Written by Paul Olaf Sveen
Eva Lischka-Sveen, was on the twenty-fourth karat, of her golden years; when she moved into assisted living, from her apartment. The apartment was the only place mom lived alone; never in her twenty some years in Saskatchewan, or sixty plus years in Alberta. Well, mom wasn’t exactly alone in the apartment. She’d brought a cat, from the house she’d owned. A painted by Pollock, scared of its own shadow and anyone not mom. It was a Calico. Mom struggled for a name and thankfully, came up with Calico.
A farm girl, through and through, mom jimmy-rigged a language, she used on the back forty, to speak to horses, cows, and her brothers. And now, Calicosis. That Was her go to name for it; Calicosis, sounding more like a rash than a pet. Mom’s animal language was a series of whistles, grunts and clicks; something you swore you heard on Hee-Haw! Depending on the sound mom made, Calicosis either: sprinted to the snack goddess, dropped where it stood, or hid, like the Gestapo was breaking down the door. Calicosis was a social out cat. And looking back, maybe her cat, was just mirroring how mom felt, worried about her ever changing and uncertain life.
The drastic changes began when mom moved from the hamlet of Steelman, Saskatchewan, to the booming city of Edmonton, Alberta, in 1963. That day, she crammed us five kids, in dad’s 1960, blue Ford Monarch, and stuffed as much of their things into the trunk, or tied to the roof like the Clampetts. Then, mom left everything and everyone she knew, to support my dad’s dream, of playing the accordion.
I can’t imagine how heartbroken mom was, leaving Steelman. She was literally family to everyone there; her mom and dad, brothers and sisters, uncles, aunts and cousins. Everyone in Steelman knew mom. They knew her better than anyone, anywhere. But dad wanted off the tractor to record polkas; and quite frankly, who could blame him? Dad drove away, as Steelman waved goodbye. Knowing mom, she cried as everyone she loved, became further and further away, until, mom, no longer saw them.
Mom and dad eventually bought a house Edmonton. The bungalow was like the Beatles, because we also, only had one John. With seven of us and one bathroom; it was the only reason I sprinted to school. Mom hung our clothes on her new fangled clothesline in January; which we then wore frozen to church. The house was also where dad celebrated the 32 albums he recorded. And where my parents, celebrated their fiftieth anniversary.
The years flew by; dad was in end of care, and mom had her own health crisis. When I was away for work, Nernie grocery shopped and picked up mom’s meds and sat with her. But the day came, when mom had to leave her beloved house, her kitchen, her flowers, and apple trees, that were saplings when mom planted them. Everything mom grew, was chosen, because it reminded her of Steelman; or for the birds they attracted. Blue Jays, Finches, Woodpeckers, to swallows and hummingbirds. But never mom’s favorite bird, from growing up in Saskatchewan. Meadowlarks.
Mom faced the move from her home, the way she faced everything; in self-reflective, traumatic shock. But in her heart, she was unwavering. She tore her clothes apart, to make dresses for my sisters; and worked tirelessly, to make ends meet. Mom was the shining beacon, of a home, with five, out of control kids and a husband, who stayed out late, playing accordion classics like, “Boil that Cabbage Down!”
Dad was up early to teach music downtown, then play for local dances, or drive for hours in a car, that shouldn’t be further than booster cables, from a mechanic. Dad was relentless, in writing that smash hit polka, or writing articles for local, national and international accordion magazines. He dealt with the pressure, by hanging with his ne’er-do-well, accordion beatniks. They drank, inhaled pickled herring and played schottisches, until way late, on school nights! They laughed about the old days, as mom worked over a hot stove, making old country favorites like, boiled fish taters and deep fried squid dumplings.
And it was in mom’s looming retirement, that she had even more to face. Mom was diagnosed with colon cancer. She was fitted with a colostomy pouch; and I seriously doubt she realized how difficult her life was. She survived unending hardships, as if she was trapped in a perpetual storm, but chose not to run. She instead, became the bright blue sky, in the center of the hurricane. She faced everything, no matter how overwhelmed she was, with fierce Eva resolve. Mom never quit, always flicked the Lischka switch and stared down everything, she had to face. Then quietly prayed, tomorrow might be better.
