Dead Things And My Mom

I'm starting to have the relationship with my mother that I've always hoped for. She judges less. She lets me be more, and doesn't question my life choices. She buys me dead things and saves rabbit spines for me that the cats or coyotes leave behind out on their property. That's a big one, that says more about her evolving growth as a person toward me, than just about anything else.

I'd always been fascinated with dead things. My first acquisition was a preserved turtle claw when I was fifteen, and growing up, one of my favorite things about visiting my grandparents' place were the mason jars with bats soaked in formaldehyde that my uncle had left behind that were on the book shelf in the bedroom I always slept in. There was, too, that any time I was on a lake shore or body of water, I spent less time admiring the living things than I did looking for fish skeletons in the sand. I'd just always thought they were beautiful.

The interest began ramping up in my mid-late 20s, and I acquired several skulls, tails, and other things fur and bone related. My mother made it clear that she thought this a morbid fascination and she'd have no part in it.

When a deer died on their property the winter of 2009, I begged that they leave it where it was, in a remote corner of the land, well out of sight by an outbuilding, so I could salvage some of the bones after nature had had its way with the young lady deer. This request only disgusted her more and she made my father drag it out to the corn field after I'd left.

Last week, my parents arrived home from a trip to California. Gifts were brought back for me, which included various fruits picked, some artisan soap, a fig and caramelized onion spread, as well as shark teeth, a shark jaw, and a small alligator head.

This acceptance means the world to me. Now, if I could just get her to be supportive of my art, writing and music...