Our mom gave us very little in the skills we needed to become normal adults in a productive society, but as she always said, who wants to be normal? She did not teach us to balance a checkbook, or how to shop for a family of five, or to pick a life path and stick with it. Instead, she taught us that bedsheets and dining room chairs make excellent forts; that empty oatmeal cartons are wonderful movie cameras, that basements are for growing imagination and backyards for exploring worlds. She taught us that good food is made with butter and love, to try a little of everything, that the majority is not always correct, and that challenges are adventures in disguise. She taught us to take pride in our heritage, to take our time, and that we’ll always get where we’re going no matter what route we take. She taught us herself.
Our mom protested vehemently that she never had a favorite among her children, yet anyone who knew her could easily tell who her favorite was. Steve was her favorite adventurer, fearlessly exploring the world through sailing or comedy or music, reveling in the journey more than the destination. Michael, was her favorite seeker, excellent teacher and gentle guide along the path of the body, the spirit and the earth. Jason, her favorite intellect, the voice of logic, strong, kind and steady, generous of spirit and expansive of heart. And me, her favorite artistic soul, impassioned, challenging, and stubbornly creative. But each of these traits that our mother was so proud of are also the very things she planted in each of us herself: the traveler, the teacher, the historian, the artist. She gave each of us herself in the way only a parent can give of themselves to a child; she awakened each of us to the music in his or her own soul, and taught us the melody of ourselves.
We will miss her in our lives—we already do. We miss her smell, we miss her voice, we miss her breaking our plates, rearranging our kitchens, telling us stories so long and winding the point winds up on another continent. We will miss her wrapping up stuff she doesn’t want any more, calling it a family heirloom and giving it to us for Christmas. We will miss her Swedish pancakes, her mom-spit on dirty faces, her mugs, her smelly dogs, her white knuckle driving, her runaway train arguments, her hugs, her candles – especially the candles. But most of all, we miss our mom.
She is our first address, our first food, our starting point up Maslow's hierarchy. She is responsible for half of our genetic make-up, half of our inherited shame and half of our promise. She is and always will be our first home.
To take a page from Norse mythology, let this day be remembered for Nancy with the laughing face, slain by mistletoe and mischief, on her burning funeral ship while the Gods weep on the strand...
--Susie Kahlich (daughter)
