Jessie McCall | On Being Her Daughter

February 9, 2016

My mother always had an incredible work ethic. She told me about days spent in the forest marking timber. Grueling weeks spent on fishing boats in Seattle. Dark, troublesome nights working for the Detroit newspaper. Throughout my childhood, I’d hear her typing vigorously at her computer into the waning evening hours while I tried to fall asleep. She was never the type to “clock-out.”

March 4, 2016

I’m becoming a firm believer in the idea that the Universe (God, the great unknown, whatever is out there that’s bigger than us) whispers in your ear on a daily basis, it’s all a matter of whether or not you want to listen. Things happen in life that are hard to explain, a matter of seconds can determine a chance encounter or missed opportunity. I’ve witnessed this with friends and with myself. On the other side of the world, I’ve made a new friend who has seen some very hard times and experienced loss in a big way. She has the biggest, kindest heart and talks about life with understanding, not resentment. Though we just met there’s a soul connection that I wouldn’t have found if I didn’t make the series of decisions that led me to the moment that we met. Being on the road alone the last few days, it’s nice to find a friend who has also lost her mother but looks at life as a gift and wants to laugh and talk and explore with me. A connection like this is such a gift, and whether the friendship ends here in Bali or lasts a lifetime, it’s a reminder of how intertwined we all are.

March 18, 2016

I still have those boots and that necklace. After drunkenly losing some of my most prized jewelry to the ocean or an earring to the dance floor I’ve stopped wearing my mother’s jewelry on big nights out. I used to love to show off my favorite pieces, but now I save them for afternoon tea or a trip to the supermarket where I know tequila won’t be involved.

April 6, 2016

Made it home from far away lands in one piece. Though I wasn’t posting much, I was thinking of mom and all of her incredible journeys and life experiences as I was embarking on my own track of self-discovery. Two months away did me good. I’m so glad to be back in time for spring in the beautiful Pacific Northwest.

February 3, 1991| April 17, 2016

FB: I’m so grateful I have Jessie. She’s the absolute center of my existence and a pure joy to me. I marvel at her emerging personality, the feistiness, the independence, the stubbornness, and her pure delight in the little things. She walks and climbs and explores everything. She loves to be outside and she loves animals. She’s fearless and brave and she’s awfully smart already. We have battles of wills and she laughs when she loses. So far she’s a good sport about it but I know the day will come when we’ll lock horns and she’ll hate me for a little while. I hope I can show her how much I love her, even in our bad times. I worry sometimes that I’m so busy just feeding and bathing and clothing her and doing the chores and my job that I don’t spend enough time just playing with her.

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These are the entries that get me. We did lock horns all through my adolescence and teen years. It got so bad that on my 15th birthday she asked me to go live with my dad and move out of the house for a while. Then she got sick and I was still too hurt and stubborn to really forgive her. I don’t have many memories of her and I playing together, I always felt like her job took priority over me. I couldn’t have been more wrong. It’s not productive to have regret and long for what could have been, but sometimes during moments like now, it’s impossible to not feel sadness thinking about what a shitty teenager I was. It’s times like now that I imagine what it would be like if she was still around and the relationship we might have. Little did she know when she was writing these journals what an incredible gift they would be. I have found myself healing old wounds through her entries. All the conversations we never got to have are replaced by old yellowed pages with scribbled thoughts. Thoughts that offer advice and draw parallels and provide a history, all things we would’ve gotten to talk about with time.

May 8, 2016

Days like today will always be a reminder of the fact that mama McCall isn’t around anymore to help guide me along, but it’s also a great time to reflect on all the stand-in moms that have come out of the woodwork over the years to support me through this life like only mothers can. Happy Mother’s Day.

June 17, 2016

Today is one of those days where everything seems a bit heavier than it should be. I’ve struggled with mood swings and depression for as long as I can remember. I don’t let it consume me, I know its place, it comes and it goes, and over the years I do my best not to dwell too deeply in it for it always passes. I’ve spent the last two days sorting through all the files and photos and articles mom left behind in an attempt to declutter my basement. She literally kept everything. First drafts up to fifth drafts. Triplicates of photos, magazines, all of her scribbled note pads. She kept birthday cards I gave her, apology letters, notes sent from camp. My energy and emotions drain quickly during this process no matter how detached I think I can be and I remember why I take such long intermissions between all of the sifting. I’ve found many entries in her journals about her struggle with depression, thoughts too personal to share on here, and I think about how we’re connected in this. I want to use this journey as a way to be as honest as I can about this process of digging and getting to know my mother as well as myself, even when it feels too revealing.

