Like many of you who have lost loved ones to cancer, the physical loss of my mother left a huge void in my life. We talked on the phone most every evening at 6:30–the time I knew she was in the kitchen in her apron, cheap Chablis on ice in one hand, and wooden spoon in the other, stirring something delicious in a pot on the stove for supper.
Our conversations were brief, but meaningful. We talked about the day’s events — my brothers and their families; Dad, my husband, James; our dogs; her creative projects and mine; and which of her quirky artist friends had come to visit that day. Was it Mr. Pease with his cherry tobacco pipe coming for afternoon tea or Mrs. Sweetapple with her sarcastic wit? Betty Osmond with her blue handkerchief sweatband smelling of turpentine, or my favorite Godmother, Gwen Birchenough, with her unmistakable lilting voice and classic entrance, “Where is your mother, Jennifer? I’ve lost her,”? Or perhaps Eloise Grygiel coming to take Mom on a deserted barn “treasure hunt”. Oh yes, Bonnie and her friends were not above a countrified barn adventure … if they thought they could resuscitate a piece of dilapidated furniture, broken lamp, or rusty garden tool, it was coming home for CPR.
Mom was a true artist. What I mean by that is that everything she touched magically transformed into beauty … her gardens, her pies, her pen and ink drawings, her linoleum block prints, her watercolor paintings, her rug hookings, the early American antiques that she found and refinished for our 1860s farmhouse, her quilts, her table settings, perfectly ironed linens dried on the clothesline, wildflower bouquets, heartily stocked canned goods from the garden that sustained us through the harsh Finger Lake winters, stunning holiday church altars fashioned from God’s bounty, homemade potpourri, and plentiful herb nosegays that hung from twine strewn across the den ceiling waiting to dry by the woodburning stove.
As you may have imagined by now, Scott Homestead was a beautiful disaster of unfinished art projects, perfectly messy English gardens reflective of her heritage, stacks of flea market and auction finds awaiting transformation, and non-stop pop over company who couldn’t get enough of it. The back porch screen door was forever opening and slamming shut with folks’ comings and goings. Mom, an introvert who yearned to be alone in her gardens throwing occasional rocks for her German Shepherd to chase would say, “Oh no, Jennie, who is here?”, yet her kitchen was reliably replete with homemade baked goods, jams, jellies, tea, wine, cheese, and good cheer to share with her adoring friends, children, and grandchildren. She knew how to be with people.
Beyond her artistic sensibilities, she was a caregiver who rescued baby animals in her role as rehabilitation specialist for the Burnett Park Zoo in Syracuse, cared for elderly persons with dementia in our home–which doubled as a proprietary home-care property–and mothered six children, including our brother, Kyle, who was born with developmental disabilities in 1950 — long before services for persons with special needs were readily available. In short, if a disenfranchised human, motherless spring litter, wilted plant, or abandoned collectible needed care of any kind, it was Bonnie to the rescue.
This care was even extended to a neighborhood bully who terrorized me and my friends. She decided to put him to work on the property because he needed love and purpose.
Remember the beautiful disaster that was Scott Homestead? Well, add to that litters of orphaned baby raccoons, sheep, chickens, ducks, hunting dogs, a barn cat, an unruly pinto mare, the wayward, and let us not forget the “old dears” as she affectionately referred to the elderly folks who lived and died at Scott Homestead. Our father, Blair Scott, a WW II navy veteran who was cut from a very different cloth, burlap as compared to Mom, who was more of a soft gingham, was somehow able to tolerate Bonnie’s marvelous madness, albeit not without the occasional expletive about a nocturnal hollering “old dear” or rescued raccoon that had climbed up the pine tree alongside the front porch, scratched on the master bedroom window casing to be let in, and then run downstairs and out the back screen door, only to do it all over again, and again. I came to realize some years later that mine was an extraordinary childhood.
It’s been nineteen years since Mom died, which also means that Belle Voci has reached its twentieth season of sisters in song in support of cancer prevention and cure. Over the course of those seasons, and with your support, we are fortunate to have made charitable donations to The American Cancer Society, St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital, Northwell Hospice Care Network, Optimum Health Institute, and Cancer Care Network. This year proceeds benefit Sunrise Day Camp, Long Island, and Outpatient Infusion Treatment Center, Baltimore, in recognition of their loving support of Miss Faith Jena Tyranski, whom God called home just a short time ago.