Dead 2 Years and Lessons Learned.

Her death was pronounced at 20:46 two years ago today. It wasn't an easy death. She didn't go out in storybook fashion like someone who dies in their sleep or while doing something they love like running or parachuting or gardening or making love. My mother, who struggled all her life with mental illness along with a myriad of other physical conditions, spent the last twenty four hours of her life in pain in a shitty hospital where her Ischemic Colitis was misdiagnosed which then led to sepsis that ultimately would have caused her death.

The doctors told us that if she were younger and healthier they would have recommend surgery. We faced a decision that thousands of families are presented with each year. It's a terrible precipice to be standing on knowing that with three words or less a person's complete life; the entire road they travelled on to this point is now in your hands. 

We consulted family members who were physicians who intimately knew my mother's history and had treated her numerous times over the years. They assured us that due to her age, medical history and current condition she would not survive surgery. We trusted them if not the hospital's doctors and told the one caring nurse to, "Let her go." My brother, sister and I along with their kids said our goodbyes and the life support machines were turned off. I looked for signs of my mother's spirit leaving her body, ascending towards the ceiling but there was nothing. She didn't even look dead, just very quiet and still. 

My mother's mental illness caused her and her family a lot of pain - it's not just the patient that suffers. But if you were to strip away the mental illness you would see a generous, loving, woman who loved her friends and family dearly and was as tough and courageous as the eastern European landscape that her father escaped during the Pogroms. 

White Water Rafting on The Colorado River, 1982

I was prepared for my mother's death. She surprised me by living as long as she did with as sick as she was. She never thought of herself as brave or courageous but anyone who survived thirty sessions of shock treatment, endless courses of drug therapies, the loss of her husband at an early age while consistently battling depression has got to be a little tough if not resilient. I like to think that she passed on some of her resiliency along with a dash of tenacity. 

The greatest unspoken fear we human-beings have is the fear of death. I know that one day I too will die. I've always known this but not until both parents passed did I realize it to be true. I wasn't yet an adult when my father died. I was a very young twenty-four years old living a ski bums life in Colorado. Due to the sixteen hundred miles that separated us I hadn't seen him for close to a year. During what would turn out to be our last telephone conversation I was curt and probably rude. I just had a fight with my then girlfriend and I abruptly hung up the phone.

During one of my mother's many hospital stays she said to me, "Bruce, getting old really sucks." When she made that comment she had already mourned the loss of many good friends and relatives. Like most seniors, she hated the fact that her body and mind had slowed and that she wouldn't accomplish all the things she wanted to do. I empathized with her and told her that I can't imagine how frustrating it must feel. She paused before saying, "There were so many things that I wish I did differently. I'm sorry if I wasn't the mother you needed me to be." 

Years before she died I told my mother that my deceased father had appeared one day at our NYC apartment. Both my wife and I saw him sitting on the sofa. I thought that this bit of news would make her happy but it only scared her and left her anxious and in tears. "But you'll see him again," I promised. She responded, "Maybe but I'm not ready right now."

Newlyweds Leaving For Their Honeymoon - 1956

With all the hospitalizations, her alarms of suicide, and family arguments, she managed to travel, go to the theatre, laugh, play cards with friends and work until she was eighty. I do mourn her. It hurts. All of it. But it's all part of "it" and in some way my mother's life was a lesson in love, determination and understanding.

We were lucky in a way in that a month before she died my mother came to visit my wife and I in Chicago. It was a cold and moist weekend and she had a lot of trouble walking and breathing but she insisted that we go and see the city. It took us what seemed an eternity to walk one block and my wife and I tried to hide our impatience. Her frailty focused us once again on our own short fading lives and how we wanted to live it.

Full-Circle Stories

At Author Frank Waters' Home in New Mexico

It's quite amazing don't you think, when you read a book or see a painting that influences you so much that for some strange reason you find yourself sitting in the living room of the author or painter? Irregular yes, but that's what happened to me after I was aquatinted with the words of the prolific writer, Frank Waters. 

I was introduced to Mr. Waters' work by a woman waiting to board a plane to Chicago at Albuquerque Airport. She was moving from Chicago, where I currently reside to Taos, New Mexico where I dream of residing. (Coincidence?)  "If you want to learn about Taos and the people of the Valley," she said, "Then you need to read Frank Waters." 

Mr. Waters was a writer who penned numerous books about life in and around Taos. He carved staggering, fluid and articulate stories out of the beautiful and expansive landscapes; the community triad of Native Americans, Latinos and Anglos; rapid racism, corruption and the slow and sometimes silent culture. 

I started off reading The Man Who Killed The Deer and instantaneously became a Waters' fan. Hungry to learn about the man between the book covers, I then dove into, Of Time and Change, Waters' autobiography that includes his friendships with the painters who founded the Taos Society of Artists  along with Mabel Dodge Luhan and Georgia O'Keeffe who fell hard for the blue colored mountains, flowing river gorges and endless sun-filled vistas.  

Excited to visit Taos on our vacation last September, my wife and I ended up staying in El Prado on the north side of town. On our second day we made a visit to the arts village of Arroyo Secco where we met talented potters, painters and printers. Out of curiosity I asked one of the shop owners if Mr. Waters' widow, Barbara was still alive. She said that she was elderly but still alive, accepting visitors and that I should go and giver her door a knock. When I hesitated she ensured me that it would be okay, "She has a caretaker and she loves to talk about Frank." 

"What's the address?" I asked. 
"Oh, we don't go by addresses round here. It's up the road a bit, you'll know it when you see it." 

