A Sequel.

This post really isn’t about wine, but I don’t have anywhere else to post it, so bear with me. I visited my mother in memory care a few weeks ago and wrote about a chicken, some of you were kind enough to comment on my idea to send my mother’s possessions out into the world of my friends. I was there two weeks, going through the house and possessions and taking the things I couldn’t part with and figuring out how to get it all back to New York. I was still working, am still working, on sorting through this collection of items from my mother’s life, preparing for the long goodbye that is dementia. Turns out my mother had other plans. Just two weeks after I posted the chicken story, my mother passed peacefully in her sleep. I’m now back from a second trip to Kansas and have brought back a smaller collection of furniture and such, the last load as it turns out. I volunteered to write a eulogy, something I would like to have done for my father, but did not yet have the confidence for. What follows is that eulogy, edited as closely as I can remember to how the actual speech went. To my relief, it was well received. I’m posting it here in the spirit of the Egyptian proverb I quoted in the last article – you never die as long as someone still utters your name.

Cheers, Jerry.

Jacqueline Gail (Jackie) Wagenknecht Smith, October 19, 1933 – May 25, 2023

I want to take ten minutes to tell you some things about my mother I learned throughout my life. I obviously can only do that from my point of view, but I thought I’d start with some things I’ve heard from other people. Family, friends, and old acquaintances have offered many words of comfort and condolences. Two things, however, were said without fail; that she was kind and that she had a great sense of humor. I agree wholeheartedly, but I wonder how many of you here today realize just how remarkable a thing that was.

My mother lost her own mother when she was twenty years old, newly married, and living away from home for the first time, half a country away. She gave birth to my brother Jeff two years later and suffered a mother’s anguish while he endured multiple surgeries for the first two years of his life. Her second child, my sister Kimberly, lived a mere three days before succumbing to multiple birth defects. These tragedies shaped my mother’s life, but they didn’t destroy or defeat her. They made her tough as nails, yet she kept a caring heart and, as pointed out before, a sense of humor that could sometimes be wicked. She passed that humorous view of the world to all of her children just as surely as we possess her DNA. It defines us as well. One of my favorite things my mother would say to me was “you can always make me laugh”. I think I enjoyed hearing that even more than “I love you.” Well, in both cases, back at you mom. Perhaps a single story to illustrate; we were talking on the phone, this was years ago, and she was telling me about having lunch with my aunt Jody. Jody was doing well at the time, but tended to repeat herself. My mother noted this, then she paused and said, “have I already told you this?” “Yes”, I replied, but I was telling Amy about how you’d told me the story about Jody repeating herself ten times, about five times and Amy replied, ‘that’s the third time you’ve told me that story.” And we laughed and laughed. The apple really doesn’t fall that far from the tree.

My mother worked most of her life as a legal secretary. I don’t claim to have realized the sacrifices she made, if she preferred to work, or it was just necessary. I do remember her doing piecemeal work at home, working Saturdays and taking me with her to the office. She had these reel to reel tape machines that would record what she typed, let her make corrections and type overs, and then type the corrected document by playing the tape back. I thought she was super cool to have a magic typewriter, really the height of technology at the time. I also remember that near her retirement she was confounded by learning the Word program, but she persevered.

My mother loved the game of solitaire. I can remember watching her play as a small child and asking if I could play as well. “It’s solitaire” she replied. “You play it by yourself”. And I do. I understand now the stress relief she got from this game that, while it has strategy, is more welcome as a mindless exercise to calm an active brain. In later years, solitaire was replaced by the more thoughtful activity of crossword puzzles. She always worked the daily puzzle in the K.C. Star, but steered clear of The NY Times puzzles, I guess she didn’t want to think that hard.

My mother may have been kind, but she could be tough as well. Corporal punishment was not used, with a couple of rare exceptions. She did once wash my mouth out with a bar of soap for some particular off color remark. It didn’t stick, though, to her chagrin my language remains that of a sailor. Well, I was a sailor. I can only remember hearing her drop an f-bomb once in my life, however she later denied ever having uttered it. I’ve already pointed out my own struggles with memory, so we’ll just call this a no-decision. (I know I heard it though.)

