MY MOM THE STORYTELLER

It came across my Facebook page, a family photo taken fifteen years ago now, at our daughter Becky’s wedding. 

The setting was the dining room of the lovely Mountaintop Inn in Vermont where Becky was married.  The photo is lit perfectly by the deer antler chandelier positioned over a dinner table.  A dozen or so family and friends, including the bride, are sitting at, or standing behind, the round table laden with the remnants of coffee and wedding cake.  Everyone is smiling, some are on the verge of laughter – all eyes are on one person – my mom.

Mom, seated at the far left of the table, is dressed in a beige pants suit with a satin collar, her gray blond hair cut in a style that perfectly captures her natural waves.  Her face radiates enthusiasm, her hands out in front of her, gesturing madly.  This is one of the ways I will always remember my mom - when she slipped into her role as family storyteller. 

Practically everyone around the table had already heard this particular story.  We all knew what was coming, yet every face is lit with expectation for it!  For once, not a single person said, “Oh Gram, not that one again!”.   No, this time around, we all just let her tell it, and we listened, smiled and just enjoyed it, as if it were the first time she’d told it.  

Her story began on a cruise.  Dinner was over, and Mom was on her way to the next activity when she felt it – the rumblings of what we all affectionally call, “Kaden stomach”.  Mom was not originally a Kaden, but apparently this particular disorder can be passed to non-blood relatives – ask any of us.  Immediately, Mom thought, “I knew I shouldn’t have had that last cup of coffee.” 

Hoping (against hope) that those vague cramps would not amount to anything, she continued on her way.  But, nothing can stop “Kaden stomach”, there IS no cure.  The next time the cramps made themselves known, Mom knew she needed to find a bathroom – preferably an empty one - STAT! 

Rushing into the nearest bathroom, happily noting its emptiness, Mom pushes into the stall, undoes the button of her pants, sits down, and breathes a sigh of relief. 

Less than a minute passes when Mom hears someone enter the room.  The only sound she hears after is a pounding on the counter.  She’s puzzled, but busy, and ignores it.  The pounding begins again.  Now Mom, curious, speaks, “Are you okay?”, she asks.   No speaking, just more pounding.

“Do you need help?”, Mom says.  More pounding.  Well, there’s only one thing to do.  

With the speed of Superman changing out of his Clark Kent suit, Mom stands up, pants still around her ankles, and unlocks the stall door.  Peeking outside, she sees the woman, face turning blue, holding her neck and pounding on the counter.  Instantly coming to the right conclusion, that the woman is choking, Mom waddles out, gives her the Heimlich maneuver, waits till she expels what was choking her and waddles back into the bathroom.  The woman whispers an embarrassed thank you and disappears as fast as she can.

By now, everyone at the table is reeling with laughter, tears flowing, but Mom hasn’t finished.  As she gets to the end of her story, Mom's last line, which sets everyone off again, is the classic, “Imagine what people would have thought was happening if they had walked in on me at the moment I was helping that lady!”.  Imagine. . . .

We lost Mom just a few short years later, but not a one of us has forgotten her stories, or the way she made us all laugh when she told them.  We truly miss her.