The Things We Take With Us And What We Leave Behind

The most memorable and significant trips in my life have been those from which there were many takeaways, whether they were fond memories of warm times with loved ones, new experiences tried and shared, delicious meals savored, or striking photographs documenting interesting, beautiful or unusual places visited.

We had many, many of these moments on our recent trip to Colorado, including seeing my son Justin perform with the talented 2012 company of Rocky Mountain Repertory Theater, which was the initial impetus for our journey.

This visit was notable, though, not just for what we brought home with us from Colorado, but also, for something very special we left behind.

We will remember so much of what we took away from nearly a week in Grand Lake … the number of stars you can see on a summer night more than a mile and a half above sea level, the look of accomplishment on your niece’s face when she climbs a rock higher than she’s ever seen before, the thrill of spotting a moose and her calf in the forest, longhorn sheep staking their long-held claim to the land you have just discovered, and countless elk grazing happily at the bottom of a mountain.

We’ll remember the rain that chilled us while we were out on horseback, and the smiles that warmed us pretty much everywhere else we went.  The beautiful voices we heard in a regional theater graced with superior talent and unparalleled hometown support.  The locally brewed beer, pulled pork, tequila shots, and chili verde that makes your insides hum.  The way your stomach lurches just a bit as you drive close to the edge of the twisting, narrow dirt road through the mountains.

The mountains. 

The Rocky Mountains. 

Our other reason for gathering as a family these past few days at the end of July. 

For longer than any of us can remember, the Rocky Mountains are where my mother wanted her physical remains to spend eternity after she passed on.  It was a desire she expressed over and over to pretty much anyone who was in a position to do anything about it.  Although truth be told, she was slightly more partial to the Canadian side than the lower 48.

Still, with Justin spending the summer at Rocky Mountain Rep in Grand Lake, at the western entrance to Rocky Mountain National Park, this was our best opportunity to gather the Appollo siblings, spouses and offspring, and carry out Mom’s final wish.  Colorado it would be.

And Colorado it was.

On our last full day together this past Sunday morning, the family gathered for a caravan to the park.  As Mom was in our car, she got serenaded with show tunes on the way up to Medicine Bow, an area my sister-in-law Karen suggested after their visit the day before. 

We hiked to a spot rimmed with snow-touched peaks, overlooking a deep valley dotted with the sparse shrubbery and wildflowers that will grow above tree level.  Only the scrappiest and most tenacious thrive here.  If you knew my mom, you’d know just how appropriate it was.

We shared our thoughts about the moment, some profound, some profoundly funny, and each of us took a turn scattering Mom’s ashes in a place we know she would have loved and will be content forever.  We cried.  We hugged.  We laughed.  And most importantly, we were together.  My brother, his wife and their children.  Me, my husband, and mine.  Also with us -- if not physically -- my mom’s friends and all of our extended family, so many of whom had shared their blessings on our journey.  We felt your presence that day, and it made it that much more special to know you were with us in spirit.

We took so many wonderful things away with us from our time in Grand Lake. And yet we left something -- someone -- precious and irreplaceable behind.

Later that afternoon, we gathered once again, this time, to enjoy more wonderful entertainment from the singers, dancers and actors at RMRT.  To be reminded of the magic that can happen when passion, talent and hard work collide.  To cheer, applaud, smile, and be proud.  To feel. To live. To celebrate life.

For while we left her physical remains behind on those mountains, we know that Mom is, and always will be, with us in our hearts and our souls.  And it is the absolute and utter certainty of that which is, I’m sure, the BEST thing each of us has carried home from Grand Lake.

My Unforgettable Mother

Two years ago this evening, I got the call from the hospital that my mom had died.  It wasn’t unexpected, although the beginning of her precipitous slide surely had been.  Unfortunately, as things progressed, it was no longer an issue of “if” but “when”. 

The only real question was whether my mom would leave us on Christmas or wait until the following day. 

Before you get overly emotional, you should know that we are Jewish and do not celebrate Christmas, so this is less fraught with symbolism and significance than it otherwise might be.  That said, after we had kept our vigil and had family visit throughout the day, I did mention to the doctors that if they could keep her comfortable and prolong things to even a minute past midnight, that would probably be preferable to me over having her die on Christmas, when each year, the calendar would blink a big red and green reminder that TODAY WAS THE DAY.