It was a few years after being moved into assisted living, that mom was swept into her last dark storm, and was diagnosed with late onset dementia. When it rains.
This particular afternoon I visited mom, I stepped off the elevator per usual, with Ruby; Nernie, and my Shar-Pei. I let our wrinkle dog off leash, and like all the other times; Ruby basked in uncountable hugs and kisses from nurses. After the staff visit, Ruby mingled for twenty minutes or so, with seniors in the common area. She began with the spryest of the elders, then worked her way to the elderly who were alone. Those seniors, Ruby plopped next to, and leaned against.
I stepped toward mom’s suite, pausing in the open door, watching the angel who raised me. For some reason, that day, the most fearless person I knew, seemed broken. I smiled when I noticed how the room’s light shined on her, making mom’s grey hair, seem like a halo. She sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over a small table, covered in her art.
She’d taken art classes years ago, and had created several Christmas paintings and a colorful painting, of wild meadow flowers. Her paintings are in my office; along with the sun hat she wore, working in her garden. I’m gazing at mom’s wild flower painting, as I write this. I’ll never forget mom’s story about the painting; about stopping in a meadow, on her way to school. She lit up, when she told that story. As if mom shared the happiest moment of her life, and would become lost in the long-ago moment.
The lines and wrinkles around mom’s eyes and mouth, spoke of the years of exhausting work. The stress wrinkles, clashed with the lines from mom’s bottomless laugh. If you knew Eva Sveen; you knew her loving scowl, was her personal move to scrutinize. Don’t get me wrong, mom smiled. But if mom had her druthers, she went right to her belly laugh. A sound, if you heard, you shan’t soon forget.
Mom was my best friend. Even when she was beating me with a broom. But now, her memories were unreachable. That didn’t matter to me. She was my mom. My champion, my hero. She was my story teller at the table, or in the shade of the apple trees, spinning glorious yarn, after yarn, of her childhood near Steelman. She’d say something, then pause and glare at me with her patented scowl, making sure I was keeping up. Don’t worry. All of mom’s stories are in the vault; (tapping my noggin.) What I’ve come to understand is, what mom was saying, in every story she shared; you can take the girl out of the farm. But you could nary, take the farm, out of the girl.
Farm stories were mom’s wheelhouse; she told them any chance she could. One thing always confused me though. If it was such a happy time, why, in the few photos of my mom, when she was a girl, she always appeared on the fringes of the photo, concealing her smile? Thin frail, looking tired, her shoulder’s sunk? It was because, her mother made her leave school in grade six, to work on the farm. She was up at dawn, and worked until dark.
Then, mom spotted the high plains drifter, leaning in the doorway.
“Who are you?” She asked, sounding confused.
“I’m an artist.” I replied. (I changed my title every visit, pilot, cowboy, celebrity chef, king.)
“Artist? So am I.” She said, sounding excited.
“Would you like to see some of my sketches?” She asked.
“Absolutely.” I smiled.
She paused and pointed at a small closet.
“First, could you check on the roast, in the oven?”
I nodded and opened the closet door. The shelves were filled with folded clothes. I put on a glove and reached in, and opened the imaginary hot pan.
“Oh, it’s smells wonderful.” I said and closed the oven door.” Another twenty minutes, or so.”
“Good.” She said. Then you can stay for supper.”
“I’d like that.” I said.
Before I sat down, I checked on Ruby. Our dog was by a table of seniors, her tail wagging, moving from one new friend to another. I shook my head in wonder. How did Nernie and I, manage to have such an amazing dog? I told Nernie, it was because we got Ruby from Saskatchewan. Not bragging. Just saying. Anyway, I stepped back to my mom.
Mom was an incredible cook. She’d gone to college in her thirties, receiving Sous chef and Pastry chef diplomas. She could make western BBQ, Chinese cuisine, Saskatchewan Flapper’s pies, Norwegian lutefisk, Swedish potato dumplings, Danish flake pastry, German Spätzle and Schnitzel, and cream cheese apple strudel. Ukrainian Cabbage rolls and perogies. I have a mom cooking story to share in a bite.
She told stories about siting by the radio, with my grandpa Joe, listening to the world series. Or when mom was hired for a job in the bustling town of Lampman, as a telephone operator. It’s where mom talked to my dad for the first time. And always the story, about the meadow near her childhood home.
