Another Chapter

This is a picture of my mother Kathleen, her uncle Pat Indrisano (the guy with the glasses, on the right as one faces the picture), and her father, John Indrisano. This was taken, as far as I know, at Union Station in Los Angeles, when my mother was probably no older than eighteen. I think it is possible to click on the picture for a closeup. My mom was really a knockout when she was young.

I don't think there is a sadder trip than a bereavement flight. There were so many strange and astounding confluences of events which brought me and my siblings, and all four of my children, to East Boston for my mother's funeral and burial. My children had flown out a few days before Christmas to spend the holidays with their father in the Eastern seaboard state of his residence. They had planned--without knowing anything at all about my mother's medical condition (no one did--her boyfriend withheld this from us) to spend a few days in Boston before traveling elsewhere, the very days of her funeral, all arranged in advance without any indication anything was even wrong with her. It was so moving to see all my children walk into the funeral parlor and pay their respects to their grandmother. I personally would have had serious trouble going back East but for the fact that Mr. Strega found out his cache of frequent flyer miles was still good. They expired today, December 31st. My mother's funeral was December 28th.

The funeral director had grown up with my mother in East Boston, and he told us that his funeral home had handled all of the family since 1904 (in fact, he took pains to let my sister know that there's "room for more" in the family plot--just in case, I suppose). The director did not want to contact her abusive boyfriend for a dress for her--"Who knows what I'd get from him?" he said to me (Mom's boyfriend is apparently famous for drunken lunacy throughout East Boston). So the funeral director went out and bought her a pretty dress himself, robins-egg blue, with a little bit of darker blue beading for sparkle, and she really did look lovely, with her nails done and a pretty pink rosary in her hands, the exact color of the one she gave me for my First Communion forty-one years ago. My mother always loved to look pretty, and I am so glad this happened for her at the last. She truly would have hated to look bad for her funeral. I stood up along with my younger brother to eulogize my mother, and the priest who said her funeral service was a local East Boston fellow, a very nice man with a great sense of humor. The social worker who checked on her to see that her boyfriend wasn't neglecting her said that my mother would show the photo album I made her on Mother's Day this year to anyone who would look at it, sometimes multiple times!

My mother was buried in the same plot as Mamma Nonna (my great-grandmother) and many of the family--I actually stood at the foot of Mamma Nonna's grave as the priest intoned Mom's burial service. It was a scene straight out of both Dr. Zhivago and The Godfather--a big group of black-clothed Italians in a snow-laden cemetery full of gray, white, and black headstones, with a blue sky above us, but a piercing wind blowing and rattling the bare branches of trees all around us. My mother had always told me to cover my eyes when I was a kid whenever we watched the scene in Dr. Zhivago where Zhivago's mother is committed to the earth--"Don't look, it'll scar you for life," she said. On the day of her funeral, I lived it. It was hardest to leave my mother there--I looked back for as long as I could see her coffin, waiting to be lowered into the ground. I had all kinds of strange sensations for a few days--I felt I could not breathe because my mother had stopped breathing, and I felt as if I wanted to stay for awhile in the cemetery so as not to leave her behind, that I was somehow abandoning her to the elements.

There were some brighter aspects to the trip--I paid a visit of respect to elderly relatives who could not attend her service, and had a great time with my 97-year-old aunt, who is bedridden, but beautifully cared for in her own home, and whose memory is sharp as a tack. I love them all so much. And I got to see the old family home and the streets of the East Boston neighborhood where all these people walked and lived their lives--the stories of which I will carry in my heart for the rest of my life and which I pray I am giving some justice to in my book.

I want to thank everyone who has sent condolences and comments in the last few days. The death of a parent is excruciatingly difficult and sad--but I have no regrets about the relationship I had with my mother, which was, at the end of her life, a loving one, as best we were able to go about it. I believe my beautiful mother is in a place of rest and light with all the people who loved her and have gone before her, and this brings me comfort in the midst of very deep sorrow.

