be together again.  More than distance separates us now.  Minnesota might have been home, but it was no longer mine.

Before we left, George approached Tubby to try to buy a gun from him.  Tubby told him no, explaining, “I know how she is, and one day you’re gonna want to shoot her. I won’t blame you; it won’t be your fault, and everyone will understand. I just don’t want her to be killed with my gun; that would make me feel bad; she’s still my little sister, and I love her”.