The Mirror
Dad gave me the antique mirror in the photo a long time ago and it’s been hanging on our wall by the front door ever since. I have always appreciated antiques and family history, so like quite a few other family things, the mirror came to me. It’s an oval mirror about 20 inches tall by 14 inches wide, the frame is made from reddish-brown walnut with a rich, well-worn, patina. It has pencil sized holes, one on each side, showing that it was once attached into a frame and was part of a long-separated larger piece of furniture. When whole and new in the mid 1800’s, it was a tilting mirror over a lady’s vanity.
When Dad gave it to me, he mumbled quickly that it was Jo’s mirror. I added the photo of Jo in the small frame years after Dad died in 2013. Jo is short for Josephine, my mother, who died when she was 38 years old on Christmas day of 1960 when I was 5 years old. She died of pulmonary hypertension, a difficult disease to treat today and one with no treatments back in 1960. I was so young when she passed that I don’t have many memories of her. I do remember being with her under the oxygen tent which helped her breathe while she molded a small yellow duck out of clay for me, or her in a wheelchair by the campfire pit in the backyard. I also remember peering out of my bedroom window while the oxygen tanks were delivered, the noisy loading and unloading, the clanking when the empty cylinders were replaced with new full ones. Even now at 69 years old, I still go back to those same unsettling feelings when I see a truck with oxygen cylinders.
After my dad died, I found the photo of Jo, my mom, standing in front of this very mirror, in some of his things. The photo is now in the small frame within the larger mirror. When I say, “his things”, I really mean in the 6 or 8 large boxes of family papers and photos going back over 150 years; my family saved things for generations.
The photo of my mom was taken in 1942 for my dad to carry with him while he was in the army. His army stint started as a member of the 10th Mountain Ski Troops, that was the division that he hoped to stay in for the remainder of WWII because of his love of skiing and the out-of-doors. That did not happen because Jo had a severe and life-threatening reaction to, I believe, a sulfa drug which resulted in her being close to death. For Dad to get leave to see her (they were now married), he had to accept that he may not be able to return to the 10th Mtn Division. After visiting Mom and seeing that she was recovering, Dad did not get to go back to the Ski Troops but was placed in the 88th Infantry and was sent to the “Forgotten Front” to fight in Italy. For the rest of the war, Dad was in Italy where he saw some of the worst fighting of WWII; it was grinding and bloody. He received a Purple Heart and had many friends killed around him, including his best friend who was killed as he stepped on a land mine. Dad was wounded in the same blast and was with his friend as he died, he gave Dad his wedding ring to give to his wife and the child he would never meet. Dad said he suffered from PTSD; from what I have read about the battles he was in, the death he witnessed and his closeness to his friends who died; it was understandable and well earned.
Dad always mumbled with his head down whenever he spoke about Jo. It was very difficult for him, the loss of his wife, the trauma of war where he lost his best friend and his PTSD from both. He returned home in 1945 from WWII with PTSD, he knew he had PTSD, but treatment for it back then was to pretend you didn’t have it, so he threw himself into work, camping, fishing, and family; he was told to “just move on”. The trauma of losing Jo added to all the other trauma, but he did an amazing job of keeping it all together. When I was in high school, I was the last of his children living at home and things took a turn for the worse when dad lost his YMCA job. His trauma landed hard, he fell apart and attempted suicide with his 38 caliber revolver, thankfully my very supportive and wonderful stepmom, Irene, stopped him. Dad always kept his Colt Police Special pistol in a wooden box along with his Orcas Island Deputy badge. I think because I had seen him with the pistol, Dad wrote me later to tell me that he threw the pistol into the bay at the family cabin. He then pulled himself out the depth of depression; his refuge and way to cope was in helping other people and he found the perfect job for that, managing a landscape crew made up of developmentally disabled people, a job he was incredibly good at. In this position, Dad got to return to his roots, being a camp counselor, a camp director, working outside and truly helping people in a hands-on way. Being a YMCA executive, running the International Program for the Y, was a definite promotion from his old YMCA camp director positions but it wasn’t a good fit for him. Dad needed to work hands-on helping people where he excelled, not as an executive in an executive office.
