The Note

T h e  N o t e

Maybe you will forgive me for departing from the usual tone of The Note for a little personal reflection. This is prompted by the death of my mother, Martha Lorene Wisely, on September 27, 2011.  

My brother, Scotty, and I had a good mother. She and our father, who died in 1987, were members of a generation that survived the Great Depression. Our father, Carl, was drafted away from a small town in Arkansas--where Mom and he are buried now--into the US Navy, where he served in the Pacific during World War II. He and my mother were already committed to each other and, as far as we know, because neither our father or mother spoke much about it, they were separated for all of the years my father served in the Navy. We have in our possession a worn photo of our mother that our father carried with him throughout his time in the Pacific during the war. We know there were horrors around him. But he had a picture of our mother. This is a story of love.

Our parents cared for my brother and me well over the years. And, they helped raise a much-loved cousin of ours after his father, my mother's brother, was killed in a car accident. They made sacrifices, as parents do. Hurt when we hurt. Rejoiced when we rejoiced. This is a story, of course, of love.

Mom had a stroke in 2008 and was in various facilities after, but mostly in an assisted living facility in Arkansas, where I'm from. During her time there, she received nothing but consistent and entirely loving care from the staff at that facility. Astonishingly good and devoted care. This is a story, too, of love.

My brother and sister-in-law live in Arkansas and I live in Alabama. So, they took on the large share of looking after my mother. My sister-in-law, who loved my mother as if she was her own mother, was devoted to her and made sure my mother had what she needed and gave her much good company. My daughters loved my mother, as did her grandson, my nephew. One of my daughters, who has lived a good bit in Arkansas, spent hours and hours with her, just hanging out. Watching TV. Talking. A story of love.

Just a couple of weeks ago, another daughter called Mom and had her walk her through the process of cooking pork chops, the way only my Mom could. They turned out exactly how my daughter remembered. Another story of love.

I could go on and I probably should. I'd tell about a time, not so many years ago, when I was seized by a terrible despair and I broke down while talking to my mother on the phone. I apologized for losing it, and she said, "Don't be sorry, I'm your mama." This is a story of love.

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 Martha Wisely, 

with her great-granddaughter Alice, 

March 2011.

So, here's what I want to say. You can take it all--money, homes, cars, things, jobs, accomplishments, even art. Pile it all up and you'll have, really, a big pile of exactly nothing. Go down from the visible things, to molecules, to atoms, then to those crazy particles, then to those vibrating strings, and what you'll find underneath is the universe holds nothing of value except for love. There is nothing else worth pursuing and nothing else you can hang on to. Draw a breath, and if there's no love in it, you'll die. Love well, and you'll live, if not forever, for a long, long time.

Enjoy issue 45.  As always, my heartfelt thanks to all the contributors who sent in their work.

Thanks to you for dropping by to read this.

Dale