For Marilyn “Lyn” Rose Caldwell: July 26, 1940-June 23, 2024.
Click on this image to watch my tribute to Mom
Mom was teaching yoga and aquafit in January, and was gone by June. I’ve been torn between grief and gratitude ever since, but writing this tribute helped me linger longer in gratitude. Some of you requested I post it, so here it is in video and printed form. I’ve heard that loss is more universal than love, so this is a communal offering – a tribute to all those who we miss terribly and who made us better people.
Mom loved the ritual and the festivities surrounding Day of the Dead. My own home is more altar than house right now. If you came over for tea, you’d have to push aside bright orange marigold flowers, lit Guadalupe candles, and potted plants holding photos of Mom and other loved ones who have passed, just to find a place to set your cup down. I like the idea that the veil is thin between the living and the dead and that for one weekend a year, we invite spirits to come back and feast with their families.
In Guadalajara, MX, it’s a public holiday full of parades, costumes, communal ofrendas (altars), music, folk and fire dancing. In Sumpango, Guatemala, neighborhoods build giant kites, sometimes the size of two-story buildings, and write powerful messages on them for the living and the dead to read. Mom and I traveled to these places and more, finding it odd that our own culture lacked ways to celebrate and remember those we’ve lost as well as the most fundamental fact of life: that we die.
For this Day of the Dead, I’m going to make a margarita to toast Mom and everyone on the other side of that marigold bridge. Thank you.
“They existed. They existed. Be and be better. For they existed.” -Maya Angelou.
Love,
Susie
***
Tribute for Lyn Caldwell, given at her Celebration of Life on July 26, 2024 (her birthday), at the Badminton & Racquet Club, Toronto, Canada
Since we’re at a tennis club, I’ll begin with a tennis story.
For my sixteenth birthday, Mom took me to the French open tennis championships. We were living in France at the time while she taught at the Lycee Canadien, so it wasn’t crazy, but it was a huge, generous investment. Still-I’m pretty sure that of the two of us, she was the most excited.
We watched Martina Navratilova play a young Steffi Graf. When Steffi won, Mom pushed me through a crowd of tennis fans to where Steffi was signing autographs.
“It’s her birthday!” Mom pointed at me.
“Happy Birthday!” Steffi said as she took my poster to sign, “What’s your name, little girl?”
“LYN!” Mom shouted.
*
Mom was one of a kind, a force of nature, a dazzling comet, a beautiful, wise, and funny woman.
She was also independent and intrepid.
The first time we moved to France, it was to a tiny town quite literally at the end of the road. She was recently divorced, had three children under the age of 10, and knew only a little French.
She did two things in that big leap: she gave us the gift of French language and culture. She also gave herself what she needed – what fed her boundless curiosity: a new language, a new hobby (knitting), and a sport she loved (skiing). As a family, we bonded tightly, learned to make mistakes, and make new friends. In this bold move, she role modeled for her children how to live life fully, and that may be the greatest thing a parent can do.
Recently, a friend described grief as a Roulette wheel. Sometimes it stops on sadness, sometimes on gratitude or irritability. Sometimes grief stops on bad ideas like “get bangs!”
Lately, it’s been landing on awe.
How did she do it? As a single mom, take us to live abroad? Make sure we got the best of everything: schools, camp, travel experiences, art education? Earn a Masters in Art History while working full time in the public school system, and ride her bike or TTC to work everyday?
I imagine it was not easy for her independent nature to be weighed down by three messy, needy children, but she mothered us so well. I think her secret was that she focused on what mattered to her (and not what mattered to others). By doing what she loved, she transmitted that love of life to us.
Apparently she transmitted that love of life to others, too, because our home at 43 Oriole Gardens became the center of the universe for neighborhood kids and later, a hangout for teenagers.
There were times that I wished my mom were more like other moms– who at least didn’t just go meet an artist one day and then, the next, buy a painting in exchange for our family car.
