Going to Carolina in My Mind

My great aunt Pearl is the last sibling of seven left. Her brother Jack died this week at the age of 89.

I never met Pearl or her brother in person. They are down South, and my mom hasn’t visited since she was a young woman. I have talked to Pearl on the phone, and it made me tear up. She has the same thick honey in her voice that my grandmother had.

Mom was surprised at her reaction to Jack’s death. After all, it had been decades since she’d seen him, and she mostly talked to his wife. But she found herself crying, and crying again.

We talked about the deep roots of childhood. Mom spent summers down South, and she still talks excitedly about the long train ride from New York, the wrap around porch at her grandmother’s house, and all the family around her. It was a good change for an only child.

As a writer, I always give such weight to words. But words are not what I remember of others. I was six when Daddy died, but I still hear his baritone voice and feel his rough whiskers. With my grandmother, Pearl’s sister, it is her drawl and the softness of her blue cardigan that comes to me.

I wrote a book before I was a mother, and it was filled with my big plans on what I would say to my child. It only occurred to me later that there would be a long interval before any verbal insights could be conveyed. The wonderful surprise of motherhood is the same wonderful surprise that I have when I remember loved ones long gone. Touch, sound, and smell are rich and wordless. I love Gavin’s husky morning voice. I still smell his hair at every opportunity. I am always being climbed on, kneaded, tugged, and yes, kissed and hugged. I know the climbing and the kisses won’t last, but I hope this physical bridge we are always crossing will infuse into his developing spirit.

The best thing about words is how they give us a glimpse into nearly indefinable moments. It makes me want to read Thomas Wolfe again. He wrote excessively, saturated with sensual memories. My breath caught as I read his description of a train ride, I think in Look Homeward, Angel. I pictured my mom on those summertime rides down South, drinking in all those textures and tastes.

As my mother grieves for her own mother’s dwindling family, there is some sweetness that remains in memory. Just recently she passed on two of my great grandmother’s hand-sewn quilts. They have been, and will be, treasured. I like to fall asleep under their solid weight, thinking about North Carolina.