Sometimes the only way out is through. (It was either Winston Churchill or Rodney Atkins offered the world this gem of wisdom, I forget which.) Taken as a kernel of corncob folk wisdom, I suppose you could do worse. Especially if the hell you’re going through is a combination of coronavirus-induced cabin fever and a self-imposed frog-list deadline to clear out two colossal boxes of parental paperwork.
I may have mentioned before that my darling Mama never met an animal welfare charity she didn’t like on first sight. Wild beasts, alley cats, made no difference. And the habitat and policies needed globally to help protect the creatures and their environment came a very close second.
Before the mini-strokes began nibbling at her sense of order and purpose, she kept good records of the donations she sent. $20 here, $35 there, always within her means, spread thoughtfully through the year. The charities never forgot that she never forgot them. She had enough calendars to stock the cubicles of my entire office. (I know, because I’d bring in stacks of them every November, and only one or two little pocket diaries would remain on January 2nd.) And tote bags, and water bottles, and address labels, and greeting cards. Even after she could no longer send checks, they sent polite reminders. Frequently.
Playing catch up
I kept up with a few, the ones I knew she had loved the longest, but mostly the envelopes piled in baskets and bins, multiple 5″ thick stacks of guilt. But then, this month, the government’s coronavirus stimulus check dropped in her bank account. After talking it through with her (more extended hollering through the adult family home’s screen door), we decided I would use a portion of her windfall to do good for others. Using the last donations she wrote herself back in 2017 as a baseline, I would clear the stack of envelopes, sending money she didn’t absolutely need to organizations that absolutely did.
I don’t think I’m exaggerating if I say there were 40 pounds of paper to paw through to reach the bottom of the last box of “Please Give” envelopes.
But after two solid days of excavation, a couple of paper cuts (until I found a fruit knife to serve as a letter opener), and careful comparison of postmark dates, I got there. Fourteen favorite charities, over the next three months, will find that my mother did indeed remember them, even if she could no longer write her name on the checks. As the “Thank you for renewing your membership” cards roll in, I’ll make a little collage of love we can pin up in her bedroom.
And I’ll hope my colleagues will still need calendars come December, even if they’re still working from home and not in a cubicle.
Pingback: Good deeds, a year later | Art for Art's Sake Press