When I was younger, I didn’t understand anything about death and loss, I always used to think, why didn’t dad do this or do that, or say this or say that, and why couldn’t he cope better? I really didn’t give him a break, but I don’t think these things anymore and now I feel nothing but empathy and love for him. I wonder how well I would have done if my wife died leaving me with three young boys of 5, 8, and 10. I gained this understanding and compassion for Dad in a way I didn’t ask for or want, in fact, if I could trade away all of that understanding to get my wife back I would. Grief and loss are now part of me, too. My wife, Kyle, died of brain cancer, glioblastoma, on November 27th, 2022, at age 60. She made it 3 years and 4 months and had 4 craniotomies, all this she faced with good nature and strength, it was an honor for me to care for her. I am so grateful that we were married for 34 years and raised two wonderful children.
Back to the mirror. As I mentioned, I am the one in the family who often ended up with the family photos and keepsakes. In another box of things, I found envelopes with locks of my mom’s hair. They included locks from when she was a baby, a toddler, and one rather large and jumbled “lock” from when she was 4, with a note about how Jo had “cut it off herself”.
I also found 3 locks of hair, each tied with a bow, in an envelope dated Nov 1960, about a month before she died. One of these 3 locks is in the small frame within the mirror. Mom would have known by Nov of 1960 that she was dying soon. The handwriting with every lock of hair belongs to Jo’s mom, Ludella Goodspeed, my grandmother and one of the most loving people I have ever known. I smile whenever I think of Grandma Goodspeed and am so grateful to have been loved by her. The locks were cut when my mother and her mother knew they had only a short time together. Each lock was carefully tied with a ribbon bow, one for each of her three small boys. Mother and daughter tied these bows on the locks like a seed to plant for a memory. I can only imagine how difficult those conversations were. When Kyle and I had those heartbreaking conversations as she was approaching her death, our kids had become fine adults. Our worries were about how each other would fare and the family life events each would miss. My mom knew she was leaving behind three small children without her love and guidance, she knew that she would not be able to be present for them and all the events of their lives.
Tangible things, like the mirror, the locks of hair and the photograph help me reflect on the intangibles of love and loss. I am grateful for my relationship with those no longer physically present. I see myself reflected in the story whenever I look in the mirror, and now, I have a grandson who I can introduce to his reflections, and I am very grateful.
Brian, December 2024.
Dad gave me the antique mirror in the photo a long time ago and it’s been hanging on our wall by the front door ever since. I have always appreciated antiques and family history, so like quite a few other family things, the mirror came to me. It’s an oval mirror about 20 inches tall by 14 inches wide, the frame is made from reddish-brown walnut with a rich, well-worn, patina. It has pencil sized holes, one on each side, showing that it was once attached into a frame and was part of a long-separated larger piece of furniture. When whole and new in the mid 1800’s, it was a tilting mirror over a lady’s vanity.
When Dad gave it to me, he mumbled quickly that it was Jo’s mirror. I added the photo of Jo in the small frame years after Dad died in 2013. Jo is short for Josephine, my mother, who died when she was 38 years old on Christmas day of 1960 when I was 5 years old. She died of pulmonary hypertension, a difficult disease to treat today and one with no treatments back in 1960. I was so young when she passed that I don’t have many memories of her. I do remember being with her under the oxygen tent which helped her breathe while she molded a small yellow duck out of clay for me, or her in a wheelchair by the campfire pit in the backyard. I also remember peering out of my bedroom window while the oxygen tanks were delivered, the noisy loading and unloading, the clanking when the empty cylinders were replaced with new full ones. Even now at 69 years old, I still go back to those same unsettling feelings when I see a truck with oxygen cylinders.
After my dad died, I found the photo of Jo, my mom, standing in front of this very mirror, in some of his things. The photo is now in the small frame within the larger mirror. When I say, “his things”, I really mean in the 6 or 8 large boxes of family papers and photos going back over 150 years; my family saved things for generations.
