Vera Itana (Phillips) Anderson Hanson 1930 to 2014
The poet William Wordsworth, wrote that "the child is father to the man." One might just as easily say 'mother to the woman." Few of you know of the heartache of my mother's early years; the longing for love and stability that shaped her psyche. To have been handed over to foster care by a mother who was not yet ready to accept maternal responsibility, to anticipate the joy of an eagerly-awaited visit from her mother, knowing that it would be followed by the knife-wrenching hurt of her leaving again; these are emotional trade-offs that no youngster should have to endure. I can imagine young Vera waving goodbye to her mother as she drives away yet again. She had to begin to wonder if she had done something terribly wrong, or if there was some fundamental flaws in her character that everyone but her seemed to be aware of. That's how Vera lived the first eight years of her life; on the tether hooks of uncertainty and abandonment before her mother married a second time, and Reynold Anderson was kind enough to adopt her, and treat her as his own.
Vera had been given a family, and soon a brother (Aaron) and a sister (Rosemary). Vera's resentment though at being shuttled through foster homes was a hurt that festered throughout her life. It was a topic that she reflected bitterly upon during my last visit with her. I can't help but wonder if she assumed I was going to be speaking at her funeral and wanted me to remember and chronicle this formative time of her life. I have. Now let's set the resentment aside. Let's look at the young woman who loved music; whose passion for it even led her to attend music college for a year. Then she met Swede and married him, despite her mother's opposition, who at this time of her life didn't want to give her up, the talented daughter who had even cut a demo recording of "The Indian Love Call." My aunt recalls how Swede used to laugh and tease Vera when he heard the operatic warbling being played by her proud mother. When Vera married she set her dreams of a singing career aside, but never her love of music. She joined a local chapter of the Eastern Star, and for years served as their organist. She did her best to pass her love of music on to her children as well, and succeeded to a great extent, despite my aversion to the discipline of piano lessons or her reluctance to recognize Bob Dylan's efforts as "music."
My mother strove to give us the good home that she so wanted as a child. The security of place and the bond of family was so important to her, as was coloring within the lines, adhering to a familiar routine and following the rules. A foster child didn't dare to display a streak of rebellion. Our family vacations took us regularly to Shallow Lake. I often wondered, with some frustration, why with so many other parks and campgrounds to explore, my parents seemed so drawn to this one. I believe now that it was the family aspect of the cabins up near Warba that my mother loved. Not so much the destination as the people who would be there; Bill and Mabel, Jack and Shirley and the rest of the Rakowsky clan. There was gossip, relaxation, convivial imbibing, and the friendly competition of the marathon 31 competition. Perhaps my mother's love of casino gambling can be traced back to the Shallow Lake card games.
My mother was taught to work hard by both Rey and Gen. I cling to my own mental images of her bulldozing through her chores, be they vacuuming, mowing the lawn, picking berries, canning or cooking, attacking them with energy and resolve. My wife Nancy would often marvel that "I've never seen anyone work like your mother." And how she did! I believe that both my parents instilled a solid work ethic in their children. They were capable of sacrifice as well. My premature birth caught my father, a construction worker, at the end of a long winter with no work and no insurance. My six weeks in the hospital before I was released to accompany them home ran up a tremendous debt, yet they worked and paid it off. Their first house, on Lindahl Road, later their two car garage, lacked indoor plumbing. I vaguely remember the outhouse year and going to bathe with my father at the communal showers at The Cabins, and my mother stepping out of the house clanging two pans together to scare a bear away from the garbage cans outside the door. I can still hear her yelling "Get out of here you son of a bitch!" Despite such rustic beginnings, my parents persevered and soon had the home of their dreams on the hill just beyond the garage.
My parents aged well, neither getting sick until late in their lives. They were able to afford to travel together, accumulating a wealth of shared experiences that they both enjoyed remembering. Their sixty four year marriage grew stronger and more stable over the years as well, becoming a mighty oak that we all could take refuge under. As the years progressed and the kids left home, they lavished their love on their pets. Swede and Vera always had their cat. I remember when they went to the animal shelter to bring home their last cat. Samatha picked them out, getting their attention by swatting a ball out of her cage at them. My parents were so moved by the hopeless plight of the animals awaiting adoption, and the futility of finding them all homes, that they both agreed that they would ever go back there again. It was just too heartbreaking. The last day I had the chance to visit with my mother, she talked of her readiness to go through rehab in the hope of getting strong enough to return home to Sam, the beautiful long haired friend that she pampered by brushing, then giving her a bath every day with a spray bottle of coconut oil and water. There's no better life for a pet than to be a Hanson house cat.
Vera's gone. But she's left a treasure trove of memories and a legacy of love, hard work and accomplishment behind her. Those of you who know me well know that I parted ways with the church a long time ago. I can remember how angry my mother got at me when she noticed that I'd replaced the picture of Jesus that hung in my room with Lord Byron. Still, there's a part of me that would like to believe, that would hope that Swede and Vera's spirits have re-united in some wonderful way that we haven't the understanding to comprehend, or that the good people that they were in this life has accumulated them enough Karma credit to aspire to a better life in their next go round with existence.
The truest affirmation of whether a life has been lived well, is that you will be missed by those you've left behind when you leave it. Vera (and Swede), my mother and father, you both are, and definitely will be as long as you dwell in the memories of your family and friends.
