Hilma

Hilma with her first three granddaughters--Meagan, Erin and Andrea--at the Fischer Family Reunion in 2012.

My mother-in-law, Hilma, died two years ago. I didn't go to her funeral. I have to use supplemental oxygen, I had just been sick, and flying would very likely have caused me some problems. Hilma also used supplemental oxygen, yet she always traveled--like from Florida to Greensboro for the family reunion, pictured above. She was usually sick by the time she got home, but that never stopped her.

I can't get over the feeling that she was just a little bit disappointed in me for not taking the chance that everything would have been okay.

She never would have said that, of course. I'm putting that on myself. Hilma was too kind. She never criticized any choices that I made, and the only time she gave me advice was when I asked her. She always trusted me to make my own choices without trying to influence me. She might have asked a question or two to help me see things in a better light--Lord knows I often needed to do that--but it was always my decision. Today, I wish I had decided to attend her funeral.

I haven't really felt qualified to write about Hilma, I guess because of the fact that she was so beloved by everyone who knew her--especially her children and her grandchildren, and her husband, "Papa" Leo. It's hard to feel like my words could possibly add anything. I'm struggling now, but I want to write about her. I was her only daughter-in-law, so that makes my relationship with her unique. I'm the only one who can write about that, right?

The first time I met Hilma was the first night I went out with Greg. We had gone to the mall to return a record player that Greg had bought. On the way home, he asked me if I had ever smoked pot. Without giving it a thought, I said, "No, but I've always wanted to." That led us to the Fischer home on Turrill Avenue. Greg left me in the living room to chat with his mom, who had just woken up, and was preparing to go to work--third shift at the State Home. She sat on the couch, nestled in blankets, still groggy from sleep, trying to make conversation with me, whom she only knew as one of the Karlek kids. After a few minutes, Greg returned, carrying a book he told his mom I'd wanted to borrow, and we were off. (I don't remember the book, but there was something hidden between the pages.)

I suppose that says more about Greg than it does about his mom, but I was thinking about what my mom would have done if one of us had surprised her with a guest just as she was waking up. Hilma was always a gracious hostess. (I would not be surprised to find out that she knew exactly what Greg was hiding in his book.)

In all of the years that Greg and I dated, through all the years of our marriage--40 of them by the time she died--I do not think I ever thought of Hilma as anything but the perfect mom and mother-in-law. Many times I would feel guilty for not living up to what I saw as her expectations, but that was always me, and never based on anything she said or did.

I have one very special memory of Hilma that I would like to share. This was our first Thanksgiving after my mom had died. Sometimes I think Hilma struggled to understand my mother, but she always accepted her as she did everyone--as she was. That year, Hilma was staying with us, and as she arrived, I was still in the process of cleaning and dusting. Instead of making me feel bad, she pulled up a chair and we just chatted as I worked. I was rambling on and on about my mom, talking about a relationship that was difficult sometimes, but that was all ironed out and made beautiful before she'd died. I don't remember what I said. I just remember Hilma listening to me. When when the moment seemed right, she stood up and said, with a catch in her voice, "Is this a good time for me to give you a hug?"

It was the perfect time. Right now would be a perfect time. I'm really missing you, Hilma. I hope you know what you meant to me.