Sunbonnet Sue

As I kept vigil at Mom’s bedside, I felt compelled to take her picture. But isn’t that weird? Wanting to take a picture of a dying woman.

Mom was deeply asleep. I couldn’t even rouse her when her favorite TV show came on. I was stuck. I wanted to take her picture, but it was probably too late to get her permission.

Years ago Mom gave me permission to write anything about her. But she was always camera shy. I had to guess what her wishes would be. I figured she wouldn’t mind, as long as I captured her at a good angle. And turned her into art.

Mom was a maker before making became the hip new trend. As a kid growing up in her house it was not unusual to walk by more than a day’s worth of dirty dishes in the kitchen sink on my way into the living room where mom had the TV on as she sat at a card table strewn with art supplies, coffee cups, and abandoned projects. Mom would smile as I’d walk into the room.

“Hey, Becky Sue! Look what I’m making.”

I always hated my middle name. Sue. It’s such a pansy ass name. I dropped it as soon as I got married and replaced it with my maiden name. Rebecca Burton Carleton. No longer Rebecca Sue Burton.

She’d set down her soldering iron or her paint brush, her crochet hook or her jig saw—whatever artist’s tool she’d been using to make things. She’d hold up her creation for me to see. Making art brought Mom more than joy. It was therapeutic. In the late Sixties Mom went through an art therapy program at the hospital where she was treated for a “nervous breakdown.” The psychiatric nurses would hand Mom a potholder kit that was easy to weave as she rested in bed following another round of electroshock therapy.

I’m not as good with my hands as I am with my words. Mom was always my biggest fan. She read everything I wrote and encouraged me to keep at it. Mom taught me that it’s not just OK to express myself creatively, even when it’s hard to do. It’s essential. It’s therapeutic. Making art is creation. Making art is life.

I think Mom will be OK with my taking her picture on her deathbed. It’s kinda weird. And kind of morbid. But I want a way to capture this moment as I sit here with my mom, my mentor. 

One of my favorite creations that Mom has made me over the years is this Sunbonnet Sue quilt. Earlier in the day I laid it on top of Mom. She opened her eyes for a minute.

“”Hey, Mom! Look what you made. It’s your Sunbonnet Sue quilt.”

She smiled and blinked her eyes.

“My favorite is this one,” I pointed to the girl with the cat on her dress. “And look, Mom! Her sunbonnet is magenta!”

Mom smiled and blinked.

A few weeks ago, Mom was frustrated. We had been talking about our favorite colors. She couldn’t think of the word for her favorite.

“It’s pinky purple,” she said.

“Fuchsia?” I asked.

“Yes!” The excitement immediately fell from her face. “No. That’s not it. I can’t think of the word.”

“It’s OK, Mom. It will come to you.”

Later, after I returned from work, Mom said, “You are so lucky. You have the smartest husband.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because he knew the word!”

“What word,” I asked.

“Magenta!”

“Magenta?”

“Yes! Magenta is my favorite color.”

For Valentine’s Day I bought Mom a tube of magenta lipstick. She was thrilled. Despite not being able to steer a fork to her mouth without spilling most of the food onto her nightgown, Mom successfully opened the tube and applied the lipstick to her lips. No mirror. Half blind, anyway. She looked beautiful.

So as Mom laid on her deathbed, I pointed out the magenta bonnet-wearing Sunbonnet Sue.

“Look, Mom! It’s magenta! This Sunbonnet Sue, right here.”

Mom smiled and blinked and said, “Hey, Becky Sue!”

That did it. I burst into tears. I started laughing and crying at the same time.

I haven’t cried much since Mom moved in with us eight months ago. It has certainly not been all fun and games, but honestly having her around in my daily life has been a blessing. But hearing Mom call me “Becky Sue” just did me in. 

“I always hated that name! Becky Sue,” I shuddered.

“Why?” Mom asked.

“It’s just so dorky. But I never realized until now that you named me after Sunbonnet Sue.”

“Becky Sue, my Sunbonnet Sue,” Mom said in her lilting voice. And then she closed her eyes and fell back asleep.

It’s not the last thing Mom's said to me. As the day’s progressed she’s mostly speaking in word salads, if at all. Now I sit here, watching her sleep. Not sure if she’ll wake again.

I hold Mom’s hand and this is what I’m thinking. 

Mom, you gave me life. Your eternal creative spirit resides inside me no matter where you rest. I will always love you. I will always be your Sunbonnet Sue.

My artistic mentor, Beverly Martinmaas, my mom