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Expanded Text Bruce Ratcliffe did not read at April 17, 2016 Memorial Service[1] Your Presence In Our Lives For 9+ Decades When Lewis was having his trigeminal neuralgia treated surgically (which worked!), I must have come for a visit. I can’t remember the details but much later, cleaning my desk, I found seven small 3 by 5 inch notepad papers, the type people used to use B.C.P. (Before Cell Phones), filled with Mom’s scrawl. I was able to transcribe them. With the outcome of Lewis’ operation uncertain, and the length of her remaining time on Earth anybody’s guess, one might expect a self-absorbed, self-pitying, morose world view. Instead, this is what she said:
A bit of explanation to “Human B-E-A-N” is in order. The family name-giver, Patty, gifted each of US with a name so descriptive it stuck: Dad? To protect his head, from which most hair had taken leave at an early age, when sailing, wore a certain cotton cap. It looked vaguely like a turtle shell, hence our patriarch became “Turtle Man”. And our song (composed by Steve?) was “Turtle man gives a hard shell finish, TURTLE MAN” (Some of you may remember the jingle from the Turtle Wax Company). Flaxen-haired Steve? As skinny as a famous mystic that fought for social justice, was “Mahatma Blondi”. Dave, was “Lopey Loggits” (uncertain derivation). Our dog, Pingo was named by our Mom, Chinese for “peaceful dog”, which she certainly was. But Patty composed a song we’d sing when overcome with admiration for our constant canine companion:
Patty’s name for me, even skinnier than Mahatma Blondi, with a love of tree-climbing, was “Spider Monkey”. That descriptor alternated with “as skinny as a bean pole”, hence, Mom’s reference to me being a real Human Bean pole. Note paper scrap page 5 continues:
What struck me about Mom’s thoughts was how, even at what she thought might be her last moments on Earth, she drew joy from those around her—AND reflected it back to those same givers of joy, making them recipients of her admiration. A joke I tell about Mom’s raising me involves her penchant for excessive praise: “Bruce, what a fine job you did eating your birthday cake!” If I’d washed the windows well, that might be cause for maternal praise for a job well done. But praise for eating sweets? THAT is excessive. We were all showered with such over-the-top raindrops. And we must have believed it, believed we were really great, because Steve, Patty, Dave and I all went on in our lives to attempt “impossible” tasks—at least what would seem impossible to someone who had never received the gift of believing they could do impossible things. And here we all are, involved, each in his or her own way, in giving back in various creative ways. The delusion Mom gifted us has had the desired outcome. Mom’s final words, on the last scrap of paper sum it up well:
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