Life after death of an iconic mother | The Voice Online

Life after death of an iconic mother | The Voice Online

Eartha & Kitt
The unbreakable bond of mother and daughter lives on in wisdom, wit and love.

Westport Magazine March/April 2013
http://earthakitt.com/WestportMagMarch2013/

Santa Baby

Tis the season for "Santa Baby". The song. My mother first recorded that song, written by Joan Javits and Phil Springer, in 1953 with Henri René and his Orchestra. It quickly became a huge hit and she re-recorded it on several more albums. She never grew tired of singing it, and her fans never grew tired of requesting it. Even at her final performance in September 2008, she sang it as an encore. 
  
That song is now a holiday classic and  has been covered by many artists from different genres over the years, but, my mother's version is still the one most associated with the season. And, being quite biased, I think it also happens to be the best. 

Four years ago Christmas Day, my mother died. The irony of her passing on the day when one of her biggest hits is at its most popular, was not lost on me. I think she just wanted to guarantee that every year her voice would be heard and people would think of her fondly. I must say, it is a strange yet heartwarming feeling to be in a store this time of year, and suddenly hear your mother singing in the rotation of holiday songs that fill the air. 

I have not inherited my mother's musical talent or her unique voice, as has been pointed out to me on many occasions (mostly by my children), but the memories of the incredible life I had with her as well as the joy of continuing to share her with you, are just as precious and what I carry in my heart.
This holiday season, I hope you remember the people who touched your life. Treasure the moments that really matter. And love the ones around you unconditionally.

From my family to yours, Happy Holidays.

What we remember. What we treasure. What we love. Simply Eartha. 
 

 

Born Again

"A person is born twice. First, at birth, and then again, when his mother dies." I heard Rufus Wainright say that on a recent CBS Sunday Morning show.

That statement rang so true for me that I had to pause and write it down. I now re-read it daily as I embark on a new uncharted path since my mother's death three and a half years ago.

 I wouldn't say that I grew up in my mother's shadow, but as the only child of a famous woman, I do feel there was a kind of security in being 'the daughter of...'.

My mother often introduced us to people, saying, "I'm Eartha and she's Kitt", as if I completed her. And, in some ways, I guess I did. Her mother had died when she was very young. She didn't know who her father was and was disconnected from any of her relatives, so I really was her only family. And she clung to me with an intensely deep, unconditional love.

My childhood may have been unconventional, traveling with my mother as she toured and performed internationally, I studied at the Lycee Francais in Los Angeles and with tutors when on the road, but my mother believed that no classroom or textbook could duplicate the education and appreciation a person gets from seeing the world firsthand.

 As most mothers and daughters can attest, our relationship was also at times conflicted. As a teenager and young adult, I often felt my mother loved me too much, that she held on too tight. It is not easy for anyone to establish a balance, but when your mother is an international celebrity, it can be even more complicated. Yet, not impossible. And, as I matured, I came to appreciate and understand my mother's immense devotion and the tremendous gift her love has given me. It now fills my heart and soul since the loss of her physical presence.

Christmas Day 2008, my mother lost her battle with colon cancer and these years without her have been an evolution for me. I have had to adjust to no longer being someone's daughter. I have cried; been angry; felt lost and alone. But, I have also been able to laugh, rejoice and feel gratitude for how blessed I was to have had such and incredible woman for a mother.

My mother was a real, complex, and at times, flawed, human being. She taught me to be true to myself. To live honestly and with respect for everything and everybody. To possess calm in place of panic and to remember that humor is one of life's most precious gifts.

It is now my turn to build on that beautiful, solid foundation my mother gave me. I am embarking on a new chapter of my journey. I still cry sometimes, and feel scared, but I hold tight to the knowledge that my mother's love and spirit fill all that surrounds me and it is her shadow that I now embrace and carry with me in my heart as I move forward on this new, unfolding path.


What we remember. What we treasure. What we love. Simply... Eartha

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Simply Eartha: A Mother's Love

Since my mother died, Mother's Day has been filled with mixed emotions, celebrating my life as a mother while longing for my own.  

