photos – European Trophy Wife

Her life did not appear noteworthy or remarkable. She married young and had three babies, a girly little staircase. Housekeeping was not her forte, though directing her daughters to clean was. She was a poor cook, yet she always had a dinner of sorts on the table. She had dreams, but never shared them…

When my mother was nearing her last days (so we thought), I left our home in Europe to gather with my sister and her husband and our kids in West Virginia, though my dear husband had to stay back for work. Mother’s wish was to remain in her home with her beloved and somewhat anti-social feline companion, so she held court in her bedroom as my loving big sister and I cheerfully (well…somewhat cheerfully) met her every need.

Suddenly, our Mother wanted to tell every story she’d ever heard as a child…from her grandfather having an affair in the home as his wife lay dying, to the love that grandfather put into building a home in a proper and stately area of the town, to the great (great-great to me)uncle who wrote postcards and letters in near Shakespearean style. She had our kids running to the basement to find bits of her life, making them promise to drive by the house on Pearcy Street she knew as her childhood home (stolen from her and her parents by a deceitful aunt and uncle), and encouraging them to view the beautiful high school she and my dad, and we three girls, called our alma mater.

We found a photo of the beloved home in my mother’s many boxes of pictures/memorabilia. It sits on my mantle with a chotsky for company.

And two months later, in the actual week before my mom left this earth (it was the longest death scene in the history of drama–typical of my mother to stretch it out), the hospice nurse spoke with her about her condition after she asked, “What is wrong with me? I’m not ready to leave.” John asked this question, “What is it you feel you’ve left undone?”

Mother animatedly said she wished she had travelled, had cooked the recipes she’d saved, had spent more time reading and making art.

I guess I didn’t know my mother. I never took the time to ask her that question.

I did remember that when my sisters and I were kids, Mother went off to an art class one night a week. She returned so energized each week, telling us what she had learned; when they practiced the human form, there were nude models in the class, a fact that kept us kids giggling, gasping, and gawking at our “boring” mother.

My kids are artistic–creative and talented in so many ways–some of which they inherit from their skillful father. I know and see the tapestry of family woven into the fiber of each of us, and all my children were blessed to receive the thread of artistic talent from my mom, the easy chuckle from my dad, the love of games from my little sister (and big one) and their dad’s dad, and the joy of family from both sides of the clan.

Art is our memory of love. The most an artist can do through their work is say, let me show you what I have seen, what I have loved, and perhaps you will see it and love it too.

– Annie Bevan, Art Quotes.

Because of finding my mom’s sketches, which she proudly signed for each of the kids, I now want to have art created by people I love and care about. For Christmas last year, I asked my kids for a composition made by each of them–unwrapping and seeing the gifts and giftedness was a delight, and they now hang in our family room next to a watercolor by a dear friend and former neighbor.

While Nate didn’t draw something for me this time, this is typical of Nate’s distinctive cartoon style art, and he and his wife and the other kids pitched in for a family photo shoot!

I can’t help but think of my mother…the longer she’s gone (it’s only been a year now) and I find the remnants of her life as I clean out yet another box brought from her home, I see her as more special, more remarkable. Oh, I still remember the hardest parts of her, and some of the long-healed hurts, but those too fade as I recall her softening in old age, becoming more loving and more forgiving. When I see the best bits of her in my children, my older sister, and her brothers, I see her life was more than noteworthy…it was a masterpiece…

What is it you feel you’ve left undone?

When we found this apartment 5 years ago, I was excited about the proximity to city centre—an easy walk, convenient bus stops, shopping near. My dear husband was NOT excited about the proximity of civilization—he preferred the circa 1500 farmhouse in the Belgian countryside, complete with…nothing.

Operating under cover of darkness is his modus operandi—one of the many conditions necessary for his hobby. And no, Mr. Wonderful is not a serial killer, unless snuffing our social life for his clear nights of stargazing counts. My dear (self-proclaimed and family-sanctioned) geeky husband is an amateur astrophotographer, maker of telescopes and mirrors, teacher of the night sky.

