"I have bought you a present", were words gleefully spoken on the other end of the phone one Sunday afternoon several years ago. This was not an unusual declaration coming from my mother, the epitome of thoughtfulness and clever gift-giving. All my life I had been the recipient of treasures--large, small and everything in between--from Margaret, she who never ever took a break from thinking about "some little something" she could give me or any one of a vast number of friends, acquaintances, loved ones and, occasionally, strangers. People in her world rarely escaped her generosity.
On this occasion, my mother was exceptionally elated, so I knew the gift had to be extraordinary. "You won't believe what I found for you!", she said brightly. Before I had the chance to venture a guess about what wonderful item would soon be mine, she enthusiastically proclaimed, "I have bought you four plots in Forest Hills Cemetery lying in a good section with people from nice families!"
And that is how I became the proud owner of a lovely piece of real estate with fine neighbors, courtesy of an ad placed by a cremation-prefering couple and Margaret's eagle eyes that always read the print right off the Sunday paper pages. Mother happily pointed out the land was flat and the graves conveniently located adjacent to the road, "In case any shut-ins want to come to your funeral and sit in the car with the window rolled down". And, she helpfully noted, for those who desired someday visiting me in my little plot of land with flowers but feared stepping out into the cemetery, a bouquet could be launched graveward from a car window.
It was all about snagging a bargain and location, location, location. My mother prided herself on always giving practical gifts.
~~~~~
Margaret had an amazing affinity for gift-giving, all one had to do was mention in her presence a passing interest or mild fascination with something--and she got busy. My mother would subtly note such information and soon present that person with a well-chosen surprise. Most of her gifts were small but sincere--from a package of dollar store sugar wafer cookies a nursing home worker had commented she loved, a crocheted blanket she made because someone had mentioned blue was their favorite color, or a several years' long adventure at Suntrust collecting state quarters to surprise a neighbor--all items coming from her camp had meaning. My mother worked like a genie from a magic lamp, all you had to do was indicate a fondness for something and she would do her best to fulfill your wish in her own little way.
With penchants for giving insignificant-yet-significant gifts, a good sense of humor and a preoccupation with thoughtfulness, my mother moved through her life in a way unnoticeable to the big wide world, but seemed to hold a sweet presence in the small one around her. In terms of wealth, my mother had little, but was rich when it came to the intangibles--she was kind and she devoted a great deal of time to thinking about what little things she could do to make others happy.
Margaret faithfully remembered birthdays, anniversaries, and most any meaningful date in someone else's life. She celebrated all of the above--along with the most obscure holidays about which only she and Hallmark knew--with always perfectly timed greeting cards and handwritten notes delivered by the US Mail. Her very small, distinctive and precise handwriting found itself in many mailboxes throughout Chattanooga and beyond, and held a perpetual place in mine.
The little patch of Forrest Hills land was certainly the most intriguing present ever (and right here my mother would interject the word "useful"), found amongst the dizzying array of countless things she gave me over the course of our lives together. With an upbeat and good-natured take on living, she was also the only person I have ever known who looked with near-pleasant expectation to her inevitable arrival at Forest Hills Cemetery. The occasions on which she alluded to this benedictory landing in her life were many--even when I was a child and she was a young and healthy woman. A familiar beginning of a sentence I heard all my days with her was, “When I’m dead and gone and lying over in Forest Hills . . .” Through the years I always smiled hearing these familiar words, spoken with in an outstandingly optimistic tone, the kind you hear when others speak of looking forward to a vacation or moving up to a new home.
In 2008, Margaret did claim her spot over in Forest Hills as she had referenced on a jillion occasions, and thus began that feared new period in my life: Without Her. While my mother only expressed two regrets at the end of her days--leaving me and not seeing William and Annabelle grown up--God granted her a graceful departure that "didn't put anyone out", which was very important to ever-considerate Margaret.
In the almost five years that have passed since I last saw my mother, she has given me the ultimate gift--something even better than that little Sunday real estate transaction about which she was so proud. For instead of an ending, in its place I have found a full and rich beginning as Margaret continues to give and give and give to me. Like everyone else, my mother had little idiosyncrasies and fascinations that made her lovable, complex and interesting, and time has allowed me to consider and appreciate her special role here on earth.
Long after she has been gone, wonderful treasures still appear here and there that bear her unique signature of love and the promise that she is not terribly far away. While I rejoice on Mother's Day for the blessing that was this unique individual and the even greater presents from Margaret I see everyday, my heart is warm and full thinking about how very much Hallmark, the US Mail, her special people and I miss her splendid little signature on cards, envelopes and, most especially, on our lives.
Margaret faithfully remembered birthdays, anniversaries, and most any meaningful date in someone else's life. She celebrated all of the above--along with the most obscure holidays about which only she and Hallmark knew--with always perfectly timed greeting cards and handwritten notes delivered by the US Mail. Her very small, distinctive and precise handwriting found itself in many mailboxes throughout Chattanooga and beyond, and held a perpetual place in mine.
The little patch of Forrest Hills land was certainly the most intriguing present ever (and right here my mother would interject the word "useful"), found amongst the dizzying array of countless things she gave me over the course of our lives together. With an upbeat and good-natured take on living, she was also the only person I have ever known who looked with near-pleasant expectation to her inevitable arrival at Forest Hills Cemetery. The occasions on which she alluded to this benedictory landing in her life were many--even when I was a child and she was a young and healthy woman. A familiar beginning of a sentence I heard all my days with her was, “When I’m dead and gone and lying over in Forest Hills . . .” Through the years I always smiled hearing these familiar words, spoken with in an outstandingly optimistic tone, the kind you hear when others speak of looking forward to a vacation or moving up to a new home.
In 2008, Margaret did claim her spot over in Forest Hills as she had referenced on a jillion occasions, and thus began that feared new period in my life: Without Her. While my mother only expressed two regrets at the end of her days--leaving me and not seeing William and Annabelle grown up--God granted her a graceful departure that "didn't put anyone out", which was very important to ever-considerate Margaret.
In the almost five years that have passed since I last saw my mother, she has given me the ultimate gift--something even better than that little Sunday real estate transaction about which she was so proud. For instead of an ending, in its place I have found a full and rich beginning as Margaret continues to give and give and give to me. Like everyone else, my mother had little idiosyncrasies and fascinations that made her lovable, complex and interesting, and time has allowed me to consider and appreciate her special role here on earth.
Long after she has been gone, wonderful treasures still appear here and there that bear her unique signature of love and the promise that she is not terribly far away. While I rejoice on Mother's Day for the blessing that was this unique individual and the even greater presents from Margaret I see everyday, my heart is warm and full thinking about how very much Hallmark, the US Mail, her special people and I miss her splendid little signature on cards, envelopes and, most especially, on our lives.
I found this very yellowed and tattered old clipping from a Thankful Memorial Episcopal Church bulletin of long ago in Margaret's archives. I think she kinda took to it.
