Lily, 9 and I are adjusting to a major life event. One month ago yesterday, Marjorie “Margie” Jean Abraham, aka Mom, died. All of us are, understandably, sad about this. The published obituary that tells the story of her life can be found here:
https://www.ptleader.com/stories/marjorie-jean-abraham,211213?
Today, we share memories of our life with her. 9 has bravely volunteered to start.
I’ve known Mom my whole life. It’s really strange to think of her as gone. I remember learning how to swim when I was four years old. Mom didn’t exactly teach me, but she was in the pool with me and a bunch of other moms with little kids.
The pool at the junior high school was new, so new it didn’t have a roof on it yet! We went to swimming lessons a few times. The time I remember best was when we learned to float on our backs. I am really buoyant and was better at this than the other stuff we were learning. Mom didn’t have to help much, but she stood in the water alongside me and had her hands under my back, like the teacher told all the moms to do. I felt safe with her there. When I looked up I could see her face and her white swimming cap with a bunch of white flowery things stuck to it and a strap under the chin.
Margie Abraham: with Susan, 1960.
That’s a great memory, 9, and maybe Mom thought about that over the years, too, especially when I started swimming again on a regular basis. She was there for us at the very start. Okay, Lily, you’re up next.
The year I was a Girl’s Club officer I was put in charge of finding someone to teach us how to model for the annual Mothers Tea and Fashion Show. Mom worked in clothing retail and loved anything to do with fashion. Through work she knew a professional model who lived in town, Connie. Mom arranged for me to meet with Connie and took me to her house to ask for help. Good thing Mom was there, cool and composed, because I was intimidated by glamorous Connie! She was vivacious, perfectly made up with perfectly styled cascading blonde hair, though wearing jeans and we were hanging out in her kitchen. While her two small children played quietly, Connie talked a million miles a minute. She was really, really nice and immediately agreed to teach our junior high models how to walk down a runway while plying me and Mom with fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. It never would have happened without Mom as a liaison.
Margie Abraham: always a fashionista! With Glenn, his parents, and sisters (with spouses), 1956. Margie is at the far left, as if you couldn’t tell!
Mom certainly could connect with people. She was genuinely interested in other people and could even draw out introverts, always with a smile.
Okay, here’s mine.
In 1994 I took beginning tap with the ladies tap group Mom had danced with for years. It started off as something I wanted to do for her, something we could do together, at least when the annual recital rolled around, and doing it that year was important because it was the year Dad died.
I did pretty well with the lessons, and Mom was an ace tutor, practicing with me so I could get solid on the steps. By recital time one of the other beginners, Roberta, and I had progressed to intermediate tap. This meant we got to be in a number with the advanced group, the group Mom was in. Our intermediate part was mostly swaying in time to the music in the back row, joining the advanced dancers for only a few combinations, but we were psyched!
The song was “Moon Glow.” On one of the bridges all the rows moved forward while maintaining our spacing. I was positioned at a diagonal behind Mom. In the excitement of the moment I drifted too far forward and nearly came up alongside her. Ever my protector and corrector, she threw out an arm to block me and, with the slightest elbowing, sent me back to my position. It still makes me laugh to think about it.
After that recital I asked a friend in the audience how did I do? “Oh yeah, you were good- -but your mom! She was great! Great dancer, beautiful smile, great legs!”
People still talk about Mom’s great legs!
Margie Abraham: First in line for “Chorus Line” with the O’Meara Dance Studio ladies group, 1980s.
Every death is different. Every grief is different. But maybe there’s something universal about losing a parent. The people who created you, who’ve known you your entire life. When they’re gone, it seems they take little pieces of you with them.
I guess this makes sense, because we hold onto our little pieces of them, too.
Hi, Susan–I read the obit in the paper yesterday and thought of you all day. Condolences, my dear. It’s strange when we come to this point in life where we are suddenly “orphaned.” What surprised me when my mom died, was how suddenly “present” she felt to me…I saw her in all the little things around my house that she had given me over the years, for example. And how I could suddenly “hear” her in my own voice. My heart is with you, dear, as you adjust, as you grieve, as you ponder and wonder her departure from this particular plane.
Thank you, Erin.
No matter how old we are when our parents die it always makes us feel like orphans! No one else was there right from the very start.
I can’t believe I was just thinking about your mom the other day, and wondering if she was still joyfully tap-dancing through life in Port Townsend. And this morning your post and Marie’s obituary popped into my feed. Sending you lots of love and incantations of condolence… Being an adoptee, I’m actually “orphaned” four-fold, and like you, also widowed. But you are so blessed to have been close to your mom for so many years, and those wonderful memories will definitely contribute to your gift of storytelling as you navigate life in this new season.
💜
Thank you, LuLu.
You’re welcome my friend. Just saw as I was rereading my post that I left the “g” out of Margie’s name… Apologies… My proofreading skills have deteriorated I’m afraid.
No need to apologize, LuLu, mine have, too, so I now have a very wide margin for forgiveness of that type of thing. Not to mention how varied words and spellings can become if I decide to use voice transcription!
So true, Linnea!
<3
Love you!
Beautiful tribute to your Mom.
Thank you, Betty.
Yep they do take a piece of you with them.. At they moment it feels like they have taken half of you…. She was a great Lady and you and Ann were lucky to have the parents you did.. Hugs.. Remember they will always be with you in your heart… Hugs.
Thank you, Wendy.
Susan, Sending my warmest empathy. Thanks for sharing these memories — and the wonderful photos, too! David
Thank you, David.