The photo of my mom was taken in 1942 for my dad to carry with him while he was in the army. His army stint started as a member of the 10th Mountain Ski Troops, that was the division that he hoped to stay in for the remainder of WWII because of his love of skiing and the out-of-doors. That did not happen because Jo had a severe and life-threatening reaction to, I believe, a sulfa drug which resulted in her being close to death. For Dad to get leave to see her (they were now married), he had to accept that he may not be able to return to the 10th Mtn Division. After visiting Mom and seeing that she was recovering, Dad did not get to go back to the Ski Troops but was placed in the 88th Infantry and was sent to the “Forgotten Front” to fight in Italy. For the rest of the war, Dad was in Italy where he saw some of the worst fighting of WWII; it was grinding and bloody. He received a Purple Heart and had many friends killed around him, including his best friend who was killed as he stepped on a land mine. Dad was wounded in the same blast and was with his friend as he died, he gave Dad his wedding ring to give to his wife and the child he would never meet. Dad said he suffered from PTSD; from what I have read about the battles he was in, the death he witnessed and his closeness to his friends who died; it was understandable and well earned.
Dad always mumbled with his head down whenever he spoke about Jo. It was very difficult for him, the loss of his wife, the trauma of war where he lost his best friend and his PTSD from both. He returned home in 1945 from WWII with PTSD, he knew he had PTSD, but treatment for it back then was to pretend you didn’t have it, so he threw himself into work, camping, fishing, and family; he was told to “just move on”. The trauma of losing Jo added to all the other trauma, but he did an amazing job of keeping it all together. When I was in high school, I was the last of his children living at home and things took a turn for the worse when dad lost his YMCA job. His trauma landed hard, he fell apart and attempted suicide with his 38 caliber revolver, thankfully my very supportive and wonderful stepmom, Irene, stopped him. Dad always kept his Colt Police Special pistol in a wooden box along with his Orcas Island Deputy badge. I think because I had seen him with the pistol, Dad wrote me later to tell me that he threw the pistol into the bay at the family cabin. He then pulled himself out the depth of depression; his refuge and way to cope was in helping other people and he found the perfect job for that, managing a landscape crew made up of developmentally disabled people, a job he was incredibly good at. In this position, Dad got to return to his roots, being a camp counselor, a camp director, working outside and truly helping people in a hands-on way. Being a YMCA executive, running the International Program for the Y, was a definite promotion from his old YMCA camp director positions but it wasn’t a good fit for him. Dad needed to work hands-on helping people where he excelled, not as an executive in an executive office.
When I was younger, I didn’t understand anything about death and loss, I always used to think, why didn’t dad do this or do that, or say this or say that, and why couldn’t he cope better? I really didn’t give him a break, but I don’t think these things anymore and now I feel nothing but empathy and love for him. I wonder how well I would have done if my wife died leaving me with three young boys of 5, 8, and 10. I gained this understanding and compassion for Dad in a way I didn’t ask for or want, in fact, if I could trade away all of that understanding to get my wife back I would. Grief and loss are now part of me, too. My wife, Kyle, died of brain cancer, glioblastoma, on November 27th, 2022, at age 60. She made it 3 years and 4 months and had 4 craniotomies, all this she faced with good nature and strength, it was an honor for me to care for her. I am so grateful that we were married for 34 years and raised two wonderful children.
Back to the mirror. As I mentioned, I am the one in the family who often ended up with the family photos and keepsakes. In another box of things, I found envelopes with locks of my mom’s hair. They included locks from when she was a baby, a toddler, and one rather large and jumbled “lock” from when she was 4, with a note about how Jo had “cut it off herself”.
I also found 3 locks of hair, each tied with a bow, in an envelope dated Nov 1960, about a month before she died. One of these 3 locks is in the small frame within the mirror. Mom would have known by Nov of 1960 that she was dying soon. The handwriting with every lock of hair belongs to Jo’s mom, Ludella Goodspeed, my grandmother and one of the most loving people I have ever known. I smile whenever I think of Grandma Goodspeed and am so grateful to have been loved by her. The locks were cut when my mother and her mother knew they had only a short time together. Each lock was carefully tied with a ribbon bow, one for each of her three small boys. Mother and daughter tied these bows on the locks like a seed to plant for a memory. I can only imagine how difficult those conversations were. When Kyle and I had those heartbreaking conversations as she was approaching her death, our kids had become fine adults. Our worries were about how each other would fare and the family life events each would miss. My mom knew she was leaving behind three small children without her love and guidance, she knew that she would not be able to be present for them and all the events of their lives.
Tangible things, like the mirror, the locks of hair and the photograph help me reflect on the intangibles of love and loss. I am grateful for my relationship with those no longer physically present. I see myself reflected in the story whenever I look in the mirror, and now, I have a grandson who I can introduce to his reflections, and I am very grateful.
Brian, December 2024.
