The Oppenheimer Report 5/13/19

Me with Mom (Grampy in the background)

Yesterday was Mother’s Day, and I posted a photo on Facebook of me and my mom when I was about two or three. The photograph was taken at our summer cottage near Crystal Beach on the north shore of Lake Erie, at the house I sold shortly after my mom died in 2011. I should have sold the house long before she died, but held onto it for all the wrong reasons. I felt I could not sell my mom’s summer home, in case she might want to visit it again. Mostly, I suppose, I was in denial that I would never again be able to recreate those fabled family gatherings, full of laughter and barbecues, and maybe sometimes a little too much booze. I’m not sure when it was purchased, but her father bought it when there were few other houses on the beach, perhaps in the early 1930s.  I kept deluding myself that the house still meant something to her; it was, after all, such an important meeting place for our family, and a house where we gathered from our distant homes to reunite.  In fact, for the last five years of her life, Mom suffered from a degenerative illness known as Lewy Body dementia, and she most likely did not know the house even existed. It was on an acre of waterfront land and was expensive to maintain. I finally let it go.  

As the picture suggests, life was good back then, so good in fact, that I’d say most of my happiest memories occurred in that old beach house. I wrote four or five songs about the experience, and recently recorded one of them, “Grampy’s House”, about the feeling that I have not been in sync with the passage of time. It is about taking a walk on the beach near that property, shortly before I was about to sell it, and describes the haunting regret; the feeling that time was just rolling over me like a bulldozer. When I sold the house, I went in to clear out the chattels that were not included in the sale, and stuck in the back of a bedroom closet I found old paintings my mom had made as a young art student. Everywhere there were mementos of the distant past; trinkets, linens, furniture that I could not keep, and photographs. While it made me sad to let most of the contents go, the memory of that house conjures up a thousand happy memories, and for this I am thankful. Besides, “you can’t take it with you.”

I remember my first boat, a tiny little red wooden boat that my grandfather gave to me when I was the little boy in the above-mentioned photo. It was barely large enough for a little boy to sit in. I’ve loved boats and water ever since the day I first floated around in that one. I remember Bassett’s Farm (a.k.a. Longmeadow Farm) near Crystal Beach, where Mom and Dad kept their horses in the summer. I remember the sound of the clunky old water pump that delivered water to the barn. I recall the omnipresent smells of livestock, manure, and hay, and some of the people who ran the farm, including old Mr. Bassett, the owner. I remember the sound of cicadas in the hot, humid nights, walks to Windmill Point to explore the ruins of that spooky old windmill, and the bellow of the old foghorn coming from the Point Abino Lighthouse. Most of all, I remember my parents when they were young and healthy, and when we all had so much life ahead of us.

One of the songs I began to write ten years ago, then shelved until recently, is a song about an old photograph of my mom sitting on a horse in Palm Springs, and the working title of the song is “Laughing”. There is a line which reads: “wherein lies the truth behind the flash of a camera smile?” The photograph was taken in the late fifties, shortly after my thirteen-year-old sister Joanne was hit and killed by a truck as she ran across the street. The song is about loss, and how we deal with it. Appropriately, it is unfinished, because at 63, I’m still trying to figure it all out. My mom was so many things to so many people. She was a volunteer at Buffalo Children’s Hospital, she sat on many boards, was a generous supporter of local charities, she ran a large house, and raised a family. While she came from privilege, she was full of love and she gave it freely to anyone who was receptive. Those who knew her well knew were aware of her accomplishments, but she was also a complicated, creative person, who had endured formidable heartache in her life. It took me a long time to realize what an amazing woman she was.

I can’t slow down the torrent which is time. One minute, I’m a three-year-old kid, safe and happy in my mother’s arms. Before I knew it, sixty years have passed and I’m lost and feeling like I’ve been left at the starting gate. Today, beach houses, long-gone friends, pets, old boats, cars, celebrations, memories, and yellowed photographs, are all swirling around in my head like those spinning newspapers you see in the movies to connote the passage of time. Sometimes, I get a bit overwhelmed, especially on a damp, cold, gloomy Monday such as this one. My mom was many good things, but most of all, she loved me and cared for me unconditionally. For this I am thankful. I love her and I miss her dearly, and I owe it to her memory to do my best  to follow her example.  

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2019 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED