A letter to my mother as she lay dying

 

My mother with a friend's dog, Harry

Dear Mom,

There are so many things that I want to tell you, but I can’t make it through telling you these things in person. So, I have written them down and asked your caregiver to read this to you.

I wanted to tell you how much I love you. How terribly important you have been to me throughout my life. How much of you is in me. How much you have made me who I am. I am the child of both you and dad, but I wanted to make sure that you know how much I cherish those aspects of myself which came from you. More than anything the kindness and caring, but also your love of knowledge, your breadth of interests, and your sense of humor, subtle and ironic.

Did you know that for me, every dinner was a conversation about nurturing and love? That I had watched the hours of effort you put in and the stress you endured when dad was on his way home amid the rush to get dinner ready on time. His entrance demanding, “when’s dinner!” was made all the more painful because I had been watching you working. I was sitting in the kitchen, watching TV, but you were at the stove just beyond the TV, so I was watching you too. This was a conversation in which dad did not participate, spoken in a language which he did not appear to understand. He sat down at the dinner table, ate, and then left. The love and nurturing were between us. Of course, I didn’t understand this ‘till many years later. It was only in my late 20’s that I began to figure this out, and later still that I felt I understood how food represented to me love, caring, and compassion.

For my whole life I have never understood the word “milquetoast” (a timid or feeble person), because to me, “milk toast” was one of the things that you gave to someone you cared about when they were sick. Milk toast, bananas, apple sauce, and love. So too I find the term “mamas’ boy” absurd, defined as “a boy or man who is excessively influenced by or attached to his mother.” How could being attached to or influenced by one’s mother ever be excessive.

I remember tiny little things from growing up. I remember you at the kitchen sink, doing dishes, and then hitting Spot on the back with a fork when he bit Seymour for stealing his food. I remember you closing the window at the bottom of the stairs at the house on North Street, telling me that if cold air blew over your chest you would get a cold. I remember that you could never get a blueberry pie to set up, so you called it “blueberry pie soup.” I remember lying on the couch in the living room at North Street after coming home from school with what turned out to be a fractured arm, and the concerned look on your face when I slept through that whole day.

I remember losing my shoe in mud on a beach in Canada, and you trying to wash me off in water that turned out to be electric due to a downed power cable. I remember stepping into an elevator, thinking that you were behind me, only to discover when the doors had closed that I was alone.

I remember gerbils in terrariums in the room between the kitchen and the garage. I remember hatching chickens in an incubator in the kitchen. I remember taking your wristwatch apart, but not being able to put it back together. You didn’t scold me. I remember you driving me and some other kids to day-camp. I remember making paintings by blowing paint over sheets of paper with straws.

I remember you letting me stay home from school when I was “sick”, even though I was clearly faking it. I remember going with you to the Cambridge Center for Adult Education – you took classes in paper sculpture, and flower arranging, and stained glass, and jewelry making, and mosaics. I remember talking you into buying things for me: a block of balsa wood at Ken-Kay-Krafts, and endless bottles of Testor’s paints for model cars and planes; cactus and other plants that ultimately you had to take care of; raspberry-lime rickeys from Brigham’s. I remember you buying me marbles and maple syrup candy somewhere – maybe it was the Salem Witch House?

I remember watching the first moon landing from your and dad’s bed. And Thalassa Cruso’s Making Things Grow, and The Galloping Gourmet too. I remember watching endless hours of cartoons in the kitchen while you made dinner at night, or breakfast on Sunday morning.

I remember a piece of cardboard with coins taped onto it which you used to teach us about money. I remember you typing my school papers for me because I had left my assignment till the last minute and didn’t have time to type it myself. I remember dad complaining that you walked too slowly and having to choose between keeping up with him or hanging back to walk with you.

I remember calling you from the bed in my hospital room after my heart-attack - asking you to come out to be with me, even though I knew you hated travel.

I remember shopping trips to the kitchen supply store on Newbury Street, and Mass Hardware, and I remember hiding in the middle of the round racks of clothing at Jordan Marsh while you shopped. I remember your driving what seemed at the time to be a ridiculous distance to Waltham to buy bread, or to get pizza at the really good place that was worth the long drive.

I remember the vegetable garden on the far side of the garage at North Street. I remember somewhere getting the plant growth hormone called gibberellic acid. I wanted to see what would happen if I injected it into plants instead of putting it on the leaves as you were supposed to do. For some reason you let me try it. I remember making Halloween costumes from sheets, and carving pumpkins – wondering if some day my pumpkins would come out as well as yours (they never have.)

