By Nancy Jones
So, one very long, hot summer in 1976, we set
about to first sell and then empty her handsome
three-bedroom cottage. I must have driven the five-hour trip
from Worcester to Brooklyn Heights a dozen times that
summer—always alone, but with the car loaded with her
things. Actually, when I looked around my apartment, I
realized most of “her things” were favorites of mine that I
couldn't bear to part with: my father's mahogany
three-foot-high liquor cabinet (a gift from his employees);
Revere-Ware pots and pans; large decorative serving dishes;
small end tables; books (lots of books); linens and even a
meager four-piece Wedgwood collection—presents my sister and
I had given her over the years. When my mother finally moved
into the apartment and looked around, she couldn't get over
the "junk" I had brought back. She was definitely not a
collector.
During a period of transition to our new living
arrangements, we both had terribly conflicted feelings. My
mother wondered if she'd made a big mistake trading in her
large comfortable house for a small room in my apartment. I
concurred that it might have been a big mistake since we
were both in danger of losing our independence. But once
we'd taken the step, there was no going back. I had to make
our new family composition work. My husband, whom my friends
considered a saint for even allowing the move in the first
place, seemed not the least bit concerned, as though this
sort of thing happened to every family. I attributed
his compliance and sanguinity to the fact that he was a
funny foreigner, an eccentric Englishman who liked little
old ladies and probably had seen his own relatives do
something similar. My son, Evan, at age 10, was at first
delighted to have his grandma move in; but in later years as
a teenager, he discovered some drawbacks: his beloved
grandma was more like an older sister—she read all his mail
from his girlfriends and this left its mark. To this day, he
does not write letters to anyone.
In the years that followed, often in frustration to a
particular situation, I wrote in notebooks. One entry was a
list of countries I was unable to visit because of my
mother's immediate medical problems. In the past, I was able
to travel with my husband to wonderful new places; but by
1987, my mother's ill health prevented me from accompanying
him on these enjoyable business trips. I did not go to
Germany nor Wales nor Australia nor New Zealand. Even
shorter trips to Hawaii or Puerto Rico were out of the
question. When my husband was in Wales, I was home tending
my mother's broken pelvis.
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