When my friends would say, “Your Mom is so cool. She isn’t uptight like other mothers. I would say, Great! But I don’t have a car. Can I get a ride?”
Now that I am a mother, I am sure my children want me to be different, too. It comes with the territory.
As I grew older, I didn’t wish for my mom to be like any other mom. In fact, I admired her strength and how she knew herself so well and leaned toward what brought her joy. To know oneself like that is rare, to act on it, even more rare.
Mom understood herself, but she also understood me and my children in a way that no one else did or ever will. I really miss her perspective and her great advice, (even if it came in short text messages written in ALL CAPS.)
If you walked into Mom’s tiny condo apartment, you could tell what was important to her and what wasn’t.
What wasn’t important to her: cooking or food, dishes, (she once famously left me a note after I had just given birth: “Sorry about the dishes in the sink. I don’t do dishes. Never have. Never will.”) She also didn’t own much makeup, a hairdryer or high heels – she preferred to be no-nonsense and low-maintenance.
You could also tell from looking through her apartment what was important to her: her paintings, her bicycle, her Nova Scotian roots, books, homemade ice cream, the newspaper, opera, and fresh flowers from St. Lawrence Market. Most of all, her relationships. Mom’s bathroom had framed collages of photos from floor to ceiling. She loved thinking about and looking at her friends, her children, most of all, her grandchildren.
She loved games: backgammon, tennis, bridge–the Olympic games (which begin today, fittingly). When she was younger, she played every sport imaginable and then fell in love with sports commentators. She would go around giving her opinion to everyone as if she were being paid to do so.
Mom had style. She didn’t like stuff, had no interest in things, really, but if you looked in her closet, you would know that she appreciated a great dress (especially if it had pockets and ¾ sleeves). I never knew how she could pull out such amazing outfits from such a tiny backpack.
She always traveled light. To go to Mexico for 6 months, she took a carry-on bag. Somehow she made room for gifts & picture books that she carried to the children in Mexico.
Mom didn’t just travel light, she lived light. She didn’t let inconsequential things bother her. She did not dwell or ruminate on much; Mom just kept moving forwards.
She lived simply, she never complained. I imagine that she was not feeling well for a long time before she finally allowed us in on her discomfort. She was a Mom–first and foremost –and she never wanted to burden or bother us.
I wish she had called earlier. I wish she had asked for help or allowed herself to lean on others a bit more – because she came to adore her caregivers and because it was not a burden; it was a gift and a privilege to have been there for her in the end -to hold her hand and rub her favorite cream onto them, to moisten her lips with lip balm, to have a cup of tea and listen to her stories.
In the end, Mom was ready to pass. It was heartbreaking that she refused visitors, but she told us that she wanted to slip quietly away. Which is exactly what she did.If we could all be so lucky.
When that Roulette wheel of grief lands on sorrow, what lifts me is this: She was an A+ Mom. She gave me my bravery, compassion, literary sensibility, athleticism and a knack for teaching – a windfall that I am grateful for each day.
Also this: she gave us a map on how to face the inevitable, our mortality. We keep it light. We learn to know ourselves well and live with an unapologetic joie de vivre. We have style. We have compassion and an eye for all things beautiful, especially the faces of our friends and family. We walk to the market and buy fresh flowers and cake.
Kurt reminded me of a great Nana story to close. Mom came to visit us right after Cole was born. We were living in rural Vermont at the time. She took the train to Montreal, then rented a car and drove across the border. She watched the baby, picked blueberries, and wrecked one of our pots trying to reheat soup.
When it was time to go, she took off going the wrong way on a dirt road. There was no stopping her. Eventually she realized that she was lost. So she stopped her car in the middle of the road and flagged down a truck. The truck driver said, “If you want to go to Montreal, you have to turn around.” To which she simply replied, “Oh I never turn around.”
And I’m pretty sure that right now she’s saying, “Wrap it up, Susie! Go live your life! Onwards!”
***
with thanks to Kelly Corrigan, whose tribute to her mom helped me frame this speech.