The greatest gift my mother gave me was knowing that she always loved me. All the more remarkable, because as a child, love was something she never had. Sometimes, I felt that she loved me too much, but now as a parent I'm not sure you can ever love a child too much. My mother certainly didn't think you could.

As I continue to sort through the piles of her handwritten pages, I often stumble upon thoughts she wrote about and to, me. Some are uncomfortable to read, but all are filled with her love. On this Mother's Day, I share one with you.

My daughter

Mirrors cannot hold the image of you I hold in my eyes

I will bring the skies down to earth for you

The feelings I have for you are etched upon my heart and soul.

My mother's love is forever etched in ME.


What We Remember, What We Treasure, What We Love..... Simply Eartha

 

Simply Eartha: Don't Panic

As my mother neared the end of her life, it often amazed me how she would frequently state that she had no regrets. She had lived a truly incredible life, always followed her gut, stayed true to herself and relished every second of the journey. She felt she was complete. Had done what she wanted. How many people can really say that? How many of us live our lives to the fullest? How, does a person live that way, without getting bogged down and often stuck, in the daily annoyances?

My mother would wake up every day and thank the Gods or her Ancestors (depending on her mood), for giving her ability to see, hear and feel the beauty around her. She would watch the birds as they took their morning exercise. She would admire the leaves, as they blew the sun as it sparkled, the flowers as they bloomed and even the insects as they crawled. She loved how every thing had a purpose and all in nature knew what their purpose was. "Humans," she would say "were the ones who were confused..." never really understanding where they fit in the puzzle of life. "Humans, made their lives complicated. Unnecessarily so."

She would often state, "Don't panic. God may not be there when you want him, but he's always on time." To my mother, panic, was a waste of energy. It didn't change the situation, didn't make you feel any better, and frequently made it difficult to think clearly to see what lies ahead. She was never hasty, even when she knew exactly what she wanted. She would take a beat, feel, and listen to her gut, before responding. Even if that pause was only momentary, it was there. Many times, I remember wanting to shake her to get her to react. But, Re- Acting, was not how my mother functioned. She was a leader, not a follower, even if it meant she walked the path alone. And, many times, she did. She liked to say that she used all the shit that was thrown at her as manure, to fertilize her life. Of course, she didn't use the word 'shit', instead she would substitute the french word 'merde', because it sounded more polite.

My mother wasn't fearless. Many times, she was terrified. But, she felt the fear and did it anyway. Always having faith that everything happens exactly the way it's supposed to. In some ways, I think that's what gave her her strength. Faith. Faith in nature; faith in herself; faith in the universe; faith in the powers that be.

So, when she said, "God is always on time"( no matter what kind of God you believe in), she always trusted that everything would be O.K.


What We Remember. What We Treasure. What We Love.  Simply... Eartha

Flower Power

My mother walked into the room when I was almost done with my task. She quietly came and sat on the floor beside me. Slowly and meticulously, she reached and picked up each and every one of the discarded petals with one hand and laid them down, ever so delicately, in the palm of her other hand. I was stunned by her silence and deliberate movements. Unsure of what was happening, I watched her carefully, waiting for her expression to signal my response.

I was very young, maybe three or four and these flowers were in our suite at the Plaza Hotel in New York. They could have been roses. Or maybe pink chrysanthemums, because I seem to recall the petals were small and spiky. I don't remember who sent them or how long they had been there - fans always sent a lot of flowers when we traveled - but I do remember that it was a huge bouquet.

Some of the petals were bright pink and slightly folded at the edges and others were a more delicate shade standing boldly at attention. As soon as I saw them I was mesmerized by their numbers. They overflowed the glass container, all struggling to be seen. A jungle of pink streamers waiting to explode. Like a magnet, I ran to their side and started to pluck all the petals off every single flower in the arrangement. Why? That, I definitely don't remember. Probably for the same reason that people climb Mount Everest. Because, they were there. And, being a small child, I went about it in the usual toddler way. Two fisted. Handful by handful, I dropped those helpless petals onto the plush hotel carpet.

