5 Extra Memoir Excerpts (page 2 of 2)

MUM – THE LAST WORD
By Ernie Jackson

After what seemed too short a time I accepted there was nothing else I could do at the hospital, so we took the short, somber, drive to where mum lived. It was a small apartment in a block of about 40 at an assisted-living complex. The age of most of the occupants indicated that no one would be living here very long.

Even so, on the short walk from the car to her plain blue front door, we were approached by two separate elderly neighbors who inquired how Irene was and when she'd be coming home. Although our demeanor probably indicated the hopelessness of the situation, I replied as optimistically as I could.

Mum's tiny apartment was on the ground floor and, as we entered, the smell of her perfume were prevalent, but the warm greeting we had always enjoyed was, of course, not there. It was slightly musty so we drew the curtains and opened the window, and it was soon as fresh as ever. The designs and colors of the curtains complimented the small lounge suite, and the whole place was snug and comfortable, as it had always been. A small wall clock ticked away, seemingly louder than ever in this timeless space. Many family photos were displayed on her sideboard, with her grandkids and me taking pride of place. Who would cherish these photos now? I thought.

Since we had to prepare for the inevitable, I searched through her personal papers and documents in the drawers of the highly polished bureau. Eventually, I came across a full obituary that my mother had prepared for this sad day. Among other items, she had listed all the mourners she wanted at her funeral and the last two lines said this:

“And if my son Ernie can find the time to come off the golf course, I would like him to come, too.”

And I smiled.

—Ernie Jackson was a British bobby for 27 years and never wrote anything more than a police report. At age 73, he wrote and self-published his life story, “Ernie Who…?” Meet him www.erniewho.com.

THE SEED OF MY SOUL
By Pat Laster

September 1, 1939. I went to school as usual, then was sent home to gather my two younger brothers and say goodbye to our parents, as war seemed inevitable. Chamberlain had returned from Germany after meeting Hitler, and the news was not good. My dear mother made me promise to take care of my brothers, aged 10 and 12. We all went to the railroad station and said goodbye, not knowing whether we would ever see our parents again. There were lots of tears and fears. We were not told where we would be going. All the children were crying and scared. War had not been declared yet and, of course, we were all hoping that peace would win out.

We were allowed to bring one little knapsack apiece containing our clothes, gas mask and rations. We were called the London Evacuees, and we were a poor sad lot.

--Pat Laster, 83, teaches yoga in Atlanta and on board Crystal Cruises. Despite a long life of introspection and meditation, she had never realized where her life's calling originated until she wrote this.

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