A Spoonful of Memory
Sometimes, a magical person enters your life without being heralded and like a bird alighting next to you on a bench (or perhaps an angel looking over your shoulder), it takes a moment to notice. Once present, you can’t remember life without that person. Peg is such a person to me.
When we were first introduced, in the lobby of my Mom’s retirement village, Peg was tending to one of her clients — an older gentleman who needed assistance walking. She and I had already been communicating by text about a possible job tending to my elderly mother, and Peg had a warmth to her digital communication that made me feel quite connected. Yet, in person her eyes flickered at me over her mask with only a smidgeon of recognition. Because she was on the clock for her patient, I recognized that she’d deal with me after her shift, but took her in with curiosity as her ward and my mother exchanged pleasantries. She was shorter than I had imagined, sporting some lovingly tattered overalls and muddy work boots, her hair in a long loose braid with strands tucked into her shirt. She seemed to be both unassuming and competent. At that point, I had no idea that she would be an important part of my journey through grief.
Peg makes her primary living as a caretaker for people at the end of their days and she is much sought after. As a side hustle, she had developed a small business growing and selling flowers. Dahlias, roses, zinnias, poppies, sweet peas, and more. Her talent for arranging flowers rivaled her ability to choose the best heirloom seeds and coax unusual plants to life. It was if she were blossoming herself, thrilled by the gifts from the earth and fascinated by the cycles of growing and weather, a discovery that lit her up with true passion. She was not going to get rich from this little business, but the work consumed all her energy and lit her up with joy. Among her many gifts, she was oddly talented at sharing stories about her garden on an Instagram account. It isn’t a medium that many women her age have a feel for but her true emotions poured out in frequent posts about her flowers, her huge Newfoundland Boone, and the glory of each new gift from her garden. She paired these posts with clever commentary and upbeat music and I couldn’t help being lifted by each new story.
For the last year of my mother’s life, we paid Peg to deliver her flowers once every few weeks. It was a colorful win, win, win. Peg received income for her gorgeous blooms, Mom had a fresh bouquet that let her know her daughters were thinking about her, and I was able to express my affection for both without involving a middle-man (or woman). It was a perfect system that made everyone happy — and even paid itself forward because after my mother reveled at each stem, she inevitably gave the bouquet away, eager to share her bounty with a friend.
Peg lived on the edge of one of Plymouth County’s many tiny freshwater ponds, at the end of a dirt road which defines “the last mile’. Every square inch of her cockeyed two-acre lot was planted with flowers, and she had dubbed her empire the “Little West Farm”. I know this because she invited me and my mother out to see the gardens — one of the last outings in my mother’s life. Peg, whose week was organized down to the minute, spent an expansive hour touring us around her place, sharing gardening wins and fails, introducing us to her chickens, and trying to keep Boone from knocking over her 91 year-old guest. That she’d had some type of traumatic childhood was evident from a few offhand stories she told us about her siblings, but in anecdotes about her own kids, she expressed affection and pride that belied a positive, active relationship. We knew not to ask too many questions, and didn’t learn much about whomever was the father to her children. But as a woman living alone in small Massachusetts town, she was a recognizable type — a hardscrabble survivor. In rural parts of New England, making do by living off the land is a high value, shined up with a patina of good old fashioned hard work, but there is a last-chance element to the lifestyle. Without a lot of money, Peg was living out her days working all hours doing whatever she could to make ends meet, and she’d found her calling as a gardener. Perhaps too late in life, but maybe just on time. Her evident capability and genuine joy was infectious. If she was talking about her flowers and the farm, you couldn’t turn away from her enthusiasm.
When Mom was actively dying, my sisters and I were sorry to learn than Peg’s schedule was too packed to help out with our hospice protocols. She had worked for us on and off for the past several years, and we knew that she “got” Mom and that we could trust her with the daily decisions that were multiplying in complexity as dementia set in. But Peg was devoted to the patients she had, and taking someone on at this late stage was not a casual affair, even if her patients only lasted a few more months.