When my mother finally spoke, her voice was soft and unhurried and she began to carefully explain as she stroked a few of the petals laying lifeless in her palm with the tips of her fingers, that each one of them was a baby and that the flower heads were the mommies.The tears welled up in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. It was like a sudden summer rain, unpredictable and surprising. Her voice grew raspier, like it, too, was wet. She told me she was crying because I had separated the flower babies from their flower mommies, and that the flowers were also crying, inside. Flower tears.

I looked from her face to the denuded flower heads drooping on their stems to the dismembered petals in her hand and on the carpet. I had made my mother cry. I had made the flowers cry. I had destroyed an entire family. I was a cold-blooded killer. Me, I did it. I started to cry, unsure how to reverse this tragedy. And, we all sat, my mother and I and the flowers, on the floor crying.

Okay. Before you go running off to call social services, or at the very least, my therapist, rest assured I am not scarred for life, and none the worse for wear from this murder scene. And, I'm sure psychiatrists aren't the only ones who could write volumes about this little scene...

Don't forget the drama critics. Drama, with a capital “D” played a huge role in my mother's life, and at that moment, our suite at the Plaza was her stage. Boy, she was a good actress. Too bad I was too little to know what acting was at the time, or I would have given her a standing ovation.

But, psychiatrists and drama critics aside, why did she pull a stunt like that on me? What was the point of all that histrionic hand wringing?

My mother wanted me to have respect for every living thing easy for me to say, now, 46 years later.

She wanted me to make the connection between the “Action” (destroying the flowers) and the “Actor” (moi) in a visceral way— many years of therapy to understand that.

It worked. Besides feeling guilty, a light went on in me. All of a sudden, I was aware of the difference between “animate” and “inanimate.” I had a conscience - wishful thinking on my part that that is in fact true.

I am a mother now, with daughters of my own. If I had walked in and seen my child dismantling a bouquet of flowers, I probably would have started screaming, “What are you doing? Are you crazy?“ grabbing the flowers out of her hands and scaring the daylights out of her. I doubt that would have had the same impact on my little girl that my mother's impromptu performance had on me.

I learned to have respect for every living thing.

In the million moments of our life together, my mother taught me as she had learned, in her own way. Precious little of her education was formal. Mostly, she was self-taught, a voracious reader and inquisitive world traveler.

She may have moved in mysterious ways, out of instinct and intuition. Her techniques may have been unorthodox. But, now, with the wisdom of adult hindsight, I can say she was a great teacher.



What We Remember. What We Treasure. What We Love.  Simply...Eartha

Measure With Your Eye

Fried chicken, sweet potatoes and collard greens. No matter how far my mother had come from her roots in South Carolina, she was still a southerner when it came to cooking. Those were the foods she cooked the most when I was young. And, rice. I'm not sure why all of a sudden I remember rice. Maybe that was what she was cooking the day I asked her how she knew the right amounts to put in.

She always used the heavy Le Creuset pots. The colorful cast iron cookware that required two hands to lift it from the stove. Dark green. With wood handles. True to her name, my mother was drawn to colors and textures that reminded her of nature, and our kitchen, where she often held court, pulled you in with it's warm, mahogany cabinets, rich mosaic Spanish floor, all enveloped by the aromas of her home cooking. Our California house, with it's red brick walls and Terracotta tile roof, tucked at the end of a richly foliaged cul de sac, was the perfect setting for a woman so connected to the earth.

If my mother couldn't be found in the vegetable garden, where she was the most at home, then she was probably in the kitchen, prepping and cooking her harvest. Standing and the sink, she would tear the collard greens by hand, "Cutting them with the metal of a knife, changes their taste," she instructed. The stove would be filled with various sized pots, some boiling water for the rice, others heating olive oil, onions and garlic, waiting for the greens to be added. I would watch as she instinctively prepared the foods we had collected from the garden, making sure they cooked soon after picking, so as not to lose their nutrients.

