Earlier this year my 96-year-old mother passed away. Mom assigned me to tell this story at her funeral services. When I was a girl she and Dad had bought a small farm in Indiana, where on weekends he enjoyed playing farmer and she enjoyed out-fishing her husband. The kids fooled around mostly—we swam and fished and hiked around and pulled ticks off our legs. Then we drove back to our home in Cincinnati and looked forward to the next weekend at the farm.
Mom made me promise to tell her story the night she, Dad, and I went to dinner, after they had sold the farm some 25 years later. We all had a drink, and were getting kind of loose-tongued.
That’s when I learned Mom was a criminal.
She said she’d always wondered what all the fuss was about with marijuana. She decided to find out. At age 60 or so, when the kids were gone and she was spending a lot of time at the farm, she started her own cannabis patch. She said she’d gotten some seeds from one of her children. It wasn’t me, so that leaves one of the other three. Seeing that they looked similar to radish seeds, she said she stored the dope seeds in a radish seed envelope she had emptied. I thought that was clever.
My mother Genevieve, age 90, ready for a little canoe trip.
One day she collected a bucket of composted manure from the barn, and hauled it to a place she said will never be revealed, but it was near a wooded area. She dug a hole, filled it with the fertile compost, and planted seeds. Rain did its work, and two seedlings emerged. One of them in particular thrived, growing as tall as my mother. She visited her cash crop every other week or so, monitoring its progress, hoping that the farmer neighbors wouldn’t get suspicious at her going to this place on her land which she would never visit otherwise. She said Dad knew what she was doing. He thought she was foolish but didn’t stop her.
Mom was cautious and conservative in a lot of ways. I don’t remember her ever talking to me about drugs. I do know that she served on a jury where the accused was charged with something having to do with possession of marijuana. She told me the jury convicted him, one of the reasons being that she thought marijuana was a gateway drug and he was headed for heavier stuff.
So back on the farm, Mom raised this really big healthy marijuana plant in conservative rural Indiana. The details about consuming her gateway drug were a little fuzzy, but she does remember that she harvested some of the leaves and took them to the farmhouse kitchen. She vaguely remembered having some white paper, and generating smoke by burning the leaves. She said she got smoke in her mouth, but she never inhaled, just like the president. Her husband, who was watching, told her, “Get that stinkin’ stuff out of here.” Which she did.
As she told me this story, I was incredulous. For one thing, she smoked the leaves, not the buds. What a waste of homegrown weed. And what happened to her plant? She said she stripped it of its leaves so no one could identify it, and never visited again. For all we know, it continued to grow, reseeded itself, and now a healthy patch of marijuana is growing in the backyard of some unsuspecting farmer who now owns the place.
Recently, when I spoke with Mom about her adventure with drugs, she said, “I was stupid. It probably would have been very bad.” And she begged me not to write the story down, but I reminded her that she made me promise to tell the story, so I had to get it right. It is, after all, your legacy, I argued. She was laughing over the phone, quite tickled over the whole thing. I asked her, “Mom, do you really care if people think you’re a criminal for what you did 35 years ago?”
“Not really,” she said, and added one more thing. “Back then, I couldn’t understand why it would be so bad to grow a plant.”
After reading this account to my memoir-writing class, the oldest student, at 88 years, said, “I want to meet your mom.”
I stared at the email message, feeling assaulted, punched in the gut. There was nothing gentle about those words, even though they also said my mother had not been in pain.
I guess I was in pain—gazing at my IPad, lying alone on a bed in an apartment in Taipei, a world away from the hospice in Ohio where she died.
That stark written message was not how I expected to learn of her passing. It was devoid of the warmth of an emotion-filled human voice that would then pause to welcome mine.
I had called my sister the previous evening. She said Mom was in and out of awareness, heavy with morphine to dull the pain caused by the gallstone. The words, “If she goes tomorrow” were spoken—but I didn’t believe it would happen that soon. My international flight would leave in 24 hours—I had planned to see her, to say goodbye, to be with her during her sacred time of transition.
Why hadn’t she waited just a couple more days?
The words didn’t change. My insides grew pitted and raw, and I tried not to wail because I didn’t want the Taiwanese family in the next room to hear me. I whimpered instead, gasping silently through my contorted mouth as I lay there on that bed.
After blowing empty breaths, stitching myself inside a hollow cocoon, I busied my mind, calculating what time it was in Taipei when my mother breathed her last. It had been early morning. I had awoken even earlier—when, unbeknownst to me, she was within an hour of leaving. That’s when I grabbed my IPad and looked at recent photographs of her.
Mom, Genevieve Nichols, 96 years old.
Her vibrant, 96-year old face smiled, happy to be drinking a martini with me. I wrote an email to my sister, telling her to tell my mother I was thinking of her, because she could probably still hear, even though she was dying.
As I drifted back to sleep I whispered, “I’m sorry I’m not there with you, Mom. You know it’s okay to go now. I’ll tell the funny story that you wanted me to tell at your funeral services, and make everyone laugh.”
I awoke a short time later to read those final words. Died. She died. Mama died.
I never called her “Mama.”
She was Mom.
I showered and paced the room. It was my last day of my three-month journey—starting from my home in New Mexico to India for two months, then Bali for three weeks, and finally Taiwan, where I had planned to travel another two weeks.
Shut in that room crying wasn’t where I wanted to be. I left, and wandered the back streets of Taipei, watching, through a haze of sadness and dashes of moisture, the city come to life.
But I still felt restless. I needed to go somewhere. Maybe I would find a temple.
I swiped through the narrative and maps of the Taipei guidebook on my IPad, then stopped. The Maokong Cable Car: French-built, completed in 2007, and the 4-kilometer transit rose over jungle-shrouded hills to an end point among tea plantations and pleasant strolls. I would go there.
