Once a year my mom and I have this ritual. We go to the Brimfield Antiques Fair up in Massachusetts. It’s one of those rituals that I adore; not only because we can walk for miles looking at antiques and collectibles (and some junk of course), but we get to spend lots of time chatting and laughing, separate from the rest of the family.
We ponder the fastest route to get there; how early we should go (invariably she wants to leave much earlier); the best time to go; which lots will have the best treasures (we always disagree on that one) and where we should eat.
One year we found an old bookcase in mint condition for my sister; a nineteenth-century rocker, slightly beat-up, for my first apartment in New York; an old fence for my mom’s garden.
My dad often shakes his head at some of the things she brings back.
Once she became enchanted with a wooden drying rack.
I didn’t understand it. “But you’re not really going to dry things on it, so what’s the point, mom?” I scoffed.
“It’s unique!” she’d exclaim.
Some years we had to call Dad and beg him to bring his truck: “Dad can you get up here? You see, we got this piece of furniture and uh, it won’t fit in the trunk of the car …” My mom would sweet talk him. I’d be holding back laughs in the background.
Over the years, as I’ve become more interested in antiques, I’ve gained an appreciation for my mom’s knowledge of antiques and her understanding of well-made furniture vs. poorly made (most furniture). She is more than just opinionated. She knows what she’s talking about.
We marvel at old children’s books and often have long conversations with dealers, many of whom have odd stories to tell about their wares—or their lives! We’d delight in what we’d heard afterward. If we got separated for a while, we’d swap stories about people we’d seen or deals being made.
I’d pick up a 1950s kitchen object and exclaim, “Wow! It’s sooo retro,” I’d giggle.
To which mom would reply: “Hey I grew up with one of those! Don’t laugh!”
I’d also come to appreciate the laughs we’d have in the car ride there and back.
But one time as we got in the car to return home, my Dad called. My Grandma wasn’t doing well.
My mom had been caring for her mother, who suffered from Alzheimer’s and was starting to fail physically, for many years. She suddenly got very quiet and hung up the phone. It seemed that my grandma had grown worse and she needed to go into hospice care.
On the way home we spoke little. My grandma passed away a week later.
My mom is an incredibly loving person, but not one to show emotion easily. But I’ve known her long enough to know when she’s upset and needs you to comfort her, or when she’d rather not talk about it.
I didn’t mention going to Brimfield the following year, thinking that the memory might be too painful.
I got a phone call early one morning. “Well are we going or what?” she said with gusto.
“I’d love to!” I replied.
“Grandma would have wanted us to,” she said.
One year at Brimfield, my mom finally explained how she’d felt the day her mom died.
She was surprised that she wasn’t sadder on that day. She said she’d been sad, but her sadness was not new. Her mom had died a long, slow death in many ways. With Alzheimer’s patients, you lose a little bit of the person slowly, over time. They start to forget little things, and then larger ones. In the beginning, they realize they’re forgetting how to do things and get increasingly frustrated or sad. As they struggle, you feel a bit helpless, too. They can tell you what they were doing as a nine-year-old, but don’t recall what they ate for breakfast.
As hard as things could be, there was still much joy. One time she brought her a peach from a nearby stand. My grandma took a large bite and smiled at her.
“It’s delicious, Linny!” she exclaimed.
Then they start to forget who people are. This is perhaps the hardest part. Everything changes, but slowly.
She remembered feeling particularly sad when my grandmother stopped using the phone. “You know, I couldn’t just call her up anymore and ask her how her day was going,” she said to me. It was something she’d cherished.
I’m still getting to know my mom. And now, after hearing her story, every time I pick up the phone and have a conversation with her, I think about it differently. I call it newfound treasure.
Today I’m calling up my mom for no particular reason. Just to say hello because I can.
