During my mother’s last eighteen months of life I visited her at least once a week at the memory care home. Typically, I would spend about four or five hours with her per visit. Prior to moving into the first care home, on May 1, 2023, Mom lived with my husband and me. She had lived with us for over twenty years.

But during those last couple years, as her mind drifted off into the hell that is dementia, I tried soothing’s Mom’s fears—the fear and terror that comes with forgetting one’s life—by telling her stories about that life. During our weekly visits, she would often ask me to tell her a story.

Mom passed away last Thursday, October 24, 2024. In leu of a traditional obit, I thought I’d retell one of the stories I often told Mom.

Once upon a time there was a little girl name Caroline. But everyone called her Baby, because she was the youngest in her family. She had an older sister named Margaret, who was a talented artist and also a bit of a  tomboy, who would sometimes sock Caroline in the arm, but she was also protective of her little sister.

Caroline had three older brothers, Rod, Gene, and Ken, and a mother and father she adored. Caroline was well loved. Her parents owned El Monte Laundry and when Caroline was very little, she would take naps in the bin of warm clean towels at the laundry. She played with her cousins and had made many close friends in her little town of El Monte—many of whom she remained friends with throughout her entire life. Making lifelong friends says a lot about someone’s character. 

But when she was eleven years old her father died suddenly of a heart attack. Caroline’s older brother, Gene, stepped in as a father figure. While Caroline loved all her brothers, she especially appreciated her brother Gene, for all he did, such as decorating the home on Christmas Eve and being there when she needed him.

Caroline also adored her mama, Hilda. And for a time, after her father died, she would sleep with her mama each night.

One day, Caroline wanted people to stop calling her Baby. She told her older sister she didn’t like the nickname anymore, so Margaret told everyone to stop calling Caroline Baby. And they did.

One day, when Caroline was in high school, a new boy walked into class. Unlike the other boys in her high school, he wasn’t wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He was wearing nice slacks and a dress shirt. At the time, she didn’t know it was because he was from Michigan, and the high school boys in Michigan didn’t dress as casual as the high school boys in southern California. 

While normally shy, Caroline felt confident surrounded by the kids she had grown up with. And when this new student walked into class, Caroline eyed the handsome young man, and in a sassy  voice, she called out, “Hey Zoot!”

That boy was Walt Johnson, the young man she would marry a few years later. They would go on to have two daughters, Lynn and Bobbi.  Caroline was a loving mother and traditional homemaker. Walt became a general contractor, and they lived in a custom home Walt built and designed.

But one day Walt wanted to go on an adventure, and Caroline, always wanting to support Walt, agreed to join him. They packed up their family and moved to Havasu Palms. Caroline moved from a beautiful custom home in Covina, California, to an old ten wide trailer located at the end of a twelve mile dirt road, on the shores of Lake Havasu. And Caroline worked beside her husband, to help his dream come true.

That’s pretty much the story I told Mom, countless times, over the last couple years. Earlier in her dementia we would discuss my father, and she would ask what happened to him. When I moved her into the memory care home we had a wall of family pictures, one was of my father, when he was in the Navy, before they married.  Mom would ask, “Who is that man?” I would take the picture off the wall, show it to her, and tell her it was her husband, Walt, my father.  She would look at the picture, smile, and say, “He was good looking.”

Over the last few years of this slow goodbye, I’ve learned some things about my mother, that I never understood before her dementia. I always knew she was shy. People often mistook her shyness for rudeness—or bitchyness. In truth, Mom was always generous, compassionate, and loved animals. She was also fiercely protective of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Because of this fierce love, sometimes her words lacked diplomacy.

But what I didn’t understand about Mom, she also lacked confidence. Apparently, she always felt as if she had no talent. During her last few years, she often spoke of her sister Margaret, who had passed away in 2013. In those conversations she would praise her sister’s artistic abilities. Mom would also praise me, telling me how proud she was that I was an author, and then she would go on to point out that unlike other members of our family, she had no real talent. 

Mom was born in an era where women were raised to get married, have children, take care of their families, and basically, weren’t encouraged to have dreams beyond that narrow scope. I told mom she had been a wonderful mother, and then I asked her if there was something she had wanted to do, besides the traditional role she had taken.

To my surprise, she said writer.  But why was I surprised? Mom had been writing in her journals for as long as I could remember. I was always a bit envious of how she had stuck to it, each year filling out a new journal. In the past, I had started journals, and never lasted more than a week or so.  And here I am, a writer by profession.

I remembered it was Mom who nudged me in the direction which led to a career in writing. Back in high school, when selecting classes for my sophomore year, she encouraged me to take journalism. I hadn’t even considered journalism, and it ended up being a major part of my writing journey. 

It’s not unusual for a child—even an adult child—to fail to see the entire person that is their mother. For years I failed to see the truth about my mother—she was a fellow writer. It had been there all along, right in front of my eyes. Mom had always been a voracious reader who filled our home with books. One thing about writers, we love to read, and we love books. 

I also understand that Mom’s lack of confidence prevented her from pursuing writing beyond her private ledgers. When I realized how her love of reading and writing had helped propel my writing career, I shared that with Mom, and it seemed to give her a more positive perspective of herself. I also reminded Mom that while she may not have pursued a writing career, she was still a writer.

This late life epiphany about my mother takes on an even deeper meaning when I consider my granddaughter. My mother and granddaughter shared a special and beautiful bond. My granddaughter called Mom, GG. Like Mom and me, my granddaughter has an interest in writing. She would like to someday be an author.  

All of this makes me smile, and while I write this, I can’t help but pause, glance upwards and tell Mom, see what you started? Three generations of writers.

Bobbi Ann Johnson Holmes