here's an old photo i took of my mother and my four younger siblings. this is a testament to my picture-taking ability. taken with the very first instamatic i bought. that's our youngest basil making goofy faces. this is probably circa 1973.
my mother always dreamed of dead babies. those dreams came more often after she had her stroke. she always spoke about her dreams the morning after. i never understood it at the time and i must admit it annoyed me then. she was pregnant when she had her stroke in 1971. i remember being upset because i already helped take care of four siblings and then there was going to be another one. but when she had her stroke and the baby was left at the hospital because it was too frail, i willingly would go to the hospital after classes and see how the baby was doing. when one day, after exams i came to visit, the nurses informed me that the baby had died and they had placed her in a large jar with some preserving liquid. i felt sad actually and did not tell my mother until two days later when she kept asking if i had been to the hospital; apparently she had had nightmares that little veronica had died.
my father had assembled a television out of different parts of discarded units so that my mother would have some kind of diversion when everyone's away during the day and she was left alone at home. she would leave the tv on and sometimes some neighbouring kids would wander around the compound and would sit by the door to watch tv. we lived in a depressed neighbourhood and people did not normally have a television set so those kids were permitted to sit around and watch.
there was a boy, about five, small and frail, who was always being pushed over by the other kids and my mother took pity on him. she would make him sit beside her so he would have a good view of the tv set, to the other kids' envy. the boy did not know how to speak and his brother told my mother that he was retarded. my mother took it upon herself to teach him how to speak. she turned the tv on to some educational children's show instead of cartoons. my mother's magic worked and by the time the boy was seven, he was able to enter grade one. when my mother died, at the wake, that boy stood beside the coffin and walked the long miles to the municipal cemetery for her burial. he cried when he understood that she would not be coming back. he asked if he could still watch tv at our house.
a few days after my mother was buried, he came rushing to our house looking for my mother. he said he saw her walking towards the house so he was happy that she was back. apparently the other children whom mother sort of kept under her wings - kids who were neglected by their parents, or abused and beaten by their parents came to my mother for comfort and food while she was alive - had seen apparitions of her or had dreamed of her.
the sad part of this story was that we never really followed up what had happened to those children. when i moved to my own apartment, my two younger sisters and my little brother came with me. the neighbourhood had started to really deteriorate by that time.
she may have had very little education, but my mother made the most of her time. if i only had a scintilla of her patience and perseverance (or industry hahaha!) i'd probably be a much better person.
Ooh my mother would have responded to this story with her own large collection of the ghosts in her life. She always swore that the night he died her grandfather came for her in a horse and buggy and drive around under the moon telling her stories and that a week after her cousin died she glanced up through the kitchen window and saw him run across the back yard and jump up onto the back porch
Whay a story, Vikki. You make your mother appear like a great, gentle and generous lady. Very touching story...
PS You're a great story teller, I told you...think about exploiting your gift....
Nice! I remember all those film cameras where you have to wait for months to see your pictures and it ended out of frame, headless or blurry. Oh the good ol days. =)
First of all, I also chopped people's heads off with my first camera, so you're off the hook for that one! Secondly, it may not have always been your pleasure to do something, like take care of your younger siblings, but you did do it- so there is something good in you whether you believe it or not! So enough of that!
what an experience to know the baby was dead and not want to tell. The rest of the story is extremely touching, a wonderful memory of your mother as someone taking action where action is needed. the image of the little fellow traveling to the funeral is so strong.
PS You're a great story teller, I told you...think about exploiting your gift....