Ancient History

Sometime last week I started craving mulled wine. I can't remember what triggered it; it sure wasn't the weather, which was quite mild. The other day I bought some mulling spices and some cheap Merlot and got busy. The recipe on the spice package called for vermouth, which made me say "wtf?" I went to visit my friend The Google, who found me a recipe that called for an ounce of cognac. Cognac we had. Vermouth (two cups of it!) we did not.

I halved the recipe because I got the feeling that Allan wasn't too into the idea. Good thing, too. It turns out I'm not too into the whole mulled wine thing, either. But that's neither here nor there, for the purposes of my story.

Last night while I couldn't sleep, my mind turned to the bitter cold and the mulled wine. The combination of those two things took my brain on a journey to an island off the coast of France. This is what I thought I didn't want to write about, but when it came time to talk about it via the webcam, I was unable to do that, as well.

Late December 1963 1996: My then-husband and I decided that we wanted to "get away." This might have been my idea. The truth was, we barely had any money, so the only place we could think of to go was the Ile d'Oléron, an hour's drive south from where we lived. We left our toddler daughter with her grandparents and went off for a weekend of R&R.

It was cold. As in face-numbing, extremity-freezing cold. Since it was far too cold to walk around and enjoy the island, we took refuge in a café near our hotel. There was a fireplace set away from the bar; we sat in the easy chairs there and eyeballed the board games on the table between us. The serveuse came to us, and we asked for something warm to drink. It was perhaps four in the afternoon, and she suggested a vin chaud. Mulled wine! It was the antidote we needed, and it was delicious.

Before long, we were both comfortably numb. My husband failed once again to teach me how to play chess. We had a great time at the café that afternoon. The walk back to the hotel cleared our heads, and we got ready to have dinner in the restaurant.

Mind you, much of this is fuzzy, and I really do have a point. One of my ex's most frequent criticisms of me was that I "don't know how to make a point." I promise, there is a point. There is a reason I felt that this blog entry deserved a little bit of care in the writing.

We had a delicious dinner that night. I remember we splurged and got the five-course meal. Or at least I did. People, don't ever get the five-course meal when you've spent the afternoon drinking mulled wine. I have no idea what I ate, but it doesn't matter because it all came up in the middle of the night. After a goodly amount of time talking to Huey on the great white telephone, I went back to bed and in the morning, all was well.

I have to say here that I didn't vomit (Rebecca, that one's for you) because of too much alcohol, but because of too much food. Seriously, if you are going to eat in a fine restaurant, go for the tasting menu, if they have one. Trust me on this. But I digress.

It was still cold on the island, and after a miserable walk around La Cotinière, we decided to cut the weekend short. If memory serves, that was the only time the two of us went away "alone together" during our 11 years of marriage.

Remember that I was thinking about all this last night. What I have written took about ten seconds to flash through my brain, and then I moved on to another thought.

The Ile d'Oléron is where we were the weekend my mother had a stroke and fought for her life. Easter weekend, 1993. We were newlyweds, and a classmate of my husband's invited us to spend the weekend at his parents' cottage on the island. We jumped at the chance to get out of Rouen. It was an eight-hour drive, and we arrived late late at night on the Friday.

The whole weekend was fun, but bizarre. I can't remember exactly how I felt at the time; it's all conjecture now. Four thousand miles away my mother was dying. On Easter Monday, I woke up at 9:35. We headed back to Rouen before lunch, I believe. I felt shitty all day in the back seat of that car. Not too long before we got to Rouen tears started falling. "I want to go home," I cried.

Back in the apartment, there were messages everywhere from our roommate, François. (Yes, we were newlyweds with a roommate, a good Catholic farmboy who held me in contempt because a) I was American b) my father was a Protestant minister ["he thinks he can talk directly to God!"] and c) I forget what C was for, but it doesn't matter. François was an asshole.

The messages all said "Call [Alison's dad] at 814-xxx-xxxx." I recognized the number as that of our "summer house," a small home in a clearing in the Pennsylvania woods. Well, one of the digits was off, but I recognized the number. I called, and no one answered. There was no answering machine (and until five years earlier, there had been no phone).

I called my parents' house. My sister answered. When she heard my voice, she said "Oh, Ali, let me get dad." His broken voice came on the line. "Alison, your mother has died."

I said "I knew it." My ex told me I screamed it.

Later I found out that she had died at 3:35 a.m., which was the exact time I woke up, an ocean away.

I suppose the romantic getaway that cold winter weekend was my way of thumbing my nose at the island. I was there when my mother died, yes. But I was determined to reclaim the terrain from the memories of my mother's death, the death I bore no witness to. I didn't even get a chance to see her body.

And that weekend wasn't the first time I had been back, but those other trips were just day trips. Those didn't suck. That weekend did.

