My mom’s career as an interior decorator/designer started humbly enough when she answered an ad for a seamstress in the workshop of a prestigious interior design firm. She had always been nimble with a needle and for years had done piece work at home in the sewing room she fashioned out of our enclosed porch. She learned her craft at the knee of her mother who was a milliner who owned and operated her own shop in the 1910’s and 20’s, thanks to a determined spirit and the full-throated support of my grandfather.
When Audrey was hired by the family-owned design firm in 1948, they were well known throughout the area for the quality of their handmade French-pleat draperies. For my mom, it was like a duck to water. She often brought the work home to complete on her own worktable, and she was meticulous in her craft. Her ruler was in constant use as she made sure that every pleat, every fold, every stitch, and every drapery hook was perfectly placed.
And her handiwork was not just limited to sewing; she had learned the use of tools from her dad. She could fix a lamp, perform simple carpentry, reupholster the cushion on a dining room chair, replace the washer in the drippy faucet, install a traverse rod, hang wallpaper, paint the interior of the house … well, you name it. Yep, she could wield a hammer, a screwdriver, a drill, a level, a crescent wrench, a pair of pliers, or a paint brush.
Speaking of paint, she had another ability that was quite amazing; in this she was an outlier, and it had to do with color. She could look at the floral print on someone’s sofa, and later instruct the clerk at the paint store what to add to the white paint base to create that same color. Add a drop of yellow, or two drops of burnt umber, or magenta, or whatever, and Voila! A perfect match.
It did not take long for the husband-wife team who employed her to recognize her practical skill set, her demand for excellence, her work ethic, her total reliability, and her outgoing and gracious demeanor. Soon enough she was transferred to the sales force; and over the next 30-plus years she lovingly improved the homes and offices of a large, loyal, and diverse clientele. When our dad died without much in the way of assets, Audrey was not left bereft. She was sixty-seven years old. She was a professional. She could earn a buck. Which she did, well into her eighties.
She finally stopped working, but she didn’t stop going. It seemed as if she would go on forever, and at high speed. She was just a little spit of a thing, about five-two and 110 pounds, but her personality was huge. Her enthusiasm, her independence, and her curiosity drove her life.
And her stubbornness! When she wanted to visit our family, she refused to allow me to pick her up. Instead, she walked to the corner by her apartment building in San Dimas and boarded a bus to El Monte, where she transferred to a bus bound for Los Angeles. From the downtown bus depot, she walked four or five blocks through Skid Row to board a bus to Chatsworth, which is in the northwest corner of the San Fernando Valley. She caught the bus to Simi Valley where she hopped on the local transit that loops around the town, debarking at the Simi Civic Center. She walked about half-a-mile and showed up on our doorstep. It took four or five hours and five buses to cover the sixty miles, and all the while she was shouldering her bright red canvas duffel bag. She was eighty-eight years old the last time she embarked on this adventure.
About that time, she suffered a bout of pneumonia, which did slow her down. Over the next three or four years she lost more than a step. She was losing her eyesight and was diagnosed with macular degeneration. Her breathing became labored and she needed to wear a canula and get an oxygen boost at night. Her heart skipped a few beats; it was congestive heart failure. She was also unsteady on her feet; she had taken a few falls.
The year was 1997, Audrey was ninety-three, and my wife made a most perspicacious observation. She said, “Hon, it took her a very long time, but finally your mom got old.”
My brothers and I — and many other members of our clan — pondered the dilemma of Audrey’s failing health. We asked the question that is asked by extended families everywhere. The question that has provoked anguish in grown children all over! The question about end-of-life care for our aging parents!
What are we going to do about Grammy?
To be continued…
Next week: Audrey, Part Three: The Later Years.
Tidings from Tim 