My indirect knowledge of the eldest Shoemaker on Mom’s side is John Grogan Shoemaker, her father, whom I never met, mainly because people died at such a young age just 75 or 80 years ago. I only know of my maternal grandparents through stories that Mom would tell and old photos. The ability to live a longer and more fruitful life has now become the norm, and Mom, Mamacita, Momma Joy, Grams, lived longer than she really wanted to. There were times when she felt like life had passed her by and she was ready to go. But for most recent times, right up until her tragic broken hip incident, she was pretty happy with what had transpired in "the previous three minutes" at her home in Casa Cieneguita. I was amazed at her responses when I would ask her how she felt, as I knew she had been having horribly uncomfortable coughing spells, after which she typically stated that she felt pretty good. I guess that is one of the only blessings, if there is such, of memory loss.
I never knew what to expect when I visited, but each time I greeted her with “Hi, Mamacita!”, she always looked directly at me and said “Hello, Sweety”, without fail, and had that wonderful smile with her eyes lit up and eyebrows raised gently. That was my cue that things were fairly good in Mommy land.
We had some nice discussions at Casa Cieneguita, although I couldn't always decipher what she was saying or what she wanted to say, as her voice trailed off to a faint phrase ending in the hunt for a word that just wouldn't come. I usually suggested what I thought she was trying to say, a word or a phrase, and she always said "yes" and confirmed that it was what she was reaching for. She was so good at covering up for her loss of memory in the earlier years, and it carried forth into her final months.
Mom didn't know where she lived, but she had such good caregivers around her at the two facilities where she stayed in San Miguel, that she always acknowledged that she felt well unless she was coughing or had some real discomfort. When she broke her hip and was waiting in the hospital for surgery, she would have an occasional sharp pain that elicited an expletive. I later asked her if the pain had subsided, and she didn't know what I was talking about. When I explained that the pain had been enough that she had cursed it, she said, "I've never said a bad word in my life!", and then she wanted to know what the word was. I told her I couldn't say it because I was afraid she would wash out my mouth with a bar of soap. She laughed.
Bless her heart. Mom gave spankings that caused us to fake pain and suffering. Otherwise, Dad would get the nod after work, and that was not something to look forward to. She really did wash my mouth out with soap one time, but I don't remember what I said to deserve it. Didn't matter, since it worked for a long time and was obviously more effective than the belt. Thank goodness the soap was only deemed appropriate punishment for bad language.
Mom used to be the best at a lot of things. She read more books than anyone I ever knew and owned a large collection that she had hunted down with a passion and a great sense of accomplishment. She was always the winner or second place finisher, never last, when it came to games that required a vast knowledge of words or facts, like Balderdash. She was an expert at crossword puzzles and Sudoku. I once took my young friend from Mexico to visit her at Brookdale, the facility where she lived in Houston. She and her friend, Ellen, were having a good game of dominoes and invited us to play, whereupon she and Ellen trounced us wickedly and with no visible remorse.
Mom, like some of the rest of us, got a gut full of church and never returned once she left except to bury her husbands. Nonetheless, she believed in a higher power and expressed that in some of her statements from time to time. Enough said.
She was darned good at her jobs and never had to leave her employment except by her own accord. She loved learning. She also loved having her whole family around, even though that usually just meant gatherings at the holidays. Sometimes she was moody, and who knows why. At other times she was a champion for some cause. She called me one day at my office in Houston and told me she wanted the phone number for the American Institute fo Architects, very persistently. When I asked her why, she told me that she had been at an event at the local sports arena and was infuriated that the women were standing in long lines for the toilets, while the men were coming and going freely. She wanted to protest against the designers who had obviously overlooked the needs of women. I told her that the proportional number of facilities in a public building are first designated by the building code, and then by suggestions made by the architects to the developers, who typically opt for the least number required. That didn't take much steam out of her boiler, because she continued to bend my ear for a while. It worked, because I listened and always tried to consider the plight of women from that day forward. Later, the building codes were changed to reflect the greater good. I don't know if she was a strong influence or what she did after our conversation with that regard. I do know that she was a bulldozer operator that day, and I pity whoever she might have run over later.
I got so much closer to her in the last year because I had the chance to spend a good deal of time talking and listening and deciphering her words. She had confusing attempts with words and phrases during our conversations at times, but on odd days made perfect sense for several minutes. For a while, we were able to walk around in the gardens at the facilities where she lived, and she always liked to comment on the beauty of the flowers. Later, it became too hard for her to walk with help, so we just sat outside and chatted.
She was seldom ever negative, mostly just sweet. She was the perfect Mom for me, and I love her dearly and will cherish my memories of her until I am gone myself, or maybe longer if the creek don't rise.
Be comfortable forever now Mom. I shall mourn your passing for a long, long while.
Charlie Robert