We found the Waters' homestead only after driving around in circles for thirty minutes and came upon a postal carrier. I sheepishly walked to the front door with a copy of Of Time and Change in hand and knocked. A small screened window opened and the top of woman's head appeared, her small, thin voice accented with Spanish said, "Yes? Can I help you?" 

"I was wondering if Barbara is available? I'm a big fan of her husband's work." The tiny head turned and called out into the darkness of the adobe style home, "Barbara. Someone here to see you." There was a pause and a weak and creaky voice asked, "Who is it?" The tiny head turned back to me and asked, "She wants to know is it?" 

"Tell her I'm Bruce from Chicago and that I was wondering if I could meet with her and ask her some questions about herself and Mr. Waters, but if now's not a good time I can come back another day."

The tiny head repeated my words verbatim and Barbara's frail voice relayed that she wasn't feeling well and asked if could I come back tomorrow at 2PM. "Yes. Tell her yes. I will come back tomorrow with cookies." The tiny head confirmed the next day's appointment and that Barbara prefers chocolate chip cookies. "Bring a lot. I like chocolate chip cookies too," she said.

At the appointed time the following day I showed up with two bags of cookies and my wife at my side. We gave the door a gentle knock and a beautiful puckish woman with a waterfall of white hair greeted us at the door with a warm and friendly smile. Surely this couldn't be Mrs. Waters. She was way to young and spry. And she was not the tiny head from the day before who spoke to me through the screened window. "Come this way, Barbara is almost ready to see you." 

She let us explore the modest house complete with generations of collected paintings, letters, photographs and sculptures from what I guessed were given to the Waters over the years from friends and artists like Blueminschien, Couse, Sharp, Phillips and one of my favorite painters, Nicolai Fechin. Here we were standing in the living room of Frank Waters! I was gobsmacked by the fortuitousness of the situation and the generosity of our host. When I turned to my left there on a far wall was a graphite portrait of Frank Waters which, Waters writes about and includes a copy of in his book Of Time and Change. According to Waters accounts in is autobiography, it was the only portrait that Nicolai Fechin ever did of him. They were good friends and took many high mountain walks together but only one portrait came out of all their time together. 

"Wow!" I exclaimed. "Is that the original drawing?" When assured that it was I felt like I was in a dream. I just read the book, saw the copy of the portrait, came to know of the two men's friendship and here I was face to face with the artist's work in the sitter's home! I felt like a ghost in a house of the living. All the energy that was created in this little, warm and comfortable home over many years had never left; only touching and growing those that came and went. You could see it in the slanted rays of sun that poured through a southern facing window; feel and smell it in the crisp pinion scented air. 

"Would you like to meet Barbara now?" Our 'guide' Jackie asked.

"Yes, very much."

We walked through a small door way to a makeshift living-bedroom where we were greeted with by Mrs. Barbara Waters who was laying on her bed with her felt elevated, her blonde hair brushed neatly, a small wave of bangs flowed over her forehead. 

"Well hello. Welcome. Please, take a seat." She was adorable and sweet and kind. 

I was smitten. "It is so nice to meet you Mrs. Waters. Thank you so much for inviting us into your home." 

"I'm sorry that I couldn't see you yesterday. My foot was giving me so much trouble but it feels better today." 

I did a little math and figured that she was probably in her mid to late eighties and if her foot was the only thing troubling her she was doing pretty well for her age. 

"We're so sorry that you're not feeling well. Are you sure you're up for visitors?" 

She assured us that she was and asked, "Now, what would you like to ask about Frank?"

I had so many questions and had know idea where to start. I had been in this situation before. The first time I met Dame Judi Dench outside the Royal Court Theatre I was so woozy with happiness that I practiced saying her name over and over again in my head before I blurted out, "Judi Dame, it's such a pleasure." 

I started off asking Barbara questions about writing, hers and Frank's: where and when they liked to write, the duration of their writing sessions, etc. Then I moved onto personal topics of where and when she and Frank met, their first date and other areas of interests that may have appeared mundane to Barbara and her ever peaceful and watchful friend and caregiver, Jackie. Barbara told us that she is from Illinois and that Frank believed that there's a direct line leading many people to Taos from Chicago and that it was no coincidence that we were lead to her husband's work and the beautiful mountains of Taos.  

We could have stayed in that warm little room all afternoon but wanted to be respectful of the time. Our two hours chat was equal give and take with Barbara and Jackie asking about my writing and my wife's hat designs. I learned a lot about the story behind The Man Who Killed The Deer, the writing cabin behind the main house and the lyrical Kiami Gypsy Wagon parked nearby where I imagined many yarns where told over the miles it travelled.

Barbara thanked us for the cookies and company and invited us to come visit again. I promised that we would and that I would call her from time to time. I get a tickle each time I do. The connection from the printed page to the author's home is truly full-circle. 

Mother Nature As Art Instructor

Lake Michigan, Somewhere Near 31st Beach, Chicago (Clickable Image)

Mother Nature As Ultimate Art Instructor shares Her lessons for anyone interested enough to stand along Her shores of Lake Michigan this winter. Click on the above image and watch and listen to Her cry,moan, screech, wave and roll.

Recent weather combined with the Instructor's sculpting tools helped to create a planet Krypton looking landscape with plates and shards of ice arranged into a glass-like sculptures. Waves rolling under ice and snow shifted the palette north and south, east and west. Along with a snowy owl flapping its wings above my head waiting for a rabbit to show itself, the shapes, colors, sounds and scents provided endless gratitude and kickstarted ideas galore when I returned to the studio.

Happy viewing.