There were no cups or spoons for measuring and she didn't use cookbooks. She believed that too many ingredients distracted the eater from the taste of the foods themselves. "Mother Nature, in all her perfection, has done all the work. Why would anyone want to mask the natural flavors?" she would say.

"If you don't measure anything mommy, how do you know how much of everything to put in?" I remember asking. "You measure with your eye," was all she said, knowing I would have to ponder that thought for a while. Measure with your eye? That just sounded weird. How was I supposed to measure, with my eye? I stood, puzzled, staring at the pots and their contents, the boiling water and sizzling oil feeding my imagination. I narrowed my eyes, squinting, raising, first the right eyebrow and then the left, trying to visualize how using one's eye to measure was physically possible, the cells of my brain straining as they processed this theory. I put the thumb and index finger of my right hand up to my eye, taking it's measurement in an open pinch, then held it out in front of the pot to see if that was the method she used, not quite being able to come to terms with what my mother had said, yet not willing to challenge her either.

Seeing my struggle, she added, "You have to feel the food. Deep inside you. Like another sense." I tried desperately to figure out what the hell she was saying, but I knew asking for clarification would result in a response that would send me into an even deeper state of confusion. Sometimes, I thought she really was crazy.

My mother continued her cooking, moving around me as I stood there, wrestling with her declaration. She loved watching me try to figure things out, often giving me only morsels of information, knowing the answers would come to me in time, relishing the 'Aha' moment, no matter how far in the future.

I did, eventually, figure out how to measure with your eye. And, recently found myself telling my own daughter the exact same thing, as we stood in our kitchen and she watched me cook... collard greens, sweet potatoes and chicken. And, I found, you do, in fact 'feel' the food, deep inside. Or, maybe it was my mother I felt as her words now found their way to mouth.

What We Remember. What We Treasure. What We Love.  Simply...Eartha

A Fox In The Henhouse

The California home my mother purchased in 1957, had been the converted horse stable of an old estate. The names of the horses even remained above their stall doors. She used that in her argument with the city to allow her to keep chickens in the aviary that still stood as part of the farm. She loved growing her own vegetables and eating eggs from her own chickens.

This being one with nature thing didn't come as easily for me. I, wasn't born of the earth like my mother. I grew up in Beverly Hills, so farm life in suburbia, wasn't as natural for me. And, no creature sensed that more than those damn chickens!

My mother would usually be the one to go out and collect the eggs from our feathered friends. The chickens, roosters and a few stray doves (not quite sure how they ended up in the flock) lived in a multi-level aviary as big as some houses. She respected the fact that she was entering their sanctuary, and she would move peacefully and purposefully, so the animals understood that she meant them no harm. She would carefully approach every nest and delicately remove each warm egg, so as not to upset the chicken that may have still been occupying that spot.

The chickens would strut and cluck with pride as my mother made her way past the nests, softly communicating their content, like a cat's purr. She was able to mesmerize that audience of poultry with the same hypnotic control she held over the audiences that paid handsomely to see her in concert.

In contrast, when I was required to go out and tackle that same chore, the inmates would rise up with such hostility that one might have thought a fox had been let loose in the hen house. There would be feathers flying and hens screeching, as well as a good amount of yelling on my part. I did not like those hens and was terrified of the roosters, and boy they knew it. It was as though they would conspire to gang up on me, charging at my bare legs with their tweezer- like beaks ready to attack, in an attempt to sabotage my most despised mission. And, they were usually successful, as I often ended up backing my way out of there, in need of Band-Aids. Not, my finest hour.

To top it all off, my mother would make me eat those eggs and given my disdain towards their creators, I found their rich eggy flavor, even more distasteful. As a preteen girl, all I wanted were store bought, factory fed, processed eggs, that didn't need a suit of armor to acquire. Was that really asking too much?

What We Remember. What We Treasure. What We Love.  Simply...Eartha