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My mother was born with flaming red hair. Her parents feared she would be full of the devil with hair like that, so they shaved her head and hoped it would grow back a bit less fiery. Superstitious? Absolutely, though I am certain it didn't help one bit, because my mother maintained her fabulous red mane and her feisty nature throughout her entire life.
My mother was deeply religious. So religious, in fact, that she considered becoming a nun in the Catholic Church. Instead, she chose to marry and raise a family, saying she picked the more difficult road. That was most likely true, because she married my dad, Leonard Klima, who was no saint! She also raised five children and we all know that is not easy to do. But she did it and she did it well.
My mother was an artist. She was always drawn to beauty, no matter where, no matter when. On family drives when we were young, it was my mother who taught us to see, calling us to look, look out. See the brilliant blue sky with those ice cream castle clouds, the bursting green leaves unfurling in the Spring, the golden red and orange hues of the Autumn landscape. Look, see. This is beauty.
My mother was a learner, an eager and voracious learner. She was always taking evening classes, learning how to hand-color black and white photographs, how to arrange flowers, how to decorate cakes, and most importantly how to paint. She painted for years. In fact, she painted her whole life. She would put the children to bed, and then set up her easel in the kitchen, mastering oil painting, acrylic painting and watercolors. She was motivated and tenacious. She exhibited her work many times and glowed when she won awards. She was proud. She painted until her eyes failed and she could no longer see.
My mother was fashionable and always enjoyed looking good. Her clothes needed to match, her lipstick needed to be on, and always, always she accessorized with coordinated earrings. She cared about her lotions and perfume, and of course her copper red hair. If you knew her, you knew this. My mother was always beautiful.
My mother grew up in a poor family during the Great Depression. This framed her entire life. She told so many stories about not having enough as a child...enough food, enough clothing, enough money, enough heat, enough of anything really. She was always concerned about not having enough and so she pinched pennies. She searched for the best sales and created everything good out of almost nothing. She was a remarkable alchemist. To her dying day she lusted after bargain shopping - Goodwill, resale shops, and trips to the dollar store brought her so much joy. Finding a steal at a garage sale made her even happier. It was unthinkable for her to spend money on anything expensive. My brothers and sister and I got into the habit of hiding the true cost of anything from her, just so she would be able to enjoy the gifts we brought to her. We want to trust that in the end she had more than enough.
My mother adored children. All of them. She was a great role model for us. There was not one child that she didn't love, especially her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. She cherished them all. In fact, some of them she helped raise. She laughed, played, painted, and comforted all of them. She even crawled around on the floor in her eighties with them, pretending to be a bear. Her favorite thing to do was to race them to the phrase - "Did I tell you I love you today?" She almost always beat them to it.
My mother was stubborn. Holy cow was she headstrong. This was especially difficult near the end of her life when her dementia kicked in. She was adamant about her visions, even when they made absolutely no sense at all. Men climbing through her window on the third story, purring cats laying across her feet, and the sexual escapades in the nursing home!! We just gave in, in the end, knowing that to argue with her was fruitless. She was always like that.
My mother was a clairvoyant. She was intuitive, psychic and mystical. At times it was downright scary. There are too many stories to tell of her ability to read and sense things correctly. Even towards the end of her life when her vision and hearing were severely impaired, her sixth sense picked up every emotional nuance. Perhaps it was because she was so attuned to those around her.
My mother was delightful. The older she got the more easily she laughed. Laughter was the bridge she used whenever the space between what was spoken and what was heard became too big. Her hearing was quite a challenge, and her bubbling laugh helped keep the speaker and listener connected until she finally understood what was spoken. Humor and delight became her approach to life. Her laugh was like the song of a bird, full of a rich emotional intelligence and there for anyone ready to listen.
My mother was loving and kind. In fact, this entire piece could be written about her kindness. This is her gift, and it gave her purpose. She was kind to her family, she was kind to her friends, but most importantly she was kind to strangers. This is something all of us know about her. This is what endeared her to so many. She was a champion of the underdog and a wee bit too liberal for my father. But this mission of hers, to offer compassion and solace in a sometimes-painful world, this was her legacy. And ironically, this links us right back to her beginning when she was deciding between the convent or the conventional path. Did it really matter which direction she chose? In fact, it didn't, because wherever she went, there she was; kind, loving, gentle. Selfishly though, I am so glad she chose this path, because here I am, and I was loved by her.