Also, it was spring and the farm was needy. We continued to have flowers delivered and followed Peg on social media so felt very connected to the farm and Boone — star of her Instagram account and her beloved companion. Frequently, we’d see her around the retirement home, so Peg was tracking us, too. She paid her last respects to Mom a few weeks before she died, arriving with flowers and cheerful stories of the farm.
Soon after, while we were sorting and packing what remained of Mom’s things, there was a knock on the door and Peg slipped into the condo, a bit sheepish, in her usual funky overalls, a baseball cap in her hand. Her hair was mussed, and she made nervous small talk. It took her a while, but she screwed up her courage to ask me a difficult question: did we mind giving her one of Mom’s spoons? My sisters and I exchanged nervous glances as she explained that she has a spoon from every one of “her people” — the men and women she cared for before they passed away. She had a mindful habit of choosing a different spoon each morning to stir her coffee and always took a few moments to remember one of those special people. I went to the kitchen and pulled out a spoon from Mom’s jumbled drawer.
Peg was over the moon, and burst forth with a torrent of stories about all the spoons in her drawer and who they’d belonged to. Asking for the talisman was the hardest part, she said; we’d made it so easy, she was giddy. She admitted sheepishly that one time she had taken a spoon without permission because she felt it would upset the family. Of course, she never took anything of value- she was quick to tell us she knew the difference. But usually the family was happy to give her something simple, once they understand her genuine intention to cherish the memory of their loved one.
As she spoke, the idea made sweet and logical sense as a way to remember someone to whom she had provided the most intimate care. Those who do this important work for people at the end of life manage the most basic functions as the body and mind begins to fail. These incredible men and women are as patient as nursery school teachers, anticipating needs and bearing the brunt of whatever emotional or physical pain that surfaces. Why shouldn’t she have something to remember this important work, having given so much of herself to help others finish their days with grace? After she bid us goodbye, my sisters and I sat down to marvel at the encounter. She’d turned a professional relationship into something incredibly personal, acknowledging the depth of feeling which she held for patients and treating us like allies in the strange journey of being left behind after loss.
I asked Peg to do the flowers for the reception we held after Mom’s funeral. She arrived early, bounding with energy as she explained how she’d awoken at dawn to choose flowers that would bloom at the exact moment that folks receded from the chapel. They were spectacular arrangements, more wild and personal than the formal arrangements we’d gotten for the church itself. Peg couldn’t actually attend the service, she had to be with her other old people — it was a Saturday, which is typically a difficult day to arrange for caregiving. But she was sure to tell us she’d used Mom’s spoon in her coffee that morning, stirring her brew while thinking of my mother on such an important day. Her kind attention brought tears to our eyes and we were felt bad that she couldn’t stay for the Memorial. During the reception, as I saw folks seated at tables around her lovely bouquets, I realized she was there all along. Providing an atmosphere that reflected Mom perfectly.
Now I am home in California, learning to live without my mother in the world. Loss is a deep trench. I have no idea when I will emerge out of it, and I know that I’ll never be the same. Nestled in my silverware drawer are a few dozen utensils leftover from my Mom’s wedding silver. They’re simple enough to be used daily. In fact, that’s how we used the flatware throughout my childhood — breakfast, lunch and dinner, popping the pieces in the dishwasher every night and dropping them back into drawers where they jostled up against everything else. By the time she died, Mom had only a fragment of the whole set — and some were pitted to a near ruinous state from years of dishwasher rinses. I wound up with several pieces and buffed them back to their formal glory. Even if the pieces are slightly battered (some certainly chewed by the garbage disposal) they retain an utterly lovely patina and are warm to the touch. That’s silver for you — hard at work for over 60 years and still looking as elegant as the moment of unwrapping after my parents’ wedding.
I reach for the forks and spoons from the set when I am eating a meal alone, comforted by even a wisp of Mom memory as I go about my day. Peg’s tribute to all “her people” is a reminder of the dignity of all the folks she helped into the end zone. Her unassuming habit left me with a daily tool for managing my own grief, a reminder that every life is remembered by others upon whom they have left their mark. And, that sitting peacefully alongside the memories is how we move forward.
