The Past is Unlocked in the Passing of My Parents

In Memory of a Marriage: July 1950 – July 1985

There are two stories regarding my parents’ wedding that I’ve heard many times. Both from my mother. My father never spoke of it to me. The first is that it snowed on the day before their wedding, an unusual occurrence for a July wedding in southeastern Iowa. The second is that my mother, 19 at the time, spent $1000.00 (her entire young-life’s earnings from working for a doctor) on “her” wedding. Her oft repeated comments regarding this were, “I had intended to use that money for college.” (Note: my parents did not have to get married.) Then, but always with a brief pause before, “My mom was mad at me for spending that much on my wedding. I told her I only intended to get married once. She told me that expensive weddings always end in divorce.”

Time has proven that the bizarre weather event was an omen, and that the conversation between my mother and grandmother was prophetic.

In 1985, after 35 years of marriage, my father left my mother on Valentine’s Day. At that moment, all forward motion in the life of my family stopped. Although my father remarried while my mother held firm to her aforementioned intentions, my parents never emotionally divorced. In short, my parents “Havishamed” our lives. It was not until the very moment my mother finally allowed herself to surrender her earthly life on July 22 of this year that the hands of time began to move again, restoring forward momentum.

Finally, with the passing of my father last year and my mother last week, the past has become the past. It no longer rots in the present like Miss Havisham’s decaying mansion in Dicken’s Great Expectations, and it no longer subjugates the future.

And so, I say adieu to my parents marriage that finally ended 40 years after the rings were removed and the papers were signed. I can’t help but celebrate this moment. Not their deaths, but the death of their marriage. I have been waiting all of these 40 years (literally, the whole of my adult life) to move out of the shadows of my parents’ marriage and their story. (My memoir Tornado Dreams is dedicated to telling that story.) It has been my life’s hope that they would choose to move out of the shadows themselves, but they never did. For that, I am as sad for them as I am for myself and my siblings.

I’ve spent time this summer revisiting Ursula K. Le Guin’s translation of Lao Tzu’s Tao Te Ching, and I have come to realize that I was raised by unwitting Taoists. When I think of my parents, I think of this paragraph from Chapter 2, “Soul Food.”

That's why the wise soul
does without doing,
teaches without talking.

My parents were unwitting Taoists because they did not live or act from a place of wisdom. They couldn’t. They were not conscious of the fears that motivated their behavior. As a result, my parents taught me to do things they did not do, made me believe in things they did not believe in, and made me act in ways they would not act. As a result, they taught me many things.

In honor and memory of my parents, I want to share two stories, one for each of them. While I have survived inarguably difficult (and on occasion traumatic) times with my parents, it is these stories that bind me to their better selves.

In Memory of My Parents

Mildred Arlene (Morris) Amos

July 15, 1931 – July 22, 2025

My mother, Milly, died peacefully in her sleep at the age of 94.

My mother’s high school graduation picture

I am the youngest of four children, by seven years. Before I was in school, I spent my days waiting patiently for my siblings to come home and watch the Dwayne and Floppy show with me. Dwayne was a puppeteer and Floppy was his dog puppet. From 3:30 to 4:00 every afternoon, we gathered on the living room floor and watched while Dwayne and Floppy did their schtick between showing cartoons of Bugs antagonizing Daffy and Elmer or of Wile E. Coyote attempting one more ACME scheme to catch the Road Runner. I cherish the feelings of connection I had with my siblings when we were watching Dwayne and Floppy. But it’s what happened right before they returned home that I loved then and love now the most about my mother.

In those days, my mother was a bookkeeper for local businesses. Most of my afternoons were spent coloring while my mother sat at the dining room table bookkeeping. But at 3:00 sharp, everyday, my mother closed her books, put the kettle on, and prepared a sweet snack for the two of us to share over afternoon tea. This daily ritual is the best and most precious memory I have of my childhood with my mother. For that half and hour, I had her full attention. We talked, we giggled, we discussed the presents I would get my siblings for their birthdays and Christmas.