I remember you bathing me in the bathtub in the new bathroom at North Street after the renovation, and I remember the old, long bathroom from before the renovation. I feel like I remember the changing table in that old bathroom, but I am sure that must be a false memory. Was the room light yellow? Was there a window at the end of the room? Were there sheer curtains with embroidered flowers on them? That is how I remember it, but it is likely to be something part remembered, and part imagined.

I have travelled an unorthodox path through my life; taking years to get through college, not marrying nor having children, leaving my career at its peak to go off and have fun. But I hope that I have made you proud. I hope that I didn’t cause you too much grief along the way.

You said to me recently that you don’t want to be an “inconvenience” or a “bother”. You took care of me my entire life. That is something that I can never repay, nor do I want to repay it. This is not about reciprocity. This is about love. There is no inconvenience. There is no bother. My only wish is that you be as comfortable as possible.

I want you to live forever, but no one does, and “death comes to us all.” I want you to know that I understand. That you did everything you were supposed to do, and you did it so well. I understand that you have to leave.

I want you to know that you should feel completely free stay as long as you want, but also to leave whenever you need to, whenever you want to. I will cry for a long time, but that too is inevitable – that is the inevitable consequence of your being such a great mother, such a great person, and such a deeply caring caregiver to me all of my life. You have done everything necessary to make me the man that I am today, able to stand on my own, able to care for you now, and able to survive after you are gone. Please stay, if you want to stay, but don’t stay because of me. Go when you are ready. There is nothing you need to worry about. Erica and I will take care of everything.

And I will always love you.

Elise C. Sigal 1933-2022

 Elise Cunin Sigal, my beloved mother

1933-2022

Elise C. Sigal, 89, of Oakland, CA and formerly of Newton, MA, passed away peacefully on Monday, October 30, 2022, surrounded by her children. For 63 years the beloved wife of the late Marlowe A. Sigal. Devoted mother of Erica Sigal and Andrew Sigal.

Born in Bath, PA, and raised in Allentown, PA, Elise spent most of her adult life in Boston and Newton, MA, before moving to Oakland, CA, to be close to her children. She graduated from Brandeis University with a degree in music history.

Elise was an avid gardener; she turned her especial love of trees into a volunteer position at Harvard’s Arnold Arboretum, assisting in a variety of roles for over two decades, ultimately running their plant information phone line. She was an active participant in the Newton community. She worked with the Newton Creative Arts Committee where she served for a time as Chairperson. 

She shared her late husband’s passion for early music, antiques, and historic homes, frequently attending performances and museums. Elise also hosted visits to her home by musicians and early music organizations. 

She is missed by all those whose lives she touched.

In lieu of flowers, the family asks that remembrances be made to the Cunin/Sigal Research Award Endowment at the Arnold Arboretum, Boston, MA or the Elise C. Sigal Musical Education Fund at the Sigal Music Museum, Greenville, SC.

The Art of Bewildered Sadness

In the nearby city of Albany, California, there is an old landfill which is now generally known as the “Albany Bulb”, or just "The Bulb." Over the years it has been a landfill, a dump, an encampment for homeless residents, and a park, as well as being a canvas for some extraordinary art (more at AlbanyBulb.org)

In October 2019 I was walking one of my favorite loops at the Bulb. On the return leg, I saw writing spray painted along the edge of the paved path. I read it as I walked. I was stunned. I was touched. In fact, I was so gobsmacked that I had gone on at least another hundred feet before I realized that I had to go back to the beginning to record this message before it disappeared, as is the fate of so much of the ephemeral art created at there.

I have transcribed the text here, primarily so that search engines will index it, should anyone be looking for it. I have attempted to retain case, punctuation, and spelling, even when it is technically incorrect. This is, after all, a cry in the wilderness, not an essay for a picky college English teacher, and I feel that hand of the author reveals something of what they are trying to express to the world.

OK, so, one time you, yes you and I got high here. You told me that every thing was going to be OK. For the most PART it has been. But you died 3 weeks AGO AND I MISS YOU. Hope youre doing well. Call me if you need anything, though you left, im still here… Anyways. i have to go now. Don’t forget about me Please… good night, sweet dreams

I have no idea who the author was. I don’t know if this was created by a writer, or a poet, or an artist who regularly paints messages in public places, or, as I suspect, if they are the words of someone who truly had recently lost an important person in their life.