My mother was a passionate reader. After my father died, and before reading became more difficult for her, she would consume stacks of books. The two Lindas, my cousin and my aunt, would send her boxes of books, or go to the library for an armful. She liked to sit in an old overstuffed red chair in the guest bedroom and read for hours. When I would make a video call and see her sitting in that chair I would always ask what she was reading. That chair is destined for my home office so that I can wear it out further. And perhaps remember fondly.

When I was a kid, my mother would perform what I suppose would be called short one person plays. I can remember a couple of these, I think there was one where she played a student driver, but the most performed would have been “The Yellow Wallpaper”, a story about a woman’s descent into madness. I don’t know what caused her to pick this particular story, perhaps it called to her somehow. We can only ponder. These stories were usually acted out at church social functions, of which there were many. My main memory of church as a child is of a social nature, she gave us a Christian foundation but didn’t load us down with guilt. I thank her for this light religious touch.

My mother was once in a fender bender in a store parking lot. I couldn’t have been more than five or six, but I remember it was in the rain and we had a broken taillight. I can remember details about the car but not the make, although knowing my father it was a Ford. I believe that is the only accident my mother was the driver in, and to my knowledge she never got a speeding ticket.

My mother would get weak in the knees around even a minor celebrity. She became almost shell shocked when she had to exit a restaurant past Joe Montana’s table. Once I took her and my father to see Paul Newman’s ranch for needy kids in Connecticut. Not to go on the property, mind you, just to walk down a trail that bordered a wooded part of it. My mother was sure she was going to see Mr. Newman and became almost dumbstruck with anxiety. This obsession with Paul Newman was lifelong and intense. I suppose if she had ever actually met the man, she would have fainted, or perhaps swooned.

My mother never minded cooking and tended to go for well done with most dishes, particularly pork. I can recall an old Far Side where the wolves are looking down at a pen full of pigs. One says to the other, “I say we go for it, and Trichinosis be damned”. I suppose that hits pretty close to the undercooked meat of the matter. She did learn in latter life to appreciate a steak cooked merely medium well. I suppose her real passion in the kitchen was baking. She would start early and make an often large assortment of Christmas cookies, and of course her fudge. Many of her creations will resonate with some of you here; date pin wheels were always Danny’s favorite, ham salad finger sandwiches were preferred by James Hardman. I suppose Jeff will miss her Chex mix the most, heavy on the cashews. Of course, for me it will be the smackaroni and the Dutch buns. If any of you are looking for the recipes, most of them come from Martha Dixon’s Copper Kettle Cookbook, a rather tone deaf but typical gift from my father (it was the 60’s after all). The book is sadly out of print but still available on Amazon. From such things are traditions made and kept.

My mother loved her home. She and my father spent most of their spare time and money over the years getting the house just how they wanted it. My mother called the theme “French Countryside” and I suppose that’s about accurate. They opened up the floor plan and created interesting spaces. When I was young, they did most of the remodels themselves, gradually transitioning to hiring the work done by others – mostly Bob Bohr, Linda and Brian. Though I didn’t live in the Overland Park house for all that long as a child, it was always my safe place to come back to through all my travels. I don’t think my mother’s attachment to her home can be overemphasized, and I don’t think it’s coincidence that she passed soon after she could no longer live there. We all need a safe place in a difficult world.

I could go on, but you get the idea. My mother experienced tragedy and loss at an age when most of us are out having fun and making our first mistakes in life. She lost a parent and a child and she rose above these tragedies to create a fulfilling life for herself and her family. She gave her children the love and tough love that we needed to make our own ways in life. She raised three avid readers, independent all, often to a fault. Many of the life lessons she gave me didn’t really resonate until I had children of my own. She was tough, tender, caring, loving, and fiercely protective and loyal to her family. She was my North Star in a tough world, and I will miss her terribly, but I will carry her guidance, her light, for the rest of my life.