My Mother

My mother, Kathleen Joan McMillan, died this weekend on the cusp of the winter solstice, December 23, 2007. She was 75 years old. The tide went out for her when the moon reached fullness in a fever pitch of brilliant silver light. Though we were separated by a continent on the night of her death in Boston, and I had only the barest of information about what was going on at the time, I felt the sense of my mother's spirit joyfully released from her body, freed from a lifetime of suffering, of incalculable physical and mental torment, so much of it self-chosen, yet none of it deserved.

This photograph shows my mother as I would like to forever remember her, as a young woman, her smile full of happiness in a life she must have believed would be an endless unfolding of good. I think this is who she truly was, before alcoholism erased whatever promises and dreams she had for herself, not one of which I ever knew. Perhaps she never even knew them for herself. Traumatized in a few short and terrible years by the suicide of my grandfather (on her birthday) and by the long, lingering death of my grandmother, my mother never returned from the "kingdom of night" and spent the rest of her life succumbing to what I describe in my book as "a series of wake-up calls that only seemed to put her more profoundly asleep."

As far as I know, my mother never fully admitted she had a drinking problem, even after losing family, friends and property, after rejecting efforts by her children to bring her into treatment, after spending more than twenty years with a truly insane man, a boyfriend who supplied her with alcohol, along with physical and mental abuse. My mother's life underscored the immense tragedy of the alcoholic who never really finds the path to recovery.

My mother's mother passed away in the peace of sainthood, in the midst of a vision of the Virgin Mary. I only hope that, at the last, my grandmother came to midwife her child into the world beyond this one, that my mother's last moments were as peaceful as her life was troubled. I do not believe we die alone, that we are surrounded by those who have made this journey before us.

In her final years, wanting to brighten my mother's bleak existence, I began to send her gifts, diving back into the ocean of the past to bring up an occasional pearl. When I learned to crochet, I made her a lap blanket. I bought her a few pieces of the Franciscanware dishes she loved, the Desert Rose pattern I remember her buying with my grandmother--always making sure that the cups and plates I sent were the antique ones, made in California. I sent her a bright red scarf, dusting powder in a scent she loved (White Shoulders), Dresden china figurines of a ballerina and a woman dressed like Marie Antoinette. I found Thanksgiving candles exactly like the ones which had graced our table during my childhood, a Pilgrim boy and girl. I hoped that these things brought her happiness.

I sent her Christmas cards, Easter cards, even Halloween cards, tried to write down my fondest memories in them, praying that her boyfriend, essentially her jailer, would let her have them. On Mother's Day this year, I shared the wealth of photographs I had received from our family in Boston, creating an album just for her, with pictures of her mother and of her grandchildren. I wanted to show her, simply, that she was cared for--that she had given me a legacy I cherish, that the fact of her destructive life circumstances did not mean she was undeserving of love. I found in my own recovery that it was possible to have some sort of relationship with her while preserving my own equilibrium. I told her I loved her, because at the end, only love matters.

The cautionary tale of my mother's life does not subtract from her abiding legacy to me, the fact that our beloved dead are not truly gone. Through the power of story, they live again, over and over, for as long as we have breath to tell. My mother knew that the stories of family are a binding-thread among all families, that to tell a story well is to illumine everything that makes us human and vulnerable. This is the jewel she carried to the very end, hidden at the center of a life burned to ash by unspeakable loss and tragedy.

Kathleen Joan McMillan
July 6, 1932
December 23, 2007

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays

My beloved youngest son turns eighteen tomorrow (yes, he was born on Christmas). I am proud of all my kids, but want to praise this one especially today. He has grown into a wonderful, kind young man who has been the light of my life since the day he was born--all four of them have been so for me. My youngest has been the best present I ever got on Christmas. I'm incredibly glad he chose me for his mom.

Favorite quote of the week from him:

Mother (upon noticing that youngest son is reading Ishmael by Daniel Quinn): "Are you reading that on your own?" (meaning, not a book for school).

Son (dryly humorous): "No, mom. Some guy helps me with it."

Happy birthday to my youngest, an old soul who towers over me now and whose adult life I anticipate with joy and admiration.

Happy holidays to all--we're having a quiet time on Christmas this year, with roast duck for dinner instead of the usual turkey.

A College Instructor's Haiku Upon Waking

All night, rain pours down.
Falling branch, power outage,
grades due all too soon.