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In a past post, I wrote about my regret that I didn’t tell or show her I loved her enough. Today while sorting through letters, I forgot I had written all throughout my childhood, I realized I had made more of an effort than I realized. Even when I was mad and harsh with my words, I always came back to love and did my best to explain why I was upset. I had completely forgotten about this and felt that overwhelming wave hit my chest when I found an envelope titled “letters from Jessie” buried in one of the boxes.

June 18, 2016 | Camp Ukandu

A few months ago I was flipping through one of the copies of LIFE Magazine that mom had hung onto. I came to a story she did with Mary Ellen Mark (pictured left) about a summer camp for children struggling with cancer. This piece struck my heartstrings in such a way that right in that moment I began to Google camps around the U.S. and here in Portland.

I came upon Camp UKANDU located 40 minutes east of where I live. I reached out and began speaking with their camp director about how volunteering my photography services could be of use to them and their campers.

All this began back in January, a little seed now coming to fruition. Tonight I head out to join staff and greet the campers that arrive tomorrow. I’ll be there for the entire week capturing a time in these children’s lives where they don’t have to feel different because of their disease. They’ll be surrounded by other kids who are struggling, just like they are, and enjoying life at summer camp like so many children will be this summer. I’m excited to provide families photos of their children exploring and playing and enjoying life the way kids should be. No child should have to reconcile death and fill themselves with chemo and radiation. It’s hard enough to be a kid constantly trying to figure out who you are and where you fit in in this world. I have no doubt that I will be humbled over the course of this next week and am excited to immerse myself in a completely foreign experience.

Ta ta for now! I’m off to summer camp!

July 10, 2016 | Visiting Edie Vonnegut

Whilst visiting one of my dearest friends in Vermont this last May I got an itch to reconnect with an old companion of my mother’s, Edie, who lives in Barnstable, MA.

The Felicity Buckwinder project has motivated me to reach out in all directions to hear stories about my mother. I love reading her journals and piecing together who she was, but even better than that is getting to hear another perspective.

Edie, the daughter of Kurt Vonnegut, and mom became friends in the early ’80s while they were both living in New York City. I only had the pleasure of meeting Edie once in my childhood when mom and I came out to visit in ’97. I hadn’t seen her since then, so naturally, I was very uncertain what Megan and I were walking into. Edie received us warmly and fed us a wonderful dinner and invited us back the following day to chat some more over morning tea.

July 10, 2016 | Visiting Edie Continued

The next day, she and I sat at her kitchen table flipping through the journal where mom describes meeting her for the first time. We both laughed and cried as we shared stories in the warmth of the New England sun that poured in through the doors as the wind blustered outside. Edie let me photograph her beautifully inspiring home while I drooled over every nook and cranny. I marveled at the dog-shaped handles on her kitchen drawers and recognized them from an armoire I had inherited from my mother. Edie told me she had made them out of a cast she had lost long ago and that they were very special.

I never knew that I had grown up next to a little piece of handmade Edie. As a small child I traced the handle with my little fingers and reached high to open the wooden armoire doors to get my snow boots or a pair of gloves; and there I was, so many years later, tracing the outline of a boney dog figure before pulling open the drawer to grab a spoon for the honey—for the tea I was about to drink with a woman who held a little piece to the ever-expanding puzzle that is dissecting my mother’s history.

October 24, 2016

Tomorrow marks the 10th anniversary of my mother’s passing. I don’t consciously choose to remember this day, yet somehow it finds a way to creep in, reminding me with tiny details and synchronicity. I’d rather honor a day where she and I felt happiness together, like Mother’s Day or Christmas; however, I think I’m meant to remember her passing for after she died I was forever changed.

Today I went to pick up a friend in an unfamiliar location—I’m back in my hometown of Nevada City for the month visiting family and picking up work—the directions led me by the mortuary where we held her service and I reflected briefly on the day I dressed in black and sat in the front pew feeling numb with no words to deliver her eulogy. Last night I spent an hour reading through heart-wrenching entries about a story she was researching for LIFE, covering child abuse and molestation. Today I set up an appointment with my realtor to walk the land I grew up on with a prospective buyer tomorrow. All these things without realizing the date and its significance.

