Eating life, cheating death
By Sheryl-Lee Kerr
I dedicate this column to my mum - lover of life, chocolate and Middle
Eastern camel treks who would have turned 53 today. Mum had some basic
principles she lived by: dare to risk; dare to believe; never wear yellow.
These she backed up with an intensity which generally awed and/or terrified us all on a regular basis.
She once went whitewater canoeing down a ridiculously steep river
banned to all water sports and discovered why when her canoe reached the
bottom ahead of her - in 29 pieces. When we finally fished her out, battered and bruised, all she did was laugh and ask if she could go again.
She defied death, too. My dad would complain often about her
somewhat world-famous spending sprees, one of which involved a flight to
Antarctica. She cancelled it only to later marvel at reports of her plane
firmly embedded in the side of Mt Erebus.
She met unusual people. One holiday, she met an odd woman in the
camp toilets at Uluru, who told her calmly that a dingo had taken her baby
the night before. As Mum tells it, the woman added informatively that she
was waiting for the ranger's office to open up so she could report it. Mum
ambled off, convinced the effects of sunstroke were most disturbing in the
Outback.
My mother could also be a holy horror. One year, when I was about
12, she took some guests through a guided tour of our house, stopping off in the bathroom where I was having a bath at the time to introduce me to them. I'm not sure who was more embarrassed. Mum, however, was oblivious and quite baffled at my disturbing “lack of enthusiasm” for “meeting new people”.
Then, when I was 18, she decided it was time I “experienced life”.
By this, she meant it was time for me to leave home. She ran the idea past me. Which is to say she was informing me of her decision - not that I realised this at the time.
The next day, a moving van pulled up. I asked if someone was moving in next-door. “Oh no, dear,” Mum said cheerily. “You're moving
out. Don't worry, I have a new flat all picked out. You'll love it. It's
fantastic. It will be a life experience.”
Her idea of fantastic, I discovered, was a run-down, too-hot Queenslander with more roommates than rooms and a friendly deaf mute guy sleeping in the bathtub.
At age 49, Mum decided life was too dull. Her second husband, a yachtie she often sailed the world with, was most astonished to turn around one day and find her departed for Saudi Arabia with a note saying: “Meet me in Riyadh; I'll be the cute woman in the black veil.” (Well, at least she'd narrowed it down for him.)
While in Saudi, between desert banquets with friendly Bedouins, she
enjoyed taunting me in her letters with the many offers she had received for my hand in marriage.
Last count, one daughter in exchange for 40 camels - a deal, she pointed out, which had her sorely tempted, as it came complete with a matching gold earring set. Gee, thanks.
Last August, at age 52, I can't say why Mum simply decided her time
was up and exited, stage right - especially when she had spent a lifetime
grasping every moment of it. But I do know that, as I write, she is
doubtless giving the great Maker a few choice pointers on spicing things up upstairs.
God forbid (pardon the pun) the afterlife should ever be boring. No way. Not on her watch.
© Sheryl-Lee Kerr & The Advertiser, 11 JAN 2000