No BS Newshour Episode #422
Goodbye Mom
The most beautiful sophisticated earthy woman I’ve ever known.
I don’t know if we’ll meet on the other side of life’s door.
But I do know I was blessed to know her on this side.
Remember to tell someone you love her.
All my relations.
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Transcript:
Well, my mother’s passed away. She’s walked on. I’ll kiss her no more.
There’s a lot of things to say about her. She was an icon. My cousin Jenny sent me a text.
This is about her physical beauty. My dear cousin wrote to me, When I think of your mom, I can see her tall and slender, wearing Hudson’s beautiful leather boots, some sort of shawl tucked into a smart-looking belt, her hair glossy, cheekbones high, back straight, and smoking a Virginia Slim. Most beautiful, sophisticated, earthy woman I’ve ever known.
And Jenny would know because my cousin is a beautiful, sophisticated, and earthy woman. I wanted to write something about my mom. It was an obituary really, but in this book that I wrote, maybe this will be the only thing when I go to dust that will remain, I don’t know.
But in this book, Detroit, it chronicles her life, our lives, our family, and yours. And she’s really the spine in this book. There could be no binding without her life.
So I didn’t want to do that. But I wanted to say something about her. And the last few precious months of her life, weeks, days, was the greatest gift, perhaps, I think.
I marveled at how she handled the end and what she was about. And so from my cousin to this book, I put a little something together with Ken Beck about those last days. They’re quite extraordinary.
It’s a lovely piece. And thank you for your artistry, Ken. I sincerely appreciate it.
I watched this a dozen times if I’ve watched it once. Mark, if you wouldn’t mind to play that. Mother’s life was not one of accolades or prizes or financial riches.
Mother was a handsome woman who lived a normal life. But when cancer came to take her face, it exposed a deeper beauty. That’s the thing about growing old, she said, of the affliction that had stolen her eyes and taken the bridge of her nose and left her in darkness.
Eventually, God punishes every woman for her vanity, she said. Even so, Mother continued to wear a wristwatch so she might document the hour when her eyesight would be returned. Of course, it never was.
Mother was 81. Evangeline Baldess, knee steel, was born in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, the daughter of a truck driver and a waitress. In her life, Mother was many things.
A factory girl, a florist, a painter, a gourmet, a theologian. She was a wife to three men, mother to five children, grandmother to 10, great-grandmother to three. She also offered sanctuary to many children lost in the blizzard of drugs and divorce known as the 1980s.
There was always a warm meal at her table. At that time, men were packing their bags and walking out the door and women were left to go out and earn the bread. Naturally, children ran wild, including her own.
On more than one occasion, Mother presented herself in an old fur coat at the threshold of a disreputable door, demanding her children be returned to her. There’s a word for that, her sister Joanne said at the hour of her death, flair. Your mother had flair.
Weeks earlier, Mother asked, why does God keep me around? What does he want from me? I’m ready. One last great lesson, Ma, I supposed. I think you want you to teach us how to die with dignity, how not to be afraid.
She nodded, and then she asked for a cigarette, and then she asked for a chocolate, and then she asked for a spritz of Oscar de la Renta. At the foot of her bed, a great grandchild clutched at the post attempting to right herself. Mother knew the baby by the sound of her gurglings.
The baby carries her name, Evangeline, the bringer of good news. The scent of lilac and sage wafted in from the garden, along with the dang dong of the wind chime. Mother had been floating in the morphine clouds for some time.
As the day grew nearer and the doses grew higher, I expected strange things to bubble from her haze. I did not know what exactly. Rantings perhaps, bitterness maybe.
Medicine is a truth serum, and cancer is a monster. But strange words never came. She was the same woman in death’s shadow as she was in life’s light.
She was more handsome than I’d ever known. One evening, in the darkened room, she asked, why me, Lord? What’s that, Ma? Kris Kristofferson, she said. Why me, Lord? It wasn’t a question.
It was a request. Why me is Kristofferson’s gospel song of humility and grace, a feeling unworthy of God’s blessings. I remembered it from my boyhood.
I played it for her. Tell me, Lord, if you think there’s a way. I can try to repay all I’ve taken from you.
She sang along in a rasping, laborious voice, and then she slept. Mother died today, but not really. It is said that a woman dies twice.
Once when her heart stops, and once when her name is spoken for the last time. But considering the people she touched, the kindness she freely gave, the strength she offered, I’m quite sure Mother will live 100 years more, at least. That’s it.
No more. I love you, Mom. Now, I could get on with the rantings and ravings about the goings-on in this world, and believe me, there’s plenty.
But that can wait, I think. Let’s not do that this week. I just don’t have the heart to tend to her remains today.
I want to thank you, Luke Nowacki and Bernie Jaskiewicz and Grace Karros and Mark Nida. I want to thank you for your support of this broadcast. And again, Ken, thank you for your artistry and Mark for your brotherhood.
And I want to thank you all out there for listening and considering. If you have someone, tell them you love them. And if you need to, tell someone you’re sorry.
I don’t know if I’ll see my mother on the other side of death’s door to sin, to assume God’s plan. And if I don’t, I won’t be sad because I was blessed to know her in this life. Leave it here.
I called my good friend, very talented artist, Bill Arnold, one-ton trolley. I called him last night and I said, do you know Why Lord by Kris Kristofferson? And he did not. He had never heard it, different childhood than mine.
And I asked him if he, she’s visiting his son in New York. And I said, did you bring your guitar? And he said, I did. I bring it everywhere.
And I said, could you learn it? And could you play it? And could you be my friend and take us out? So this is my friend, Bill. Thank you. And thank you all, all my relations.
Why me Lord? What have I ever done to deserve even one? Of the pleasures I’ve known. Tell me Lord, what did I ever do that was worth loving you? All the kindness you’ve shown. Lord, help me, Jesus.
I’ve wasted it all. Help me, Jesus. I know what I am.
Now that I know that I’ve needed you so, help me, Jesus. My soul’s in your hand. Try me Lord.
If you think there’s a way I can try to repay all I’ve taken from you. Maybe Lord, I can show someone else what I’ve been through myself on my way back to you. Lord, help me, Jesus.
I’ve wasted it. So help me, Jesus. I know what I am.
Now that I know that I’ve needed you so, help me, Jesus. My soul’s in your hand. Lord, help me, Jesus.
I’ve wasted it. So help me, Jesus. I know what I am.
Now that I know that I’ve needed you so, help me, Jesus. My soul’s in your hand. Help me, Jesus.
My soul’s in your hand.