Whether or not I want to remember it I always find myself reflecting on the unforgettable details of that day. The call in the middle of the night. The feeling of seeing her motionless in the hospital bed in her room. The stillness and the blur of people and condolences and questions like “should she be buried or cremated?” I’ll leave you with these words from one of the two beautiful obituaries written about her.

“A few months earlier, as the cancer tightened its grip, Cheryl had written on her website:

‘I hate self-pity, in others but especially in myself. I will not tolerate it. I lived in London and the cafes of the Left Bank of Paris. I worked on salmon seiners and marked timber and was not a bad mechanic. And I had more than my share—and probably your share too (sorry)—of many torrid, wonderful love affairs. This life has been quite a ride. So don’t feel sorry for me. But one last thing. I have decided the doctors are wrong. I intend to be one of those people who survive this. So don’t count me out yet.’

She did her best and I’ll always remember her for that.”

December 25, 2016

I feel a small sense of guilt having neglected this feed for the last month. This time of year is particularly busy with the passing of my birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. All holidays that serve as a reminder of the hole that stands where the lost ones once did. This is the time of year where my mother shined brightest. No matter the quarrel or workload she always made time for me and her friends.

I recently received 12 DVDs converted from old VHS tapes. I’ve been chipping away watching birthday parties and Christmas mornings that she diligently recorded. This is the first time I’ve heard her voice since she passed, it didn’t sound as I had remembered it. I witness the subtleties and cling to moments where she smiles watching me open presents or runs her hand through my hair, these tender signs of a mother’s affection. There is no sadness as I sit and study our dynamic, laptop perched on my lap as the minutes fade away leading me further and further past midnight.

These are the quiet hours before sleep, before dreams where, if I’m lucky, she’ll come to visit me and reassure me that she’s not gone forever. Learning to live life without someone I expected to share the journey with is no easy adjustment, but finding peace in the reflection has been crucial. In the last dream where she and I spoke she told me that time is not linear when I asked how she was able to come back and sit with me. In every dream where we meet we talk about how we only have a few minutes together. When I wake I am brokenhearted having to remind myself she is gone. However, I then remember how sweet and real it felt to see her again and I no longer feel that hole. Christmas was always our holiday, so every Christmas I remember her and try to smile and, without fail, there is something subtle that happens that makes me feel like she’s here remembering too.

January 15, 2017

We got an incredible amount of snow here in Portland a few days ago. I’ve been hunkered down determined to finish scanning and sorting through the last of the boxes and files mom left for me. My goal is to get organized and start posting more frequently in this new year and begin forming a layout for the book I’ve been imagining for this project. Thank you for following along, I’m so proud to be sharing my mother’s story with you all.

May 14, 2017

Mom had a phobia of rats. My cat would catch them and drop their lifeless bodies on the doorstep and she would scream and beg me to take it away. This routine dates back as far as I can remember. I liked this duty because I felt strong like I was able to provide something for her. It was just her and I up until she got married. I’d do my homework at her law office until she finished working, usually around 6. I’d make the fire and she’d start dinner. We’d watch our 8 o’ clock shows on Thursday nights and snuggle on the couch. We made a good team, even when our strong wills would face off.

Today I remember all that she was, all that she gave me, and all the ways we are alike—in love, in travel, in community—and all the ways I aspire to be as driven and gutsy as she was. Except for the mice phobia, I never quite understood that one.

October 26, 2017

Yesterday I threw another tally mark on the wall. It marked the 12th year since mom left her body and booked a flight off to the great unknown. I was too consumed after getting home from tour and pulling my hair out while analyzing the bills that have piled up to really hold space for grief. That and the reality that grief has no timeline, there’s no scheduling it.

For the last year, I’ve been trying to sell the remainder of raw land that she left behind for me. A few years ago I sold my childhood home to pay off a great deal of outstanding debt that snowballed after mom passed. That was heartbreaking, but I really had no choice. I was able to sell 2 of the 4 parcels and have been sitting on this beautiful, but hard to market 29 acres ever since. Due to drama with my neighbors and a random man living in the home I grew up in, I reconciled that it wouldn’t benefit me to hold onto this property. I listed it, but I never really detached myself from all the memories and the heartstrings that were still connected to it. On one of my last visits to Nevada City, I took a walk down the gravel road. A road I familiarized myself with before I could crawl. My dad used to put me in a backpack and we’d walk the mile or so to the lake. He said I would stare up at the towering pine trees in wonder. I made sure to do that again this time.

