David Murdock Column: On dreams, stories and conversations about my mother

Over the years since my mother died, I think I’ve told just about all her stories that can fit into the space of this column.  She had a lot more, of course, but I’d have to write multiple parts.

My favorite story of Mom’s has to be the one about her “$42 worth of courage” that I wrote just after she died in 2011.  Basically, Mom borrowed money to travel from Camden, Alabama, where she was born, to Florence to attend beauty school.  She was working for the local hairdresser in Camden, who co-signed the loan for Mom.  Later, Mom added up the interest she’d had to pay, and it amounted to $42.

At the time she left to go to beauty school, Mom already knew everything about how to be what she called a “beauty operator,” which is an older term for a hair stylist or cosmetologist.  That’s what Mom always called herself — a beauty operator.  Anyway, her employer agreed, but said that a few months in beauty school would give her more confidence in herself.  So, Mom went to Florence.

The strange part about my memories of Mom these days is that I think that I have become “comfortable” — at least as much as I can be — with the fact that they’re all 12 years or more in the past.  All my memories of Mom these days are pleasant ones.  I don’t really recall much of her last days, for example, and I certainly don’t go back and read what’s in my journal about them.

Something that has astounded me lately, though, is that I have been dreaming about Mom and Dad — both separately and together — quite often.  I’ve always had a vivid and imaginative “dream life,” but the part about these dreams is just how “everyday” they are.  There is some combination of my family at Mom and Dad’s house — almost always at the kitchen table or in the den — and we’re simply chatting and laughing.

And those conversations?  Nothing all that earth-shattering.  Nothing like “We hid the family fortune in the following location.”  Nothing, in short … “dream-like.”  Just all of us (or some of us, depending on the combination) talking and laughing.  Just absolutely normal, everyday chats.

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These dreams have been continuing for quite some time now — usually once or twice per week.  I look forward to them.  They’re just so pleasant.

We have always been a “talking family,” both my immediate and my extended family.  Storytelling has always been a key part of any family get-together.  And it’s not even like we’re really aware of it.  At some point — usually after eating — the stories come out.

That’s what I most remember about my mother — her stories of growing up in Camden, coming to Attalla, and meeting Dad.  By the way, I only heard Mom tell the story of how she met Dad once — although I was sitting right there with her, she was telling it to a friend of hers.  She never told it to me “directly.”

As time passed, I realized that there were stories that I knew that others didn’t.  Once, about a year or two before he died, I told Dad a story about Mom and my grandmother — his mom — that he didn’t know and had always “wondered about,” as he put it.

There’s also another point here — I’ve always connected Mom with hospitality.  Mom was a fine cook, for example.  There are some dishes that I really haven’t eaten that often since she died because she simply was the best with that particular one.  I really haven’t much enjoyed fried chicken since she passed, for instance.  There’s some fine fried chicken out there … but none like hers.

Now, I’m not just being a stereotyped Southern man here — Mom really did have a sort of gift for cooking.  When I moved out, she gave me handwritten copies of all my favorites among her recipes … except one.  It was a pan-grilled chicken with rice and bell peppers that I’ve never been able to replicate myself. I’ve tried every recipe I could find on the internet, but I think the missing ingredient is my “memory” of how good it was.

And that’s it — Mom made some great memories for us, not only when she cooked.  However, I don’t think it’s an accident at all that all the pleasant dreams I’ve had of Mom and my family lately mostly revolve around that kitchen table.

One of my last memories of Mom when she was passing involves “eating.” She was half-conscious and “miming” eating.  I asked her what she was eating.  She never opened her eyes but started describing everything at the table she was dreaming in detail.  Then, she said, “And everybody’s here …” and started naming family members.  Every one of them had passed away.

I sat there, stunned.

It seemed like something more than some sort of hallucination — too vivid and too detailed.

That’s the memory of Mom’s last days that I keep close to my heart.  Mom’s last great lesson to me was the menu in heaven.

I will say this, though, I keep hoping that I’ll dream the recipe for that pan-grilled chicken with rice and bell peppers.

Happy Mother’s Day, all!

David Murdock is an English instructor at Gadsden State Community College. He can be contacted at murdockcolumn@yahoo.com. The opinions expressed are his own.   

This article originally appeared on The Gadsden Times: David Murdock On memories, stories and dreams on Mother's Day