Keeping Mom's Memory

My mother was an artist. It was a talent she shared first with her nephews and nieces, and later with her children and grandchildren. If art was involved she had infinite patience. When I was eight, Mom and I cut hundreds of hearts from red and pink construction paper to glue on white streamers for a Valentine's Day party. She made every centrepiece for my bat mitzvah and later for my children’s. For my sweet sixteen, toga-themed, Mom recreated our home with floor seating, columns, and silhouettes of Roman soldiers and women to welcome guests. I remember her sketching, cutting, and colouring. But the best were her collages. There wasn’t a lot of money, but Mom filled cabinets art supplies of all kinds, most of it odds and ends from around the house. She created amazing art from the scraps she saved. And she saved everything. Egg cartons. Plastic containers. Keys. Ribbon and wrapping paper. Buttons. Tissue paper. Odds and ends and found objects, even dried flowers and pressed leaves from my father’s garden. And old books of all kinds: children’s books, primers, cookbooks, books in other languages, songbooks, magazines, even wallpaper sample books. Mom would pour over those books, cutting out shapes, old advertisements, letters, fantasy and fairytale characters, whatever struck her fancy. From these we would create collages of all kinds. Every one imbued with love. Sometimes they were simple pictures surrounded by tissue paper that would be gifted to friends and family, simply signed, “Rosalie.” Sometimes the collages were intricate, like the beautiful mirror with the decoupaged frame Mom made as a gift for my second-grade teacher. When I saw her years later, she told me she still had that mirror.

Mundane things didn’t always get the same attention. She could be a great cook for a party, fussing with hors d’oeuvres, but for a regular weekday, her steak was like a brick. Liver was even worse, and she made it regularly. The cat once refused her meatloaf, and he would eat anything. By my teen years, I started doing the cooking. Mom always said, “How did I get two children who cook?” My brother and I would reply, “Survival.”

Mom died of cancer shortly before covid spread through the world. A cousin recounted his memories of spending time in Aunt Rosalie’s kitchen making art. My son spoke about his grandmother who didn’t mind getting covered in paint. Working on a project with us as kids, with my cousins or my children, Mom's patience came through, and through that patience, we learned love. When Mom got an idea, she would create beautiful and amazing things. Anyone celebrating a birthday or life event received a card and a corny poem. For every holiday or season, Mom decorated her table, right up to the end. In her last month, she made sure her dining room had a Hanukah display. There were Maccabee streamers, dreidels, elephants and Assyrian soldiers, all made by her by hand.

Due to covid, it took months for me to be able to cross the border from Canada to the US and organize Mom’s house. When I was finally able, there were Mom's glasses and a collage in progress sitting on her art table, left just like she’d be walking in any minute to finish. As I sorted through Mom’s art supplies - drawers marked “Gilded Letters” or “Beads,” coloured pencils and scissors, I sorted through trying to decide how to best respect each item. Now, instead of cabinets, there were file cabinets full of paper, pictures, articles, and cards. A bookshelf completed her art nook with all the books I remembered, plus many, many more. To so many others this would look like junk, but I knew it was treasure. In the end, most of Mom’s supplies were donated to The Arc of Monmouth, a nonprofit for people with autism, Down Syndrome and other intellectual and developmental disabilities. There, her art supplies will have new life being made into beautiful things like Mom intended. But there were some I couldn’t part with. I packed her tools, pencils, scissors, paintbrushes, rulers, and some of the old books with the dishes, photos, furniture, and other items I kept. In the midst of a global pandemic, Mom’s art saved me. When I couldn’t hear her voice, I could make her art. Though she’s no longer sitting next to me, I sit at my table, cutting out pictures and tearing tissue paper. I imagine what she would say or recommend. I will continue her art, someday sharing it with her great-grandchildren, sketching, cutting, and colouring, and we will talk about Mom.