I went back to Oléron a few times during the years of my marriage. We didn't live that far away, and the bridge to get there didn't cost any money (as opposed the the much closer Ile de Ré, whose bridge toll was about $20 last time I checked).

The last time I went to Oléron was in May. Allan and I took my kids there for a week. We rented a house about 100 yards from the beach. I won't say we had a great time, because we didn't. The week got cut short because my son tried to pick up a snake on the beach. He got bitten, and stayed in the hospital for two days. He seemed fine, but the doctors wanted to keep an eye on his vital signs, which was fine with me. The movies playing in my head all involved a painful, ugly demise, so I was just glad my sweet boy was alive.

The French say "Jamais deux sans trois." Things come in threes, and I do believe I've had my three events on the Ile d'Oléron.

I doubt I'll ever go back there. "I'm so over that."

I blame this recent tour of history on the crappy mulled wine I made. I don't care if it was the cognac, or the cheap Merlot, or the combination in the mulling spices. I'll have all three again, just not together.

And there's nothing I would have liked more than to write all this with a humorous bent (as opposed to a bent humerus. Iamsofunny.), but even after 13+ years, I can't find the humor in my mother's passing.

I'm sure she would have loved the blogosphere, and perhaps more importantly, the cheap Merlot. I'll have a glass in her honor.

Now go tell your mom you love her while you still can.

Comments

[Allan]

Your mom would have had her own blog. And been a star.

[Alison]

She was a star. Her name was Clara.

[ms. sizzle]

Clara is a good name.

I wasn't there when my father passed. It's not something can forget or get over.

xo
sizz

[Margaret]

I can tell how valued, and loved she was by the way you write about her, and what a shock and loss it was for you when she died. I don't think we can ever completely cut the umbilical cord from our mothers, even in death.

[ally bean]

This is a wonderful, sad story. Thanks for sharing.

Both of my parents are safely nestled in eternity, but I'll tell them that I love them anyway. Your story is a good reminder to do such.

[Susan]

This is so poignant as I read it on the sixth anniversary of my mother's passing.
Thank you.

Your mother was with you when she passed. She's what really woke you up.

[Katherine]

What a story, it's funny where your brain takes you.

Clara is a lovely name, reminds me of Heidi.

[Mist 1]

I have to call my mom.

[Catheroo]

Ali, I'm so sorry. I hope it helped you to write about this memory.

I truly believe your mother was saying good-bye to you, seconds before you awoke.

Be well.

[barb]

:-) that was sweet Ali

[newwavegurly]

Every phone conversation with my Mom ends with I love you.

[The CEO]

I lost both of my parents. I know where you're coming from.

{{{Alison}}}

Thank you.

[meredith]

I believe parting souls have a way of touching their loved ones as your mom did you. When my dad died last month, I had gone home from the hospital to take a shower, and well lingering there under the hot water, all of a sudden I just knew that he was gone. And then the phone rang...

[meredith]

"while" lingering

[coldbear]

Prends soin de toi.

[Aimee]

OH, Alison. I so know how this feels. I, too, woke up the moment my mother passed. Straight away in my bed, scared beyond belief. I just knew. The connection btwn mother and daughter is that strong. The little things that can conjure up memories is astounding.

Thank you for sharing this memory with us...

((hugs))
Aimee

[Cover Your Mouth]

Thanks for sharing this. Tender and beautifully written.

[AlisonM]

So touching, Alison. I think you were much better off not trying to video blog about this. A bond like that with your mother must have been a wonderful thing.

[booby gonzales]

i read this twice. thank you for helping me to cry. i mean it. i need it. i hope you cried too while writing this.

now i know what happened to you ("na-unsa ka oi?") before the video blog.

CL still appears to me occasionally in dreams; i wake up having to remind myself that she has already passed through this world. it just doesn't make sense sometimes.

can i give you a big cyber hug?
ah, let the tears roll.

by the way, it's a beautiful piece.

[rebecca]

i loved this entry. thank you for writing it.
this weekend, we spent honoring the memory of H's father who passed 20 yrs ago (we had dinners, met at the gravesite, and went to a pub). in preparing for this weekend, i thought - this is weird...but it wasn't, and i'm glad i was a part of it.

[Anne]

I probably won't be there when my dad dies and my mother has told me that my presence is not wanted or needed. At least you never experienced that from your family.

[Anne]

ps I'll remember to NEVER make you mulled wine and then feed you dinner! lol

[Heimo]

this story really moved me - made me think to call my mother (86) more regularly - Oleron seems to be rather fateful to you - I wonder how many people have places to be their personal 'Oleron` crossroads. - Mulled Wine = Gluehwein - all Nuremberg seems in this time before Christmas full of Gluehwein sellers - on every corner on Christkindlmarkt..