Mormor

What words do I choose to capture her nature?
There are poetic devices to be sure: poetic words that were penned to do just that.
But let me dispense with those for now,
And just write the colloquial ode
She would have wanted me to write for her.

In my youth,
I heard her speak with charm and wit before I knew what those words meant.
At first, I based my impressions of her on the impressions she made on others, which were always bright – the filling-shadow-with-light type – yet impressions that commanded respect few could without first having to don a big hat, pin on brass, or put on airs.

Mormor – even the day-to-day lady – commanded the respect of a general’s wife, a 5-star one at that.

She exuded a brand of dignity rare in this world today, and no matter with whom she was talking – could have been the bellboy or the The Queen of England – Mormor never lowered nor raised herself to the level of others; she held her own, comfortably well.

Mormor gave me a sense of wonder – a hunger – for the world long before I could see it – before I could taste it – for myself.

Mormor was the embodiment of the world for me in my youngest days.

Her home on El Camino Real was really the Vallejo Smithsonian, a wonderful world within a world:
Grandfather clocks that tick-tock-ed into the night,
Oil paintings, scrolls of old, glass cases filled with figurines, Fabergé eggs,
And ornaments, and bell pulls, and books,
Firm couches with frail doilies,
And fine furniture of hardwoods and
On and on and on…
Her living room was a masterpiece with everything but Allister Cook in it!

Mormor instilled in me both wonder and wanderlust,
And talked of every corner of the world like it was stone’s throw,
On the other side of her front door,
There for me to explore.

Mormor was a bastion of manner and class.
That is not to say I did not rebel – I did – I did…
I did not embrace all of her old-world ways,
Eschewing, in particular, the canon of proverbs that define our culture, like
“Children should be seen not heard,” I would clamor, “We children have a voice!”
But a bigger part of what Mormor taught me stuck, and, yes, to the ribs!
Like a broomstick between chair back and my back,
Like rice pudding and pit,
Like lamb and mint jelly,
And other things hard for me to chew,
Hard to swallow.

1977: The year Aunt Lorriane took me to Star Wars and came back a different child. Remembering the Death Star had a tractor beam that could pull in anything.
Mormor’s house – The Life Star – was filled with intrigue, and had a gravitational pull of its own right:

There was the milk drop box filled with toys,
And basement boiler shaft that led to the center of our Earth,
Jams, jellies, and chutneys at the end of a gangplank to the pantry,
The paintings that kept secrets while imparting wisdom,
Candy jars filled with soap,
Monochrome photos of my dad and his sisters,
The heavy bedrooms,
The crown cushions,
The little people who lived in a strawberry,
Figurines rolled from fingertips dipped in Elmer’s glue,
Ecology flags and Danish flags,
Dead posters and doilies,
Garden gnomes and statues,
Old ghosts and new ghosts,
And smiley, hairy, dimpled rubber gremlins,
And that large alabaster Venus in the garden room,
Sitting still like a naked art student,
Shyly eying me drinking my Tang and eating my pink champagne cake,
A brass quail faucet shining like a pig snout in Italy,
Irresistible to the touch, to the twist…
Those spotless wool carpets of a color I have never seen since,
And cats,
And rats,
And cats,
And more cats.
With names like Jet and Snowflake,
Curling up at foot of bed like Ferlinghetti’s fog.

In Boy Scouts I made Mormor a yule log,
1974
Loaded with multi-colored phosphorous,
Burning in her hearth and home.

And I drew a picture of bird for her,
A King Fisher, I think,
Which earned a frame,
And hung on her museum walls,
A great honor bestowed upon me.

And she kissed me
With her jewelry and her soft skin.

She loved me.

And in her big car,
Off to another bazaar,
In colorful clothes,
With sweetness trailing,
She smiles,
She winks,
She waves,
As she motors up 80
And on to heaven.

Kamakura July, 2011