A Toast to Mari, Mom of East Beach

“Don’t worry. Mommy will be normal tomorrow,” I told my kids as we rushed out the door at 6:15 p.m. for a 6:00 p.m. dance class.
“But we haven’t eaten yet,” the younger one wailed from the backseat.
After throwing the car in park, stubbing my toe on the steps, and spilling my coffee all over my tank top, I snatched a few Smucker’s frozen P B &J’s, slammed the door and we were on our way.
I’m sure most mothers use the ten-minute drive to sing-along to Taylor Swift songs with their kids or make up cute little rhymes for all the street signs. Not me. Nope. I used the drive to reflect on the previous two hours and determined, without a doubt, that I might be the worst mother to have ever lived.
In just 120 minutes I had threatened to give the dog away to someone who’d actually love and take care of him, bribed my kids with Tootsie Pops to change their clothes when yelling at them didn’t work, and said some really nasty things to my printer (a machine that can push my buttons much better than I can manage to push its LCD glowing ones). My oldest daughter, who always likes to eavesdrop on my conversations (apparently even those I have with inanimate objects made of plastic and wire), told me she could quite possibly be scarred for life by what she heard. So I also had to give her a quarter for the therapy jar.
Later that night, once the kids were in bed, my husband found me hiding under my covers, sobbing into my pillow, a puddle of failure and self-doubt.
“So, what do want to do for Mother’s Day?” he asked me, as I cried even harder. He finally left me alone, guessing correctly that there wasn’t really much he could say to make me feel better. But something suddenly made me dry my eyes and I thought of the Beatles lyrics:

When I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom
Let it be

Paul McCartney wrote the song about his mother who died when he was fourteen. But the “Mary” that I thought about was our friends’ mom, Mari, who died only a few short weeks ago. See, Mari would have told me not to “let it be” exactly, but to get over my ridiculous self and stop complaining about something I can’t possibly change.
Mari’s son, Bowen, said it best in his eulogy: “Mom lived by her own set of rules, for which she rarely apologized. She rarely minced words; you pretty much knew exactly where you stood at any given time. ‘Why would I apologize for something I know I’m going to do again?’ she’d say. ‘You get up. You live for today, you plan for tomorrow. No excuses, no whining . . . ‘ And this was her approach nearly all her life . . . even after she found out she would not be long for this world.”
Reverend Culpepper was at Mari’s service that day too, talking about rooms – those we make here on earth and the kind we hope to make for ourselves one day in heaven. Mari filled her house on East Beach with family photographs, treasures from all her travels and gifts found from the sea. It was lived in, laid-back, comfortable, and unforgettable, just like its owner. I have no doubt the walls that surround Mari now are made of light and love, of everything good she has given and received during her lifetime.
I know when I think of Mari, I think of that house on Eleventh Street. The porch we would sit on was much more than just a place to rest; it was an open invitation for anything you needed it to be. And the woman who sat there and invited you in never asked for anything in return. Well, except for you to not let the dogs out.
I think Mari was like a surrogate mom to all of David and Bowen’s friends that grew up on the island, my husband included. She was someone who kept the front door unlocked, would always listen, and have something funny to say or a story to tell.
I miss her. When I drive by East Beach, it actually feels as if something has permanently been torn from the earth, like the roots of an old oak tree, leaving a huge empty space, even though everything still looks intact. There are always holes that we’re going to step in because we don’t see them coming, but there are also the holes that are created when the earth gives way underneath us when we lose someone we love. It is hard to imagine that they could still feel as empty as when we first fall into them, but there are now vacant spots where something real, something earthy, something incredibly special used to live and never will again.
This Mother’s Day I know what I want to do. I want to celebrate Mari, Mother of East Beach, and make a promise to myself to always remember the things she taught us: that normal is just a word, not a state of mind, and that perfection is only a concept, because reality is what we do with what we’ve got.
So I’ll toast Mari, knowing she’s probably enjoying a big old Scotch with the big guy upstairs, looking down on the home she built here on earth with love and friendship, filled with mountains of memories, and a steady stream of children and grandchildren banging the screen door on their way in. I’m betting that the new home she has built for herself up there fits her well now that she’s arrived. I’m sure there are no empty spaces or holes because, like the house on Eleventh Street, she has already filled it up with absolute joy.