Earlier that week I had incredible conversations with two very inspiring women, @morgabob and Brooke. The type of conversations that fall into your sphere so perfectly timed that it makes you question if we’re not all in one big “Truman Show”-esque movie. Morgan told me about her project “Conversations I Wish I Had,” in which she designed a phone booth so people could feel comfortable talking to whomever, out loud, to unpack some of their emotional baggage. She thought of this concept after the sudden loss of her mother in a terrible car accident.

October 26, 2017 | Continued

I was then talking with Brooke—whom recently lost her husband Levi to brain cancer—about the phone booth and how I’ve never tried to talk with my mother out loud. She told me about a time where she took a walk with a bottle of Champange at a wedding, down to the nearby creek, not long after she lost Levi and spoke to him as though he were right there with her. She encouraged me to do the same on this land where I walked so many times with my mother. I made her a promise that I would.

When I got to the dam, where the lake feeds Deer Creek, I knew that this would be the time. I started to speak and felt ridiculous. I looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was around. I was in the middle of the woods yet I felt as though someone was there watching me talk to myself. I thought of Brooke and continued to talk. I walked along the shore of the lake and started to explain that I felt I had to let this land go. I was sorry and I knew she wanted me to keep it, that she loved this land so much she wanted her ashes spread there. I told her how grateful I was to have been raised in this forest, there was no better playground for a little foothill girl. I asked her to understand.

I told her about boyfriends, broken hearts and bad timing, and that I was following in her footsteps in more ways than one, unfortunately. That I wished she were here to give her two cents but that the family of friends she set up for me were doing a pretty good job.

I felt the wind on my face and the wetness on my cheeks. This was a random, late August day that I chose to let the loss in. Sometimes it’s nice to have a day you can designate to let all the feelings wash over you, a day society can understand. Sometimes, that day, which begins to feel arbitrary, is just another day you’re freaking out about life, thinking you’re doing it all wrong and you’re glad your overachiever mother isn’t here to see you in your tailspin.

We don’t get to choose these paths, we just get to figure out how to walk them as gracefully as we can and trust that with every thorn there’s a rose. Money and land and stuff is just stuff—I’ll never lose the memories she and I had on that land, and that there, is my rose.

January 4, 2018

Finding this [email] while embarking on this project meant everything to me. It felt like communication from the afterlife. We had so many fights and breakdowns during my teen years. I felt like she was always pushing me to be someone I wasn’t. To get straight As and go to a 4-year. “Lady Bird” is perfect as it holds a candle to the complex and relatable mother/daughter dynamics we face during those pivotal years of self-exploration and the craving for independence. Finding this email was like Lady Bird finding the envelope in her bag when she got to college. All the words that couldn’t find a place but needed to be seen so that compassion could replace the pain of misunderstanding.

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Editor’s Note: In the intro of this piece, we included excerpts from an email Cheryl sent to Maya, asking for her help in encouraging Jessie to go to college. Though we couldn’t use the image of the message for security reasons, we were thankful for the opportunity to reshare this photo of Cheryl and Maya mid-laugh. 

May 23, 2018

I’ve hit a wall with posting. Obviously. Now that I’m going through the journals methodically and chronologically the entries don’t feel as magical as they used to. In my last post mom mentioned in her email to Maya that she cringed at how depressing her entries could be. I’m currently sifting through her early 20s and all she can talk about are her woes with men and her manic-depressive mood swings. The worst (and best) part about this is how much I can relate her experience to my early—and mid—and current 20s. As I get closer to 30 I’ve found ways to calm my overactive and obsessive mind, but there’s something about reading her recollections that dredges up a part of myself that I desperately want to move on from. The side of myself that puts too much power in the hands of a man’s acceptance and desires toward me. On the flip side, there’s something pretty cool about the parallels between her and I. How even as I was growing up I had no idea of her patterns in relationship and yet I find myself walking in her same shoes. There’s something pretty special about all the ways we are connected to our parents genetically and intrinsically and how we have the opportunity and power to break inherited, but useless patterns in this walk of life.

On a different note, I really love this photo. It’s the full epitome of an awkward parent hug. The kind that would make me cringe as a preteen. What I would give to feel those arms leaning on me again.