Category Archives: Friends-Family

My Mother Always Hoped For Snow

sbowday900

About Snow

Mom was a big fan of snow, and her hopes for that particular form of precipitation were frequently and fervently directed to the heavens – and to anyone she thought might have influence in that sphere.

Given that longstanding preference and Mom’s record of getting her way, it was no surprise that the day her memorial services were held, March 21, 2013, the second day of Spring, the Ozarks were visited by a unseasonable snowstorm, as evidenced by the above photo taken from the deck of her home on Table Rock Lake following the funeral.

About Mom

A week after my mother’s death, there is much about her I still don’t know.

I don’t know, for example, why my mother, who lived alone, kept four heads of lettuce and three packages of pie crusts in her refrigerator, more than a dozen sacks of beans, seven cans of sauerkraut, eight cans of fruit cocktail, and three cans of water chestnuts in her cabinets, and fourteen large boxes of cereal on her shelves.

I don’t know why my mother amassed a collection of several dozen kitchen towels, all new, with the sales tags still attached.

I don’t know why my mother accumulated enough yarn to knit scarves for every man, woman, and child living in southwest Missouri – with enough left over to make mittens for all the children currently enrolled at the Shell Knob Elementary School.

I don’t know why my mother kept the bill of sale for the Chevy Fleetmaster she and my dad bought in 1951, why she stashed away 60+ empty envelopes that once contained house payment checks received by my parents in the 1970s, or why she stored both the original & amended 1994 financial reports of the Eagle Rock Missouri All Faith United Methodist Church Women’s Group.

And I don’t know why my mother, who kept the walls of my childhood home pristinely bare, free of decoration other than the obligatory portrait of Jesus with the eyes that follow you wherever you go, moved to a log cabin and filled every wall with meat grinders, trivets, flatirons, two man saws, butter churns, china sets, hay hooks, augers, toys, cooking utensils, china, brass buckets, ceramics, decoys, …

I do know, however, that my mother was tremendously important to many, many people.

I do know that for a number of individuals my mother was a stabilizing force – and sometimes the only stabilizing force – in an dangerously unstable, chaotic world.

And, I know, with absolute certainty, that my mother always loved me – without reservation, without conditions, and without end.

Mom’s Collections

The best photos of my mother’s impressive collection of Ozark artifacts had gone missing for the past two years. I have recovered and posted these at .

Credit Due Department: The photo was taken by Gwen Stockton.


Never Again In My Mother’s Arms

mom-me

About My Mother

In 2011, I wrote a Mother’s Day post, In My Mother’s Arms:

I don’t recall a time when I wasn’t in my mother’s spotlight.

Standard psychoanalytic theory holds that one’s sense of self originates in the infant’s awareness of the mother’s unconditional (and, indeed, unreasonable) empathic care radiating from her eyes. The mother provides a nascent identity for the child, which, if all goes well, is, during one’s childhood, adapted and internalized as a psychological element independent of the external world.

When the photo atop this post was taken in 1950, the young woman had recently become a mother while living in a tiny, poorly insulated, inexpertly constructed home in rural southwest Missouri, helping her husband try to make a living tending to the remnants of their failed farm and selling used cars on the side. She should, by rights, be as upset as the squalling child (that would be me) in her arms. Instead, she gazes upon him with undiluted, unmixed approval, acceptance, and love.

I grew up knowing intuitively that, regardless of my mistakes, errors, or misbehavior, my mother continued to gaze upon me with undiluted, unmixed approval, acceptance, and love.

And Now My Mother Is Gone

Bobby Ruth Showalter, my mother, died in her sleep at her home in the Ozarks last night after many years of worsening health.

She was preceded in death by her husband, Doyle Ray Showalter, two decades ago and by her younger son, Bobby Lynn Showalter, 45 years ago.

She was a caring, smart, forgiving, funny, altogether delightful woman, who was beloved by family, friends, and community.

She will be missed.

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Because of my mother’s death, I will be away for an indeterminate period. If any posting takes place at this site (and that is a possibility) over the next week or two, it is likely to be sparse and sporadic.

Finally, I occasionally wrote about my mother. These posts, especially, the first couple listed below, are (in my judgment) some of the most interesting entries I’ve published.


Happy Birthday To The Dancing Duchess Of Durham

Dec 25, 2012 – Happy Birthday

to my resplendent, charming, unremittingly passionate, delightful, and altogether marvelous wife Penny, who could have done so much better.

Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on
Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long
We’re both of us beneath our love, we’re both of us above
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love

Video: You’ll Carry Me Down On Your Dancing
This video, set to Leonard Cohen’s “Take This Waltz,” was constructed as a gift to the Duchess1 and features dance sequences taped during ballroom competitions in which she participated as well as other scenes from her life and mine. Because it was a gift, it is indeed more sentimental than most of the movies produced here and it is studded with the type of indulgences lovers not only allow but encourage in one another.

