Legacy

The term is often used to describe great wealth, art or innovations left behind by men and women who have made an impact on larger society. Our sports heroes, politicians, and other public figures have also been said to leave legacies of accomplishment – or tyranny – when they go. Those who benefit from this inheritance may well squander the wealth or be indifferent to the accomplishments, perhaps even disappointed in their share, while those beyond the advantages of the endowment look on in envy, or look away. The benefactor of such a legacy may question whether the consequence justifies the effort. 

Legacy is not, however, reserved for the movers and the shakers. 

My mother, Bernice, was 67 when she died from cancer in the summer of 2014. Hers had been a brief illness, spanning just two months between her diagnosis and her death. Our family, as one might expect, was left reeling. In the days and weeks that followed we received messages of comfort and support, were offered expressions of shared grief, and were regaled with stories about our mother we wouldn’t otherwise have known.  We’d all had our own memories and experiences of Mum, but in listening to the words and impressions of so many others, I noticed 3 themes in particular: those of family, faith, and generosity. 

Mum had many levels of family. She was proud to be from Cape Breton and spoke daily about someone from “down home”, whether it was her parents, her many siblings or her old Aunt Beattie, and of growing up in Ball’s Creek (or simply “The Creek” as we all came to know it). Not too many days passed when we weren’t treated to tales of The Creek that had us laughing.  She was the storyteller and the memory keeper.  And now we have those memories, and more, as if we lived them.  The histories belonged to her, but she would animate them with such style and detail that we could envision the snow falling on the evergreen trees in the yard and feel the heat radiating from the old cast iron coal stove in the kitchen, or hear the laughter and music of her childhood and know the lives of the people gone before her. 

Auntie Necey was one of her favourite things to be called. The nieces and nephews, from toddlers to adults and from any branch of the family, carried the sure and common knowledge that when they heard “Auntie Necey”, something good was about to happen.  

In some families people will say, “Oh that’s my second cousin – twice removed”, or a similar equation adding the appropriate distance to the relationship.  A few times we’ve casually sat around and tried to do the math for that, but really there’s not much point. For us, it’s all Cousin… it’s all Family…and distance doesn’t matter.  That is how Mum felt, and we were raised with the same belief.  

She was always conscious of the extended not-really-related family.  When we were children and adolescents, the door was open.  Our friends gravitated to our house where we could just hang out and laugh, because Mum made it easy for them.  Everyone was welcome and could usually find what they needed: a hug or an understanding ear, or a cookie, or a kick in the pants if it was required.  Although I was unaware at the time, I realize now that her house was safe.  Her presence encouraged others to be authentic in whatever way they needed. She had a great capacity to hear people. 

Mum also viewed community as family. She had strong connection with people she met through her wide-ranging volunteer endeavors, and lasting affection for other “friends of Bill W.”, waiving her anonymity to advocate for those who needed her.  With over thirty years sobriety before her passing, she supported others in recovery as they supported her and together, they all grew stronger. 

As her coal black hair gradually silvered, she donned the weighty mantle of Nana. She cheered at soccer and hockey games, gymnastics meets and judo tournaments and concerts.  She never missed the very first day of school, and tried to be a part of proms and graduations in whatever way she was able Christmas vacation would see her walk in through the front door, rosy-cheeked and carrying a hot cup of tea, with her bag of craft supplies and ready spend hours in the middle of glue and paper and glitter and happy grandbabies.  The grandchildren’s birthdays were the highlight of her year – 7 times a year.  Above that, though, Mum was a touchstone and an anchor.  She was a quiet support and check-in point for the kids to learn from.  For all the hours the kids spent doing stuff with Nan, they enjoyed so many more just being with her. 

As a very new grandmother, I know I have big slippers to fill. 

My mother had a strong belief in God and Heaven.  She trusted that prayer could move mountains and faith can save a life.  That belief gave her strength through all hurdles and obstacles she encountered and conquered.  She had an amazing way of sharing that certainty without insisting anyone else agree with her understanding of God.  Sometimes we still speak of Mum in the present tense.  She had such conviction in her soul’s continued life, her spirit’s continued presence, we like to hope she’s still here. 

Bernice exemplified generosity. As far back as I can remember, there had always been an extra plate, an open bed, a cup of tea for anyone who needed it, even those times when we had next to nothing, or maybe because of those times we had next to nothing.  She was the queen of sending cards and care packages. She donated cakes and cookies and crafts and flowers for charities and fundraisers and functions – Mum was flat out busy “giving”. 

That generosity extended well beyond the physical items she could give people.  She offered tirelessly of herself.  She determined that people would be taken care of and that they felt like they were taken care of. This was illustrated by stories friends and strangers shared with us detailing the things she did for them, or the advice she gave them, or the time she sat quietly in support of them while they tried to sort something out and come back to themselves.  I’m sure we’ll never know half of it, but each of those people will remember that she cared and cared deeply. 

She would do small things:  one of my own favourite memories…and to appreciate it you have to understand that my mother would cringe any time someone would twirl or play with her hair… but one of my favourite memories is of being very young and coming in from playing outside in the winter.  We would struggle out of our snowsuits and put our wet mittens on top of the radiator to dry and get some hot chocolate if we had it or tea if we didn’t.  Then we would wipe the melting snow from our bangs and faces but still be chilly, our fingers still frozen from the wet mitts because we’d asked for “just ten more minutes” too many times. “Here” she’d say, “come put your hands in my hair.” Ahhh – immediate warmth! 

This was typical of my mother; she knew when little things were important.   

My siblings and I remember one morning in particular, getting ready for school while Mum was reading Erma Bombeck. It was a book about family and the foolish things we all do.  She kept giggling and every so often would burst into full laughter.  Then she’d call to us,” wait, wait… come here… you have to hear this part”, and soon we were all laughing together because it sounded like our family, and because Mum was obviously having such a great time, it was contagious.  We were quite late for school that day, because Mum gave us the lesson that sometimes the small stuff is bigger than the big stuff. I don’t remember what I learned in school that day, or even what grade I was in, but I will never forget that 90 minutes of laughter with my mother. 

During summers when we were young Mum would drag us to The Creek for vacation and, being townies, we hated it.  We had to swim with our sneakers on, there was no cable, and we had to make use of an outhouse, something my brother and cousin explored deeply one morning, which is a story for another time. But she knew what she was doing, Necey did, because over time a switch happens. What comes to matter is not wet shoes and wooden seats, what comes to matter are the best friends, the cousins, the Christmas lights strung through the apple trees in August.  Summer parties and barbeques, swimming holes, and making trails in the dirt with the old brooms and, much to my aunt’s dismay, the new brooms, too. 

Mum spent her whole life creating and giving memories to us and everyone who knew her.  In the end that’s truthfully all any of us are left with or leave behind and she ensured we had a tonne of them. Memories of kindness and laughter, of feeling important, of being a friend.  Memories of family, of faith, and generosity.  Of being loved, really. 

No one need look on in envy because all were included; no one need look away because all were welcome. Every soul got their share, and every full heart was her accomplishment.