On the short walk from the apartment to the mass transit station I wondered if my light fleece would protect me from the moist air that had grown cooler from the previous day.
Not really. At the end of the train ride, rain pounded the concrete and the roof of the station. People getting on and off clutched umbrellas. I snuggled in my fleece for warmth. But the rain—the rain. My fleece was not a raincoat.
I would not walk through that downpour to reach the cable car station, a few blocks away. Sighing, I resigned myself to getting back on the train for the return trip. To the empty bedroom.
But just then a cherubic man in an orange vest waddled toward me. He carried an armful of umbrellas, all sizes and colors. He handed me a blue one. I opened it, looked at the steady rain outside, then looked at its small diameter. He gave me a larger brown one, with a hooked wooden handle.
I pranced into the sheets of rain and headed to the cable car station. My sandals splashed on the sidewalk and the bottom of my leggings grew wet. Thunder rumbled, but I was happy at my good fortune that found me clutching the perfect umbrella. I snugged that dome to my head and thought, let’s go!
Just a few people waited in line to buy tickets, even though the guidebook warned of long waits. Nothing would stop me now.
“Too dangerous,” the ticket lady said. “Thunderstorm.”
No, not on my last day, not on this day, I thought. Come on, we’ll wait in this tea shop. I didn’t want tea, I just wanted the storm to let up. After 45 minutes, I returned to the ticket counter where the same lady was all smiles.
“You have an EasyCard? Yes? Then go up.”
There was hardly anyone else around as I clutched my EasyCard, the pre-paid pass good for mass transit in Taipei. I headed up two levels where the gondolas were swinging around a platform, opening their doors to allow passengers entry.
“Come on, Mom, we’re heading up the hill.” I sat in the middle of the seat, facing the hill ahead of us. She climbed in after me, and sat on the seat opposite in the enclosed cabin.
Yes, she was there. She was smiling, her hair was smooth and perfect, a light shone in her grey eyes and her face radiated.
“We’re going on a ride, Mom.” As that car swung off the platform we hovered in space for a moment, until the giant connector on top firmly grabbed the big cable that began pulling us on our journey.
“Oh my, we’re going right up the hill. We’re riding in the air. Look how high we are! It’s raining, but we’re okay in here, we’re safe.”
Had she been there in her human form she would have been uneasy, suspended above the ground, swinging from a cable, viewing high-rise apartment buildings and roads below. The rain splattered the glass sides of our enclosure that swayed with windy puffs. I imagined her sitting directly across from me on the hard seat. As I stared and stared, I thought she would materialize before my eyes.
“Whoa, look at that, Mom, there are gardens and houses below us. And see how big Taipei is with all those buildings.”
I snapped photos, aiming at her place on the seat. I wanted to believe that later I would see her ghostlike image, or perhaps a mysterious light.
Clunk-clunk. Every so often the car would rise up and over the connection where vertical towers supported the heavy cable that held us aloft, floating through the air.
“The wind is blowing, but we’re safe mom.” I reassured her, but she really didn’t need to be reassured. She was very calm and was just enjoying the ride.
I snapped photos, aiming at her place on the seat. I wanted to believe that later I would see her ghostlike image, or perhaps a mysterious light in the photo. I was that certain of her presence.
“You’re a cloud person now, Mom. I’m glad you’re with me, going up this hill. Look at what the French have done for the people of Taiwan! Wow.”
Raindrops streamed the windows. Cars from the opposite direction emerged from the gloom and passed us—most of them empty of passengers. We seemed to own that ride.
We came to a covered station, where the rain let up and the cable and our car turned a right angle.
“We’re turning Mom. We don’t get out here. We just keep going. Look at all the trees down there. We’re going to ride this all the way to the top. I hope you’re enjoying it, Mom. I’m glad you’re here. We’re both safe and enjoying this ride together.”
I didn’t hear her say much—I just sensed she was enjoying the time together as we rose higher and higher in the gray and the rain, in our enclosed gondola, with the silly pink and yellow cartoon-like characters smeared across the front window, obscuring the view below. She could see everything, though.
I stopped my commentary now and then to hear the quiet, punctuated by the clunk-clunk and the spray of rain. No engines, no other people, no street traffic, no bird calls. We rode the mist, higher and higher over the rich greenery. I spotted a temple along the shiny wet asphalt road below and said we would stop and see it later on the return trip. I didn’t want to halt the magic, the feeling of connection and exploration with my Mom. It seemed so easy. No fear, no resistance, no hesitation. Just gliding along, suspended in that airy world, washed by the tears spouting from the gray around us.
I warned her when we approached the end station.
“Time to get out, mom, it’s over.”
We disembarked in a covered station. I opened my umbrella and walked into the spitting rain.
She had left me. I tried to feel her in the restaurant where I drank a latte and ate an expensive bowl of tasteless squash soup, but she had left me.
Several days later, when I reached my mom’s apartment and joined my sister in the task of closing out her physical life, I spoke of the cable car ride in Taipei.
“We rode it all the way to the top.” Then I corrected myself. “I mean I rode it to the top.”
I said “we” unconsciously, which didn’t really fit with how I presented the story of what I did after I learned Mom had died.
But I was correct the first time. Mom had been there with me, just hours after she passed. I hadn’t bid her goodbye in that hospice room when her spirit left her physical body. But Mom had found me. She was the one who had taken me on that cable car, where we shared a precious 30 minutes, riding through the clouds in our silent world, she looking confident and pleased and at peace.
Raindrops streamed the windows. Cars from the opposite direction emerged from the gloom and passed us—most of them empty of passengers. We seemed to own that ride.