As the seasons passed outside the large bay window next to our dining room table, I was given the space by my mother to talk and share and discover my own thoughts and opinions on a myriad of topics. In these moments, I came to feel, learn, and understand what it means to be listened to and attended to.

Frank Eugene Amos

January 1, 1932 – May 11, 2024

My father also died in his sleep at the age of 92.

My favorite picture of my father with me

I can count on one hand the number of times I was home alone with my father as a young child. This is the story of one of the those days when I was 6 or 7. That day, more than any other day in my youth, changed my consciousness; and therefore, changed my life.

I must begin this story by stating that I, like every other little girl I’ve ever known, was terrified of bugs. Especially, cockroaches.

On this day, I had finished reading a Frog and Toad story and grew bored as my father, who had fallen asleep on the sofa while watching a baseball game, started snoring. This signaled to me he wasn’t waking up anytime soon. I turned off the TV and went outside to see if my neighbor was available to play.

There were five steps from the door of my back porch down to the sidewalk. Life was wonderful for steps one through four. Then, just as I was stepping off step five, a Texas-sized cockroach darted out from under the step, directly beneath my lowering, now frozen in space, foot. Needless to say, I screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

Terrified and half awake, my dad flew out the door asking what was wrong. All I could do was scream, “COCKROACH!” and point to the sidewalk where it no longer was. Because my father was who he was, he yelled at me and then he spanked me. But then, he changed my life.

We went into the kitchen and sat at the table. Once we were both calmed down, my dad explained that my screaming had frightened him. He explained that seeing a cockroach, no matter how scared it might make me, was not a good enough reason to scream like I was being attacked. Seeing a bug, he continued, was a time to take a deep breath and realize it’s just a bug. He then asked me if I knew the story of the boy who had cried wolf. I didn’t, and so he told me. He ended the story with the following.

“Connie Sue, you don’t want to ever give people a reason, any reason, to not trust you.”

I had so clearly frightened my father, and that frightened me. All I could think of as he said the quote above was that he was right, I didn’t want to be untrustworthy. I also didn’t want to waste people’s patience or their desire to help me like the boy who cried wolf had done. And even though I was only 6 or 7 at the time, I made a conscious commitment that day, from which I have not wavered, to always be clear about what I want or need from other people.

But the two most important things my dad gave me that day, both of which have saved me time and again, are 1.) the indisputable knowledge that my actions affect others; and, 2.) the ability to breathe and look clear-eyed at that which frightens me.

The Best Way I Know to Say Goodbye

At the end of my memoir, after describing a photo taken of my parents early in their marriage that clearly shows my father’s desire to flee and my mother’s desire to delude herself that all is well, I write:

They are now and forever trapped in the legacy this picture of their young selves foreshadowed.

But I no longer am.

Now, listening to John (my husband) playing “Be Thou My Vision” while our daughter hum-sings along, I am reminded that I have inherited, incorporated, suffered, and freed myself from my parents’ legacy so that my daughter can know something different. My parents have been my vision. I am filled with intense gratitude for that vision.

Rest in Peace, Mom and Dad.

Love,

Connie Sue

Lyrics of Be Thou My Vision

Verse 1
Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart;
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art
Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.

Verse 2
Be Thou my Wisdom, and Thou my true Word;
I ever with Thee and Thou with me, Lord;
Thou my great Father, I Thy true son;
Thou in me dwelling, and I with Thee one.

Verse 3
Be Thou my battle Shield, Sword for the fight;
Be Thou my Dignity, Thou my Delight;
Thou my soul’s Shelter, Thou my high Tower:
Raise Thou me heavenward, O Power of my power.

Verse 4
Riches I heed not, nor man’s empty praise,
Thou mine Inheritance, now and always:
Thou and Thou only, first in my heart,
High King of Heaven, my Treasure Thou art.

Verse 5
High King of Heaven, my victory won,
May I reach Heaven’s joys, O bright Heaven’s Sun!
Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,
Still be my Vision, O Ruler of all.