A Tale to Be Told

We bring our years to an end, as it were a tale that is told.

Last week we buried my mother, Joanna Evans Funk Campbell. This is her story:

My mother was part of a prestigious old Southern family, the Middleton-Manigaults. The Middletons signed the Declaration of Independence. The Manigaults loaned George Washington a half a million dollars to finance the Revolutionary War. In my grandmother's house was a spindly, uncomfortable white wooden chair where Lafayette sat and discussed strategy for the conflict. You can't go anywhere in Charleston SC without seeing a name connected to the Middleton-Manigaults. For example, they owned part of Kiawah Island. They owned the breath-taking Middleton Gardens, they built the Manigault House, and their plantation Brookgreen is legendary for its beauty.

Mom was justifiably proud of her family history, and she made sure that each of us three girls, her three children, had scrapbooks with family photos and lore in them. She found the world a fascinating place and she loved pointing out historical tidbits or scenic wonders. In fact, my sisters and I still laugh about the way she'd drive us through the mountains around Chattanooga with one hand on the steering wheel and the other pointing to the mist over the valleys. "Oh, look, girls," she'd drawl.

We, meantime, screamed back, "Watch the road! We're all going to die!"

Mom was, at her heart, a teacher, an instructor who enjoyed passing on her knowledge. After dancing with the Atlanta (Georgia) Civic Ballet and the New York City Ballet, she ran a ballet studio. Her method for teaching students to do "grand jetes" (big leaps) was simplicity itself: she drew an oval on the floor, added wonky "fishes", and said, "Now jump over the puddle and don't let the fishies bite your toes."

When I asked her why she didn't continue her career in New York City, she shared a litany of reasons. She had seen how the other dancers starved themselves, and she wasn't interested in that. A partner had knocked her foot out from under her during a "pas de deux" (dance for two), and her ankle was seriously compromised. She'd watched another dancer finish a piece, step off stage, untie her satin ribbons, and dump blood from her toe shoes. But most compelling, Mom wanted a family.

So she had us. Me (Joanna Ward or "Jonie"), Jane, and Margaret.

She also had a crappy marriage with an abusive alcoholic, my dad. When he left us, we all went on welfare. Then Mom embarked on a second career. She went back to school and got a degree in nutrition, which allowed her to work in the food service industry.

For the past 20 years, she lived in Florida with my sisters. Three years ago, she survived a bout of cancer of the larynx. In January of this year, a scan showed two masses, one in each lung. Mom clung to the idea that chemo would again save her life. But on July 17, a hospice nurse, Sally Lippert, came to assess her situation. Mom had been struggling, but once a performer, always a performer--she'd done a great job of hiding how sick she was.

When Sally asked Mom in private, "Do you know why I'm here?", my very proper Southern belle of a mother said, "Yes, and it sucks."

On July 19, Mom slipped into a coma. My sisters and I cared for her in Margaret's home. With the help of hospice, we administered morphine regularly, cleaned her, and kept her comfortable.

It broke my heart to see her beautiful legs--as shown in the photo above--so bowed and distorted. The cancer had infiltrated her bones.

On July 26, my mother died.

Egads! What if Mom Was Right? And a Contest

By Joanna Campbell Slan

“Don’t eat that. It’s dirty,” Mom used to say as my sisters and I ran around frantically trying to catch snowflakes on our tongues. And when we attempted a snow ice cream recipe, mixing sugar and half-and-half with five cups of the fluffy white stuff, she went apoplectic. “You don’t know where that’s been. What were you thinking? Throw that out, right now.”

So we did.

Bacteria in the Snowflakes?

Now I discover she was right. According to an Associated Press article in last week's St. Louis Post-Dispatch, scientists found that as much as 85% of the nuclei of snowflakes were bacteria. Okay, it’s the kind that only causes diseases in tomatoes, but those things mutate, don’t they? I mean, today it’s tomatoes, tomorrow you’re kissing your liver goodbye.

I set aside my daily paper, pushed away my latte, and buried my head in my hands. “If she was right about this…what else does Mom know? Maybe I should have been paying better attention.”

There was that threat: Step on a crack and you’ll break your mother’s back. She said it and laughed. Was she teasing? I’ve experimented, and so far, no word from Florida about breaking bones, but…who knows? Maybe it’s just a matter of time.

If you read in poor light, you’ll need glasses. By golly, she had me there. I’ve been blind as the proverbial bat—not a real bat, mind you—since fourth grade. Then I had LASIK surgery. But since then I must gone back to reading in poor light, because now I can scarcely read my AARP card held at arm’s length.

Your face is going to get stuck like that. On close examination, I do believe that hash-mark between my eyes is the result of constant frowns. Of making faces about the cost of gas, why my teenage son isn’t home yet, and failed attempts at weight loss.

Step outside with wet hair and you’ll catch your death of cold. Maybe wet hair doesn’t attract the rhinovirus, but a good chill does lower your immune system. At least, I think it does. After all, no one seems to know exactly what does and does not prevent a cold. As a young adult, I gulped gallons of orange juice. Next, I popped Zinc lozenges. Now I chug Airborne. What if all along the culprit has been wet hair? Wouldn’t surprise me a bit.

I reach for the phone and give Mom a call.(That's a photo of us taken 50-some years ago.) She’s always glad to hear from me. I take a deep breath and apologize. “Mom, all these years, I wasn’t listening to you. Turns out, you were right.” I go through my list of “mom-isms” and give her long overdue credit.

A Useful Citizen at Last

“See?” She says, a hint of self-satisfaction in her voice. “The pediatrician told me someday you’d be a useful citizen.” With that she signs off.

I put away the paper and clean the breakfast dishes. I feel strangely relieved to know Mom was right about so much. Checking the time, I realize I need to hurry or I’ll be late for my appointment. One foot is out the door, when I hear my mother’s voice in my head: Always put on clean underwear before you go out. What if you get hit by a car and they take you to the hospital?

And, Lord help me, I run upstairs to change.

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Annoucing the Box O'Books and Lots O' Stickers Contest

Pop on over to http://www.killerhobbies.blogspot.com and enter the first ever Box O' Books and Lots O' Stickers Contest. All you have to do is sign up for our mailing list in the boxes on the right ON or BEFORE St. Patrick's Day, 2008, and you could win 1.) A box of gently read books totaling more than $180 in value or 2.) A selection of Mrs. Grossman's Stickers.

Come on and get lucky!
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Joanna Campbell Slan is the author of ten non-fiction books. Her new series set in St. Louis will debut in September with Paper, Scissors, Death: A Scrapbooking Mystery (ISBN: 0-7387-1250-7) from Midnight Ink. Joanna and her family live in St. Louis.