Speaking of home. Mom told the story, of visiting a neighboring farm one Christmas. She and her brother, on a horse drawn sleigh, were suddenly caught in a blizzard, . The horse stopped in the whiteout, refusing to budge. Her brother reefed on the reins and screamed, trying to get the horse to move. Freezing, mom grabbed the reins and did her invented farm language. The horse’s ears flexed when it heard mom. The horse instantly spun a one-eighty and soon, took them within a few feet of their barn. Her brother had been going in the wrong direction. Mom knew and loved animals. She knew their horse, even in a blinding, freezing, blizzard, would never forget the way home.
While I checked the roast again, mom asked me to grab a pile of her paintings, that were on the windowsill. I placed the paintings in front of her. She flipped through them, and stopped on one.
A painting, who’s water colors bled into one another. A brown counter and cupboards, a silver sink, and fridge, and stove and a window, with blue curtains; it was mom’s kitchen, in her house.
“I love this painting, “I said. “Makes me feel safe.” I studied the painting, then glanced at the cupboard, one of mom’s cooking stories, bubbled in me. The mom cooking story I promised earlier.
It was the Friday, on thanksgiving weekend, the late 80’s. I was home, when the phone rang. It was mommy dearest. She was calling from her job, as the chef at a banquet hall.
“You know where I work?”. Mom’s tone, was a tad brisk for my constitution. Thank you very much.
“Yah. I’ve driven you there enough times. Are you OK?”
“Be here in half an hour. Park at the back doors.” Click.
“OK. I’ll be there.” I said, to no one in particular. When did mom become a marine?
I get to the banquet hall, as I back up to the doors, the doors, slam open! Mom motioned to me, like she was calling in an artillery strike. I hopped up the stairs and scampered into the kitchen.
“The banquet manager said that anything that was left after supper, I could share with the staff. The rest is ours, so load it into your truck. Chop-chop.”
Turkeys, Hams, smashed potatoes, salmon, stuffing, gravy, mushroom sauce, cranberries, pies, cakes, butter tarts, puddings, fresh baked bread and more. All wrapped and good to go.
I grabbed a tub of pies as mom worked in the dinning area. I filled my truck and unloaded the loot, as dad slept. Mom heated up a couple of plates; and the best wasn’t the incredible supper. The best was, sitting with my mom, feeling as if we’d pulled off a heist, sharing an early thanksgiving, and listening to mom, just her and me, as mom told her stories. It’s an out of the blue memory, I will never forget.
Mom flipped through more paintings, stopping on an orange ball with whiskers, it had big ears and a way too long tail, that curled around its tukas, thrice.
“Who’s the kitty in the painting?” I asked. Mom never spoke, just stared at the painting, moving a thumb over the cat’s whiskers. I thought it might be Ginger, another stray, that found its way in her yard one day. The cat ended up having babies in the basement. It brought her kitties, one at a time, up the stairs, and placed her babies on mom’s lap. Mom sat overwhelmed and just sobbed. What’s with my mom and animals? They all loved her, horses, cats, dogs, dad.
I got up and checked the roast again and closed the closet door, then went and looked for Ruby. She sat beside a near motionless senior, on a gurney, staring at the ceiling. His arm was draped over the side of the gurney, his hand, gently patted and scratched at Ruby.
I sat next to mom again, as she flipped through more paintings. I could tell she was tired and thought about letting her rest. Then I realized, she was no longer staring at her painting. She was blinking, at the door. I looked. In the doorway, sat our Ruby.
Mom stared bewildered at the dog. After a long silence, she turned to me, a light, seemingly returning to her eyes. She stole a glance at Ruby again, then, slowly turned to me and…whispered…
“Paul?”
I coughed. Tears welling in my eyes. Mom had said my name! My mom remembered me! How? Why? Was it her love for animals? Did Ruby trigger something, in the depths of mom’s being?
“Yes mom.” It’s me. Your son. Paul” I said.
“Oh Paul.” She beamed.
Ruby waddled over to mom and sat on her foot and leaned against her. Mom whispered as she ran her hand over Ruby. We stayed for another half hour. Mom hugged me and then laid down for a sleep. Ruby watched, as I covered my mom in a blanket. I had a last look, then my dog and I left. Ruby, the boundless healing Shar-Pei, at my side, and me, with an ear-to-ear grin. I was remembered.