In any case, for me it evokes sadness, but also either bewilderment, or naivete, or extraordinary faith. The author is speaking to their lost companion as though they were right there, as though their friend can hear them and can even respond. Either this person is naïve (in a very touching way) as to what death really is, or has such deep faith in an afterlife that they truly believe their friend is right there, listening, and might even need something from them, or, as I believe is most likely, they are so lost that they cannot accept the fact that their friend is gone. I wonder about their fear that their friend might forget them – perhaps it is a reflection of their own fear that they may forget the one that is gone.

This video still makes me sad when I watch it, even years later. I hope that for this anonymous writer, everything has been OK.

Renaming Ceremony for the Sigal Music Museum

In mid-2019 the Carolina Music Museum was renamed as the Sigal Music Museum in honor of my father, and in recognition of the gift of his collection to the museum. We have been trying to have a renaming ceremony ever since, but COVID has forced it to be delayed several times. Finally, on April 22, 2022, we were able to have the event, at which I was honored to speak and cut the ribbon for the opening. [For more on the Sigal Music Museum, see my prior post about it The Uncarved Block: the Sigal Music Museum]

I have been asked for a copy of my remarks, which I present here.

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Good evening.

Thank you all for coming. I can’t tell you how excited, happy, and proud I am to be here today.

I suspect that only a few of you know the story of how my father’s collection made its way from Boston to its beautiful new home here in Greenville.

My father had been collecting musical instruments for decades. From time to time he would consider the question of what he wanted to have happen to them after he died – and then he wouldn’t do anything about it. Occasionally someone from one institution or another would approach him about the collection, but for a variety of reasons it never worked out.

And then he had his heart attack. When I heard the news, I called his hospital room from my home in Oakland, California. True to form, he said it was no big deal and he would be back at work by Wednesday – this was on a Monday. Well, I was glad to hear that!!! But… I decided to call his doctor just to be sure. His doctor said, “Ohhhh, no. No indeed. Your father is an 88-year-old man who just had a massive heart attack. You want to get out here right now.” So, I got on the next flight to Boston.

I spent a lot of time with dad at the hospital, talking about a lot of things – including, of course, what he wanted done with the collection. He said he would want it to stay together as much as possible, though he acknowledged that with a collection of its size, that could be a tall order. He recited a list of institutions where he might like to see the instruments go. He even talked about possibly starting his own museum - apparently, he told me, there was a crazy guy in South Carolina who had done just that!

Unfortunately, believing you are superman can only take you so far, and within about a week he was in a coma, and then died. Perhaps that is a lesson for all of us that think we are immortal.

In his will he left the collection to my mother, with a note asking her to dispose of it in accordance with his wishes. That became one of the main tasks that my mother, my sister Erica, and I, had on our plates. We spoke with most of the institutions he had previously named. Some of them wanted certain parts of the collection but not others. Some wanted the collection but with unacceptable provisos. And so on. The search for where the collection should go stretched out to months upon months.

Along the way, our good friend Darcy Kuronen connected me with Tom Strange, that crazy guy in South Carolina, and his museum. The Carolina Music Museum was very new; with no track record, but with the flexibility to make the decision to take the collection. And they wanted all of it! Every instrument, every book, every email my dad had sent or received, every everything. And in recognition, they wanted to rename the museum in his honor.

It sounded perfect, but it was still a difficult decision that we agonized over. Could they pull it off? Did it make sense for the collection to go somewhere with which my father had had no affiliation? How crazy was this [Tom] Strange guy? There were a couple of other good options, but in the end, this museum, this city, and these people won us over. And it was a great decision.

It is wonderful to see these pieces as they deserve to be seen. Not tucked into every corner of our former home. Now they will be cared for in perpetuity in an appropriate setting.

Finally, these instruments will be available for scholars, novices, or those that are simply curious to examine, study, or just to enjoy. Students can now come to see and to learn how these instruments contributed to the origins of Western musical traditions. And perhaps they may inspire young people to develop the kind of passion that my father, my mother, Tom, and everyone else here today all share.

My mother has since said that the gift to this museum has worked out better than she could possibly have imagined. I couldn’t agree more. My only regret is that my father didn’t make this move himself, so that he could see the care and appreciation that everyone at the Carolina Music Museum – now the Sigal Music Museum - has lavished on The Marlowe A. Sigal Collection.

Thank you.