Nonetheless, I’m proud of the final result which is true to the tone of Cohen’s “Take This Waltz.” As for the specifics, well, I’m not even going to try to explain the role of the bearded dancing partner, the shots of a house a few years and hundreds of miles from where we live now, why I’m wearing orange-tinted glasses in one scene, how the Beacon Theatre in New York appears in a cameo as a concert hall in Vienna, the alligator’s allegorical allusion, …


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  1. aka Penny Showalter, aka my wife []

Leonard Cohen Ain’t The Only One Going Home

Off To The Land of Oz-arks

We are indeed doing the hill and dale thing, journeying westward to spend Thanksgiving with my mother at her home a couple of  miles north of Arkansas in a part of southwest Missouri where the only inhabitants of gated communities are cows.

Posting here and at the DrHGuy site is likely to be sparse or absent altogether until early next week.


Reunion Via DrHGuy.com, Leonard Cohen Tour Schedule, Rebecca De Mornay, & A Butterfly

I got to know Bob Marshall 20 years ago when he was Chief Of Psychology and I was Medical Director at a Chicago hospital.  We enjoyed each other’s company and shared a – let’s go with an irreverent sense of humor, but as colleagues and friends do, we lost touch. I hadn’t heard from Bob in 10 years – until last week when I received this email from him:

Hello Allan,

Very, very strange.

A totally crazy butterfly effect.

1) My mother dies on 11/5/12 at the age of 98.
2) I will be going out to California for a memorial service over the Thanksgiving weekend.
3) I had Leonard Cohen concert tickets for November 23.
4) I sell my tickets to a friend.
5) We are talking about Leonard Cohen. I mention that he had a relationship with Rebecca De Mornay. He was not aware of that and was impressed and intrigued.
6) I search the Internet to find a picture of Leonard Cohen with Rebecca De Mornay
7) Google sends me to the DrHGuy web site.1
8) I spend over an hour getting sucked into all the interesting tangents, side trips and diversions, alleys, twists and turns…especially the fan behavior links.
9) I am about to get back to business and copy and paste the picture of Leonard and Rebecca when I just happen to see the Julie Showalter choice at the top menu bar.
10) I’m thinking, this whole website definitely has the Allan Showalter feel – frenetic, intelligent, funny, esoteric, snide, but it is Dr. H.
11) I’m thinking that Julie Showalter is not the most uncommon name in the world, but not exactly common either.
12) I go to the “contact Dr HGuy” link and read the brief autobiography.
13) Chicagoland: check
14) Shrink: check
15) It has to be Allan!
16) I see the picture of you and Julie.
17) FAR FUCKING OUT!
18) Then I watch the video of you and Julie and I’m thinking, this is a love like Paul and Linda McCartney.
19) Then I’m crying. I’m crying happy for you, I’m crying sad for you, I’m crying happy that my mother is at peace, I’m crying sad over the loss of my mother.

Your friend,

Bob

OK, maybe blogging doesn’t suck all the time.


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  1. DrHGuy Note: Once again proving Google is your friend. []

Remembering Don

By Penny Showalter

On  October 12, 2009, Don, my beloved husband, died.

His death wasn’t dramatic – we talked one last time and then he was gone.

Come to think of it, the way he died was distinctly atypical for Don, a man whose life was a collection of passions.

Skiing was one of those passions.  It became apparent early in our relationship that my choices were limited to becoming either a proficient skier or a hot buttered rum junkie, passing the time at the lodge while he was on the slopes.

In keeping with how passionate individuals operate in the world, Don was absolutely confident my interest in and expertise at the activity he embraced would immediately match his. The first run we took together at Mammoth required over an hour to complete and involved so many falls that at one point I … OK, I may have uttered a phrase or two that implicitly questioned the marital status of his parents when he was born. By the time we returned to the lodge, his back was out, my leg was injured. and overdosing on hot buttered rum began to look like a reasonable plan to me.

As for Don, however, his belief that the couple that skis together … well, Don’s belief that he and the woman he loved (that would be me) would ski together was abated not a jot or a tittle.

And indeed, over the years we had many happy and wonderful times on those ski trips.  I got better, but he was terrific.  I often saw people stop to watch him.

Because Don almost never fell, the spills he did take were especially memorable.  One of those falls occurred when we took the granddaughters on their first ski trip. In trying to prevent one of the girls from falling, Don himself tumbled down the slope, his 6’5″ body and extraordinarily long arms and legs flailing about like a hurricane-powered windmill spinning out of control across the countryside. This time he hurt his back severely enough to spend the next day in bed. The following day, however, he insisted on strapping on the skis and hitting the slopes. Why? It was the last day of the trip so it was obvious to him that skiing was a given.  He could hardly walk but once on the snow he was amazing.

When Don became ill, he formulated elaborate plans for the ski trip we would take to mark his return to health.  The closest we came to that celebratory trip was the special wedding cake I got him for the Vow Renewal Ceremony we held just two months before he died: a ski mountain with the two of us on the summit.

And that’s how I remember Don – full of passion, taking me to the summit.