He fits black felt inside the telescope tube to remove light reflection in the wrong direction. He cuts cardboard extensions, laminated with my reusable-no-more shopping bags for the tube to eliminate dew collection on the mirror. While he McGyvers his instrument (yes, I’m referring to the telescope), I watch British detective shows or grab a book from the growing pile. I’ve learned not to ask what he’s working on, because he’ll actually explain it.

Felt liner on the inside of a tub of cardboard, grocery bag on the outside. This provides an extension on the tube on the telescope in order to prevent dew from building up on the mirror

Our travels have taken us to places of famous astronomers…to Greenwich to see the Royal Observatory, home of the Prime Meridian and William Herschel’s 40 foot reflecting telescope with which he discovered my favorite planet–Uranus.

Is this a big telescope? You bet Uranus it is!

We took a boat down the Thames River to Greenwich

In 2015, we were so happy to visit Paris (though my dear husband had, of course, been before). We walked and walked, practically ran through the Louvre to see all we wanted to see. As we gave up on our blistered feet and French-exhausted brains, we purchased tickets for those hop-on hop-off buses to maximum our views and rest on our grateful butts. At one stop, near the Pantheon, Mr. Wonderful suggested we limp off the bus in search of lunch. Though I saw some delightful terraced cafés in one direction, he suggested the other way. The neighborhood seemed somewhat sketchy to my suburban eye, but we explored on, grateful to find an air-conditioned pizzeria on the 99 degree day. As we rested, my travel buddy scoured the map, then looked at me sheepishly, “the Paris Observatory is only a 15 minute walk from here.” A thirty minute walk brought us to the observatory, authorized by King Louis XIV in 1666, where Saturn’s moon lapetus was discovered in 1671 and in 1676, the staff concluded that light was travelling at a finite speed. Sadly, the institution was open for tours only by appointments on Sundays (and is now closed due to renovations, not to mention the pandemic), but my star-gazing husband was thrilled to see a statue of Urbain Jean Joseph Le Verrier, who used mathematics to predict the existence and position of Neptune.

I’m sure someone would love to explain to you all of this astronomer’s many achievements…

We look forward to traveling to Denmark some day (hopefully soon?)–I would love to see Tivoli Garden and the colorful harbor of Nyhavn, the Little Mermaid, and Kronborg Castle. Someone is fascinated with Tycho Brahe, a 16th-century Danish astronomer who developed instruments for calculating and fixing the positions of the stars. My only attraction with the famous astronomer is that he lost his nose in a duel, and he may have been killed by king Christian IV because Brahe allegedly had an affair with his wife. My favorite part, besides hearing our Danish friend try to teach my dear husband the proper pronunciation of the name, is the myth that his death was the result of an exploding bladder…which makes me so sad he had nothing to do with the discovery of Uranus…what a fine pairing that would have been!

Though my level of scientific intellect differs greatly from that of my spouse, there are, beyond question, lessons learned. I now know that certain filters for a camera can assist in eliminating some light pollution; the light of a full moon makes it difficult to capture sharp images of stars or galaxies; globular clusters are dense collections of stars, nebulae are interstellar clouds of dust, and galaxies come in many shapes and sizes (spiral, elliptical and irregular). I know it’s better to watch a meteor shower with the bare eye, and I can (sometimes) locate Venus and Saturn in the sky. I know that when an amateur astronomer receives a delivery of new instruments for his or her hobby, there will automatically be 3 weeks of clouds and gloom.

One thing I know for sure: the look of joy on this man’s face when he opened the gift of a starter telescope nearly 20 years ago is one I’ll never forget. Nor will I forget the studious look on his face when he devoured (over and over) a book, written in 1947, given to him by our octogenarian friend Phil, along with a kit for making a 6 inch telescope mirror, and the satisfaction as he measured and re-measured, shaping the piece of glass into the perfect parabola before buffing and polishing. All this science and math and building and calibrating and measuring and adjusting leads, not only to an artillery battery of different sized telescopes, but to the amazement in his eyes when he looks into the night sky.