Don't know if that's exactly 5-7-5--but the power's back on, at least.

About a Snowglobe

Do you--or someone you know--have one of those giant snowglobes that are displayed in front of K-mart, the giant ones which are supposed to go on the lawn to spread Christmas cheer with the flick of a switch? Well, now you can not only display your Christmas spirit--you can apparently live in your snowglobe, too. There's a bit of the "people who live in glass houses" effect, but otherwise, it seems rather cozy. Click on the link to find out.

Growing up, I have to say that my family had a lone, life-sized light up Santa, who stood on our front lawn (or, as it happened one year, the roof), though there was always something a bit poignant about him, all by his lonesome.

Mr. Strega keeps promising to get some large inflatable holiday decoration, the tackier and larger, the better, just to be as silly as possible (now you can see why I like him). He claims the giant inflatable Christmas tree would serve two purposes, as our regular Christmas tree AND a yard decoration! Now that's practicality for you....

Cold

Too cold in Santa Cruz today to even tear down the rest of the garden. My final heirloom tomatoes have ripened, after having been put in a box and placed on top of the fridge for God knows how long--weeks, it seemed. They sat next to the sourdough starter I've been nurturing along (amazing that, though I hate to do things like vacuum, I love to do culinary experiemnts such as homemade sourdough starter). The plants upon which the tomatoes grew are long gone to Tomato Plant Heaven.

I had a lengthy dream last night as to how to make rosewater from various types of roses--there was an old man in my dream who spent a great deal of time showing me how, and yet in my waking moments, I can't remember a thing about it all, only that he was a patient teacher and the roses he used were beautiful! The dream reminded me to cut down the very last roses in the garden before the frost ruins them--there's been ice on the front deck every day.

Not much to report today other than that, just this coldness, the garden falling to winter sleep, and a sense of gratitude for not only the good things that have happened for my family in the last few days, but for life in general. I wake every day to a good life, to a life of peace where I have a roof over my head, a warm house, meals on the table, and people who love me--and that is a wonderful thing, isn't it? I think so! :)

Winter

I always feel grateful to work where I do, because Santa Cruz is freaking cold this time of year! My g

End of a Good Semester

I made it through the semester and all I have now are my final grades to tally and submit. I will miss this class a lot--it was a great deal of fun, we learned a lot together, and I look forward to the Spring semester (always my favorite semester, when my life is divided up into such things). My students bring a lot of light and happiness to my life, and I enjoy feeling as if I make a difference in some way.

Still, it's good to have unlimited free time to finish up the book and think about other projects, and actually do some long-neglected things around the house. We still have the Thanksgiving tablecloth on the table (though I have to admit, it's quite pretty--a pattern of leaves, not turkeys and pilgrims).

Must go--have a ton of paperwork to sort through.

Pale Blue Dot

Answered Prayer

There was a terrible storm last night--rain pouring as if the floodgates of eternity had flown wide open, and crazy wind. Branches started falling all around the house, and the power went on, then out, then on again--over and over, until finally the house went dark. I lit hurricane lamps and got out candles as the wind whipped over and around the house. Mr. Strega slept on, oblivious to everything, having worked hard all day, and suddenly our dog indicated that he needed to go out. "Out" in our neighborhood means down a country lane, beneath tall trees, from which branches had been falling for the last hour. Plus, all the power was off in the neighborhood completely, and no moon, so it was pitch black. I tried to wake Mr. Strega, but he would not wake, just made himself a little more comfortable and pulled the blankets around his shoulders.

So, I put the leash on the dog and off we went, with my weak flashlight barely penetrating the darkness. It's incredible how something like a storm or even something as small as a streetlight going out can really alter a familiar landscape. The dog and I picked through fallen branches, and debris kept raining down. Finally, my flashlight failed and I took the dog back home, much to his consternation, as the purpose for which he had been brought out had not yet been achieved.

I got into the entryway of my house, trying to calm the dog, and said a prayer to my Higher Power that I might get some help in this situation. In less than five minutes, my seventeen-year-old son Riff tapped on the front door, back from a movie he'd gone to with friends. I let him in and said, "You're the answer to my prayer."

"Oh, really?" he said, in his dryly amused way. I told him the situation and he leashed the dog.

