Being by the ocean settles me and makes me feel whole. How does it make you feel, Mum? I can only guess at your answer now.
On early morning beach walks you share your love of all things natural. For hours, we leisurely scour ribbons of lime green and brown-black seaweed, searching for blue spiral whelks or whole razor-clam shells. Amidst the dark kelp shapes, we find other gems, such as bits of polished sea glass in deep blues and faded greens. Tossed and tumbled in waves and sand, their edges are softened and their surface a hazy patina. Your old Mason jar, filled to the top with their precious light, graces my bureau now.
The salt of the ocean sits in layers on our browned skin like shallow ripples skimming across dry sand. On the outgoing tide, tiny rivulets carve grooves in the dark wetness. Life pulses through those thin veins and gleams in the rising sun. Teeny holes in the sand open and sputter as each wave recedes. You explain that dozens of sand crabs are hidden below. The top half of a sand dollar sits in cocoa-colored sludge at your feet now, waiting to be fingered, but it seems a treasure you no longer notice.
Out on the jetty, we watch spindrift spurt up out of the ocean’s turquoise mouth and splay against the raw umber rockface. Those same colors filled your canvases, as your younger self captured seascapes along various coastlines, here and abroad. Even when you forgot how to paint, your love of bold, bright colors was still evident.
We come upon a white-haired artist crouched precariously on a three-legged canvas camp stool, perched just so on the jetty rocks. We smile and watch him at work en plein air, your painting style of choice, his blue cap pulled snugly against the tidal breezes. He grips the canvas tightly, holding it low against the paint-splattered wooden easel that overflows with crimped tubes and paint rags. He struggles to keep his artwork-in-progress steady, but the wind gusts are sporadic and forceful. Clean white sails, held still in ultramarine waters, dot his horizon.
A kindred spirit, you touch his shoulder and engage in pleasant conversation, so enjoying his Impressionist-style work. I enjoy the familiarity of the interaction, remembering you in that same squat position on a collapsible stool, feet planted, anchoring yourself, braced against the elements. You hung onto your floppy straw hat with one hand while steadying your travel easel with the other. All the while, a paintbrush or two, slathered with rich pigment, held between clenched teeth. Some passerby always stopped to chat and watch your artwork unfold.
Last week, I added a special photo to the shadow box near your unit door. On one overseas trip with fellow artists, you painted colorful Portuguese fishing boats resting in a quiet harbor. Each boat’s hull boasted a different primary color—ruby red, sunflower yellow, deep cornflower. Sharp, white decorative trim lines traced along the hulls’ sweeping, curved structures. Fishing nets draped over railings to dry.
You were in your element then, steeped in your passion, surrounded by friends and art. Each new canvas a fresh start, an opportunity to capture the feeling and emotion of the landscape, the slant of light, people at work or play, a sense of the culture. Just as our new friend was doing on the jetty. His canvas awaits that next pass of oils in tropical hues—aquamarine or cerulean blue, deep violet or alizarin crimson for shading, dabs of yellow ochre for touches of sunlight that wistfully caress the rock tops.
Splashes of sea spray reach us on the jetty, and we giggle like young girls. An explosion of color starts moving across the artist’s canvas. He hurries to capture the ombré of rocky ledges just the right way under the hot sun, before losing the light. You nod when he adds a touch of lime or forest green to hint at frolicking hedges and grasses; bits of pink for swaying rose-hip blooms; and dots of ivory for the Queen Anne’s lace throbbing, bobbing, as tourists snake by, glimpsing the artist at work.
How I miss those lyrical moments by the sea, the pull of the tide, the resounding calls of screeching seagulls overhead. How I miss the gorgeous seascapes you constructed on canvas so effortlessly. I love how tenderly you coached me in my own artwork, pulling on years of experience mentoring and demonstrating at local art shows. Now we scour magazines together, admiring stunning photographs. The brilliant hues of tulips, dahlias, zinnias, and hydrangeas in full bloom are just like your spectacular backyard gardens. Do you recognize the connection?
You love the warmth of summer and how it plays on your skin. At summer’s end, you touch your forearm and chuckle, saying you are “brown as a berry.” Your smile is as broad as the big-brimmed hat that covers your colorful bandana. You treasure these longer days, wearing sandals and living in your swimsuit, the promise of savoring corn-on-the-cob rolled in salty butter, farm-fresh veggies, and especially the juicy, Big Boy tomatoes of my childhood memories.
I vividly recall the sensual feeling of soil between my fingers as I worked in your copious gardens—planting, weeding, trimming, pruning—often beside you, laughing as we labored. You love the smell of cotton sheets drying on the line under clear blue skies. Decades ago, we stood side-by-side hanging wash on that little, tilting clothesline out back. Are these scenes buried somewhere deep inside?
As I stroke your fine white hair, I know your essence is still within this frail body, even though your memory is challenged and our roles reversed. You will always be my role model—optimistic, happy, generous—even if only in memories held dear. Summer is over now, and the dark, damp chill of winter is upon us.
Author's Comment
As challenging as it was, walking beside my mom on her journey with Alzheimer’s was a gift, and I was honored to have the opportunity to do so, until she was ready to let go.
Mother-Daughter Banquet untangles the knot of memory and finds a thread of love and reconciliation.
After losing her mother at the age of nine, Alice Bloch becomes a surrogate mother to her four younger siblings, while a formidable triumvirate of grandmother, stepmother, and aunt step into the maternal role to fill the void for Bloch herself, guiding her development as woman and writer. Diving deep into her memories of growing up as a Jewish lesbian in mid-twentieth century Ohio, Bloch brings us universal truths about the mother-daughter bond.
"Compelling, provocative, and above all else, completely honest, the four unique mothers who inhabit these pages will stay with the reader long after the last page has been turned."
"I found myself laughing out loud on one page and teary-eyed on the next.... These stories are poignant, funny, and captivating." - Lillian Faderman, author of Naked in the Promised Land and My Mother’s Wars Available from Minerva Rising Press, from Amazon, Bookshop.org, or from your independent bookstore.
A native New Englander, Deborah Burke Henderson is an award-winning children’s author, haiku poet, and freelance writer. She also enjoys writing creative nonfiction and flash memoir, photographing nature, making charity comfort quilts, and walking with her husband in wildlife sanctuaries or along any shoreline.
Autry Dye enjoys making both realistic and non-objective paintings. Her themes remain the same in both: telling a story or capturing an emotion. She has been painting and teaching most of her adult life. Learning new methods of working and creating still fascinate her.