Mom's Lists

Moving to Korea has meant only seeing my parents every 2 years or so.  The miracle of Skype allows us to talk more regularly, and we’ve taken to a weekly conversation together, which is more often than we interacted when we all lived in the same country.  These regular interactions through a screened medium has given me a new window into the characters of my mom and dad and how their relationship works.  I've have been delighted to see the banter between them, and my father’s increasing tendency to introduce random topics the minute he’s bored or can't hear the current conversation.  Or to admire my mother’s quick wit, snapping back one day at my father’s litany of aches with “You suffer easily.”  My kids often listen in, hoping for more of granny’s sass and grandpa’s naughty jokes. I sometimes take notes, imagining the stories I will tell my grandkids about their funny relatives.

But some stories can't wait that long.  

My mom has always stayed home, raising my sister and me while dad worked the 2^nd shift at Oldsmobile. She has always been quite organized and kept a few lists of things to do.  And until a recent skype conversation, I didn’t know that she has gradually moved to maintaining rather more lists.  Something dad said in a recent Skype conversation referred to a list, and when I asked about it, mom fetched a three-ring binder filled with pages of lists.  I insisted upon knowing more. Mom was shy at first, wary of my teasing, but soon was proudly browsing through it, sharing the topics with me while I sat, wide-eyed. She has a list of charities they donate to which is surely helpful at tax-time; a list of magazine subscription renewals so that she is not tricked into renewing too early; lists of repairs for each of their vehicles; a list of how much firewood my dad has cut and sold; a list of photos taken on her film camera; lists of doctor appointments for each of them; a list of dates the lawn has been mowed; lists of dates for their hair cuts; lists of pizzas ordered and from where; lists of dates they’ve lost power during summer or winter storms; and so on.  

Ok, I can kind of understand the purpose of many of these handwritten lists – for record keeping, or as reminders to aging memories.  But still!  I furtively started taking notes, but drew up short when she mentioned another list: the dead people she and dad have known.  Yup.  Apparently this list grows regularly as my parents peruse daily obituary columns in the local paper.  Old classmates, neighbors, co-workers. Into my stunned silence, dad blithely commented “You know, it’s about time someone dies again – it’s been almost a month since we added to that list.”

Recovering from a fit of astonished snorting, I demanded to receive this Book of Lists upon mom’s death.  My sister can get the house and furniture and jewelry and anything else she wants, but I want this book.  It shall be a treasure to pass onto my kids and grandkids, who will surely shake their heads with wonder (if not admiration). Such a strange and interesting woman, they will say.  This is our heritage.

A few days after that conversation, chuckling again over mom’s weird list compulsion, I had a Huge Revelation. Like catching your image in a store mirror and realizing the enormous gap between Who I Think I Am and Who I Actually Am.   While retrieving something from my bedroom closet, which doors double as floor-to-ceiling white boards, BAM. I saw it.  Written in my own hand, across several doors, were…lists. At least a dozen of them: IOU’s to/from the kids; lists of potential blog topics; daily and longer-term to-do lists; a list of passwords; a list of expenses for the community garden; a list of clothing sizes; a list of the fish we’ve seen while snorkeling.   

And yet, that’s not all. On my computer are sticky-noted lists of blog topics, friends’ addresses, TV shows to check out. And on our kitchen cupboards, which doors also double as white boards, are the kids’ exam schedules, groceries we need, meals we’ve planned, important phone numbers, movies friends have recommended.   I have more lists in my phone; on my bedside table; in my purse; on my bulletin board. 

And I've recently been thinking.  You know, it’s kind of hard keeping track of all those lists.  If only I had a central place for them all.  Oh, no.  I am my mother’s daughter after all.