Not long after the visit, mom passed away.
I again found myself holding her wild flowers painting, remembering the story, she’d told me about her childhood. And suddenly, I recalled, an incredible, synchronous mom story.
I was working in southern Saskatchewan, not far from Steelman. I visited relatives and then drove down a gravel road, toward the highway. I quickly happened upon an abandoned, one room school house. It was overgrown with trees, and I had no idea, if it was mom’s old school house, she’d spoken about so much? I turned off my car and walked around the old, one-room-school, for my mom.
It was then, I remembered my voice recorder; I was a stand-up comedian and used it to record my shows. It had an hour of tape. I pressed record, placed it on the roof of my car and wandered around the old school house. I wanted to believe it was the school mom went to. I looked inside; there were a few tipped over desks. I imagined mom, when she was a girl, sitting in one of the desks, her whole life ahead of her. I took some pictures with my phone and after a while, stepped back to my car.
I sat in my vehicle and checked the recording. It had stopped, so, it had recorded an hour of something? I plugged my earphones in, and began the drive home; like the one my parent’s had in 1963. Sadly, the recording only held the lonely sounds, of prairie wind. But, near the very end of the tape, a bird fluttered, scratched and scrambled along the roof of my car! And as if prompted by a higher power. The bird leaned into my voice recorder, and sang. It sent chills down my back. It was a Meadowlark! I knew its song anywhere. Mom had done Meadowlark impressions my whole life, especially when she told the wildflower story. I knew the Meadowlark’s song, solely, because of mom’s stories of her childhood.
After an all-night drive, I finally got back to Edmonton. When I awoke, I drove to mom’s house. She was at the kitchen table, having coffee. I told her I had something she had to hear. I turned the recorder up as loud as it could go; I fast forwarded the tape, almost to the end, and pressed play.
Mom heard the Saskatchewan wind gusts and seemed, unimpressed. Then, she heard the sounds of a bird, trundle across the roof of my car and, with all its heart, sing. Mom looked like she’d been struck by lightening. The recorder against her ear, she listened again, and again, to the bird’s song, and cried.
“You recorded a Meadowlark?” She sobbed, tears, streaming down her face.
Mom played the tape so much that day, I gave mom my voice recorder. I also told her about the abandoned school house, where I’d recorded the Meadowlark. I printed off a picture of the old school. Mom stared for a long moment at the one room school, overgrown with trees.
“That’s my school. It has to be. That’s my school!” What a glorious moment to share with mom.
At mom’s service, I thought of her meadow painting again, that held her favorite story. The way she’d cried when she heard the Meadowlark I recorded; I knew it was a miracle. I mean, what are the odds that I stumble onto mom’s old school, and record a meadowlark, at the same time? I closed my eyes and imagined where my mom was, that very moment.
In the eternal instant, after my mom closed her eyes for the last time, she was a girl again, skipping barefoot, along a dirt road, on a perfect late spring day. She wore a white T-shirt and a blue dress, that had shoulder straps. She swung a small bag, that held her lunch and school books. She stepped through an open gate, and skipped into the rolling hills of the meadow. The girl danced through the endless wildflowers, picking the brightest and most colorful, for her teacher, crocuses, corn flowers, prairie roses, violets, blue flax, red lilies and scarlet paintbrushes.
The girl lay among the flowers, her eyes closed, breathing in the glorious aromas. Somewhere, in a distant thought, she wondered if she should make her way to the school house, before the bell rang? The thought evaporated, when she heard the heavenly serenade of a Meadowlark.
The little girl opened her eyes, her face shinning in a full, brimming smile; the Meadowlark chanced nearer; its symphony echoing through the meadow. The girl couldn’t remember, if she’d ever been this happy? This has to be a special day. Even the skies bowed to the little girl, in horizons of cloudless azure. All the meadow flowers leaned toward her, shining in spectacular, April colors. The moment was something the child couldn’t describe. Even more, the meadowlark landed on the girl and ever so gently, sang for her.
“Where am I?” The little girl wondered aloud.
A kindred voice, carried on the prairie breeze, spoke to her, softly whispering…
“My dear child.”
“You’re home.”
“You’re home.”