Well, if you knew my mother, you would know that Christmas it was.  Of course.  Sally Appollo did not know from subtle.  She *had* to go on Christmas.  In case we’d forget.

Last year, the first anniversary of her death, was a bit difficult.  The tears would come without me realizing or knowing exactly why.  Although, of course, I knew exactly why.  As if I could forget.

That day was made a bit easier knowing we were about to put my daughter Jordan on a plane for her Birthright visit to Israel … an occasion to celebrate, if ever there was one.  All of us felt as if there would be an extra passenger on board: a weightless guardian angel named Grandma.

And though I hate to succumb to cliché, time really does heal.  In the past year, we laid my mom to rest in the way she had requested, scattering her ashes in the Rocky Mountains.  I feel that she and I are at peace.  She resides amid the grandeur and glory of this gorgeous mountain range, and I have become comfortable with both her absence from and presence in my life.

She has challenged my skepticism by visiting me through two psychics, John Edward and Theresa Caputo.  And while I can’t go so far as to say I am a true believer, I did find both experiences at once soothing and cathartic. 

Which brings us to today, anniversary number two.  We decided, true to our Jewish roots, to see a movie and go out for Chinese food.  We also decided, true to our musical theater-loving roots, to see Les Miserables.  We settled into our seats, sat through the previews, and eagerly anticipated the start of the movie.  We thrilled to the opening scene, saw Jean Valjean be granted his freedom, steal the bishop’s silver, begin to repent and … BOOM, the screen went dark.

They eventually got it going again and BOOM -- it happened again!

Mom??

I’m sure. 

TWICE.  In case we weren’t sure the first time.  In case we’d forget.

Third time’s a charm, I suppose, and when they started the film again, it ran all the way through.  Brilliantly and magnificently.  Without a dry eye in the house.

And with some of us possibly crying for more than just the film.

We came back home before going out to dinner.  I poured a glass of wine and started to straighten up a messy pile of papers in the kitchen.  You know, the one with my mom’s yahrzeit postcard from my synagogue in it.

My mom died on the 18th day of the Hebrew month of Tevet.  Christmas day in 2010.  This year?  New Year’s Eve.  New Year’s Eve!!   

Really, Sal??!

As if we would forget.

My Mom's Azalea

Yesterday, I returned from spending a wonderful four-day visit with my daughter at the University of Miami.  It was a blessing for both of us.  After months away from home with no physical contact between us, she needed her mom.  And I needed to be needed.  We did a lot of nothing special except spending time together, which is really the most special thing of all, and the visit filled us both up and helped get her ready for the final push to the end of this spring semester, the final one of her first year away.

It brought me back a long way, to the spring of my sophomore year, my first at Cornell University, where I landed as a transfer student in the middle of a long, cold, snowy winter … the very first I was to spend on my own away from home.  Ithaca was always beautiful, but it could be brutal, and the thaw came late that year.  Back on Long Island, the gardens were in bloom, especially the one in the front of my house that my mom had planned and planted herself with a beautiful assortment of evergreens and dwarf shrubs.

Perhaps the most striking plant in the garden was a tremendous lilac azalea, its large soft purple flowers opening like trumpets to announce the annual changing of the seasonal guard from winter to spring.

That spring, a Polaroid of the azalea came enclosed in a letter to me at school (which knowing my mother, almost surely contained an original poem, as well).  It soothed my soul in the same way I hope my visit touched Jordan’s … it was a needed glimpse of home toward the end of a long journey.  The regal plant reminded me of where my own roots were, in that garden back home on Long Island.

Many years later, the bush got so large it needed thinning.  Mom dug up a part and asked if I’d like to add it to my own home garden.  Yes, I would.  And I did.  I will always remember the happiness and comfort it brought me seeing that plant, even in a photograph, and I would love to have it grace my own landscape.

I transplanted it two summers ago, just about six months before my mother passed away.  It’s taken firm root here now, growing, blossoming and linking me even more firmly to my past through its presence.

Which made it all the more fitting that it is what greeted me when I pulled into my driveway after returning from my visit with Jordan … my own Azalea x ‘Robles’ 'Autumn Lilac'.  In glorious bloom.  The plant and its beauty live on, continuing to tie our family together and link one generation to the next.

Roots.  They’re extraordinary things.