"I know where there's a mag light," he said, when I showed him the crappy flashlight I tried to use. I put back on hat, gloves, ancient Uggs that look like something from Lothar of the Hill People, and followed the canine and Riff out to Mr. Strega's car. The mag lite, with fresh batteries, was tucked under the seat.

"So that's where it went off to," I said.

Riff and I walked down the road again, kicking branches aside. "There's a huge one down at the end of the street," he said. "We should get it out of the way." We picked up moss-covered branches, branches still loaded with fresh greenery, bare branches, branches that looked sharpened at the end, and tossed and kicked them into the canyon beside the road, all the while joking about "branch-clearing aerobics." Finally we came to the widowmakers in the middle of the street and Riff did a bit of caber-tossing into the canyon, glad that we could spare someone having to get out of their car and move them. Our dog splashed in puddles and seemed inordinately happy to be out in the wild night, a night with no moon and bright stars that showed between torn-edged clouds. Riff asked me what "that fuzzy blue dot in the sky" was (he didn't have his glasses on), and I told him it was the Pleiades, and that next to it was Taurus, that the Pleiades are relatively new stars, as far as that goes, and that some of the stars in Taurus are very old.

I remembered something as I walked with Riff, a day when he was five and, as usual, our crummy car had broken down. There are two ways to get to my house from the bus: up a mountain, or around it. I had been walking uphill all week with him from the bus, and decided to take the long way around with him. It took us an hour to get home, but I had a nice chat with him, in his Dracula costume, as it was the day all the kids wore their Halloween costumes to school. Recently, my son told me that he had never been aware we didn't have much money when he was growing up--he had an old Playstation, and lots of toys, and every Friday, he got to go to the Felton library and pick out two movies for the weekend (I found out videos were free at the library).

"You made it seem so fun," he said about the Friday library trips.

Now that little guy is nearly eighteen years old, big enough to clear branches off the road, yet the child he was is still very much alive in his heart. As we headed back home, he said, "Hey, stop for a minute, Mom. I want to turn the flashlight out." He turned off the light and we were plunged into complete blackness, the trees around us a deeper darkness against a landscape of no light.

"Wow, can you imagine living like this all the time," he said in wonder. Then he made a comment about this being a perfect time for a UFO to show up, or perhaps a wandering alien.



"Just kidding," he said, and switched back on the flashlight as we walked up the driveway and into our house.

First Power Outage

Last night, the power was out for hours--I never did find out why. The younger set and I had a marvelous time, though. Whenever the power goes out--which is often in these mountains--there's a definite protocol around here, one we fall into naturally. Mr. Strega gets on the phone with his friend and they spend a great deal of time calling the power company and reporting the outage. Then, when they learn what caused the outage and what time the power will go on, they call each other to report this, making sure everyone in their respective households has all the information, too . They also talk rather proudly, yet nerd-ily, about which appliances we can plug into the battery backup and for how long. Last night, it was the breadmaker.

I am in charge of lanterns and candles, making sure every room has some light. My old saints' candles from more than ten years ago, the ones I bought at the Safeway in Felton, are nearly down to their last bits of wax. Soon it will be time to cut new wicks for them and pour clean wax inside; I wonder how long it will take to burn them all down again.

Mr. Strega builds the fire up until it is roaring--another source of light, and of heat when the power's out. Last night, the fire poured orange light into the living room, and my youngest came upstairs with a book, to read by kerosene lamp. I was brought immediately back to 2001 and my first semester of graduate school; the power failed for three days during a storm and I read Angle of Repose by the light of an oil lamp. It seems so long ago, and yet not that far away.

My daughters make a patched-together dinner of tomato soup, homemade bread, cut-up apples, and potstickers, not very nutritious, but something easily put together in the dark. I realize now, as a mother of nearly-grown children, how precious these times are together, for they are moving into their own lives--something unimaginable when they were little, yet it is the very thing we worked towards in those years, the realization of their own dreams and goals. My younger daughter said, "Wouldn't it be wonderful to live like this all the time?" The darkness made everyone tired and we all went to bed early.

So, winter has finally come to Santa Cruz, with the occasional times when the lights flicker and go out!