234. Mama and “Minnie Remembers”
Years ago my mother called me on the telephone and read me a poem called “Minnie Remembers.” It was by Donna Swanson and told the story of Minnie, who was old and nobody touched her or called her by her own name. Mother said to me that that was how she was feeling too.
Part of our telephone tradition—Mother and I—was to talk things through, and so I asked her why Minnie couldn’t reach out and touch someone herself—that if she wasn’t getting touched, it also meant that she wasn’t touching anyone either.
Mother laughed and said, “You know, you’re right.” And then she went on, “But the other thing is that no one calls Minnie by her name anymore. She just gets called “Grandma. That’s kind of true for me too—you call me Mom and your kids call me Grandma. What about the name thing?”
I said, “You’ve got a friend, Carol Andrews, what does she call you?” Mother laughed again, “You’ve got me, she calls me Carolyn.” “And what about Beth?” I asked. Mom said, “She calls me Aunt Carolyn.” And “What about your friend at church?” She laughed again and said, “She calls me Carolyn too. I guess I’m not that much like Minnie after all.”
I said, “Mom, it’s a two-way street. It’s good to reach out, and I’ve heard you say that your friends reach out for you too. But, if you still feel lonely, give us a call and we’ll send hugs over the telephone.”
Mom has been gone for quite a while now, and I’m past the age that she was when she died. Maybe the day will come when I feel like Minnie, but not yet.
