Nancy Eyles Salak

Nancy Eyles Salak

Nothing about my mom was average, typical, or traditional, so neither is this obituary. My mom was a gifted writer and poet, and in her final days, she hoped to write this herself but never got the chance. I wish I could channel her voice because... her voice, words, humor, and way of seeing the world reflected her utter uniqueness. But I know that somehow, somewhere, she's helping me tell this story.

The sky was bleak and grey as my husband and I drove from the crematorium in Dryden, New York, to Lodi Point on Seneca Lake. But hopeful splashes of daffodils signaled Spring, my mom's favorite season. Chapters of her life flashed by the window as we drove - the little house in Etna she once lived in with her second husband, Micheal Steele, the edge of the woods on the Cortland college campus where she loved to cross-country ski. I can still picture her gliding ahead of me on her skis with the snow falling softly and the smell of pine and winter all around us. She was happiest in those moments in nature. And I was happy too. Just the two of us, not so much against the world, but in the beauty and wildness of it and far from the torment and darkness that could also engulf her. 

As we rounded the tip of the hill with Seneca Lake below, the sky brightened to a soft blue. Whenever my mom thought something was extraordinary, she'd say it was "beyond the beyonds." And I'm sure she would've used that expression to describe this day.

I placed her ashes on the picnic table at the lake's edge. The same table where we'd share many summer delights, cold sliced watermelon, and tomato and cucumber sandwiches. Anything my mom made to eat tasted better than expected, even the simplest of foods; her potato salad with green olives was legendary. Her apple pie was unsurpassed. Now, my dad, her first husband, Steven Barbash, used to tell a story of the first time she cooked for him and made a horrifying, undercooked, boiled beef heart. But the fact is, he ate it. He was just that in love. And luckily, her cooking skills improved tremendously over the years. 

It was easy to fall in love with my mom. Her beauty was as abundant as her brilliance. Yet, as easy as it was to fall in love with her, it wasn't always easy to love her. 

After the loss of her and my dad's first baby, Toby, who my dad described as a lovely baby girl with thick eyelashes and dark hair, she sank into depression, which led to a life-long struggle with alcoholism. Dad would describe discovering empty bottles of whisky in dresser drawers. She always hid her drinking but never hid it well; perhaps a subtle cry for help? But even her darker side could hold a certain appeal... she was never dull. 

My mom told me that in her obituary, she wanted to write about "how alcohol ruined her life." I can only guess what she would have written. Despite her addiction, she lived a full life overflowing with adventure, laughter, and love. But her addiction certainly caused her heartache... and in turn, that pain was often reflected towards those she loved. 

When I was born, my parents lived on a farm in Huntington, Pennsylvania, until my dad was offered a job at Cortland State College, and they moved to Upstate New York in the early 1970s. Family lore has it that I was named after Laura from Dr. Zhivago, presumably because I was conceived during the movie (it's a REALLY long movie.) There's a scene in the film of a field of hundreds of daffodils. My parents planted hundreds of bulbs around our farmhouse, inspired by that scene. 

Their love for Springtime flowers also inspired this poem, which my mom happened to mail to me just a few weeks before she died:

"To My Steven on December 21, 1966, Our Fifth Anniversary"

Our little farm lies lonely in the snow

Waiting for the love

That's it's watched grow with daffodils

And roses and sassafrass and pine

and apple trees and peonies

For five fine springs

To return with the flower

Of such a long blossoming. 

When she was in the hospital this final time, I sent her a bouquet of daffodils with a note that read, "Springtime at the farm." Daffodils were the last flower she saw and smelled. 

My mom attended Juniata College in Pennsylvania but dropped out to marry my dad, who was her Art professor there. (Wink, wink.) Years later, she received a Bachelor of English from Cortland State College. She was an exceptional student. She saved many of her old college papers. A comment from one notoriously hard professor who rarely gave out any grades higher than a "C" wrote on one of her papers, "This is almost impossible for me to attribute a grade to, so I'll compromise... A."

After college, she had various jobs, including waitressing, cooking, and teaching. I also vividly remember accompanying her on a strange day selling gravestones as a pre-order special to living people. The job she was with longest and likely enjoyed the most was working as a landscaper for an estate in Virginia. I love to think of all the flowers she planted blooming, even now. She took a lot of pride in making landscapes beautiful. 

My mom would be the first to admit she preferred horses and dogs to most people. Her relationships with her animals were deep and brought her immense joy. I can still picture one of her favorite dogs, a scruffy Jack Russell Terrier named Gerbil, riding shotgun next to my mom while I was resigned to sitting in the backseat. 

That said, she loved her family and adored her grandson Riley. And although our relationship could be complicated, I always knew how much she loved me. One thing I'll miss most was our inappropriate giggling fits, which earned us the scorn of many strangers. Once, we went together to see Terms of Endearment. While everyone else in the movie theater was sobbing as Debra Winger's character lay dying, our giggles turned to loud, uncontrollable snorts of laughter, and we were almost kicked out. Same for the scene in ET when he phones home. (If you happened to be in the theater, please accept my apologies.) 

Sometimes, her love came as a poem, a thoughtful gift, or a fantastic meal. My mom welcomed me into the world with a poem, and I've read it to myself over the years at times when I've needed comfort. It seems especially relevant now:

"Poem for Laura"

Oh Laura our only daughter, our only child

Go out, grow out into the wild life

With such love that night will never restrain you;

That day may never contain too much light for you;

That love will open your heart like a rose opens;

That it will open to live:

To give and receive blows softly, with grace and reason;

Like a rose, oh Laura,

Let your heart grow open to each season;

Let it know love like a rose knows rain;

Oh Laura, let it be open

So that even in pain it may never close!

Although my parents married multiple times, they were the love of each other's lives. 

In my last conversation with my mom, she spoke of how in love she and my dad were. She said they tried to hide it. For example, she'd duck down when they'd drive around campus, but despite their (rather lame) efforts, everyone knew. We laughed a lot. It was the happiest, most hopeful, and optimistic conversation we'd had in a long time. 

On August 17, 2022 (coincidentally, August 17 was the same day as my Dad's death in 2016), my mom had a stroke. Since then she's struggled tremendously with the push and pull for her independence and the acceptance of her mental and physical decline. Her pain-free, peaceful days were few, and if not for the loving support of her caregivers, nurses, and doctors, those days might not have come at all. It was heartbreaking for her to slowly let go of so many things she loved: her home, many of her belongings, her independence to drive... and likely hardest of all, her dogs. Yet she continued to find pleasure in many things she loved - laughter, chats with family and friends, sweets, birds, books, nature... being naked. In fact, the funeral director said that she arrived from the hospital naked, which is rare; I suspect that it might have been one of her last wishes. My mom was who she was until the end, and I always admired how she truly didn't give a damn (she would've used a different word here) what anyone thought about her. She was going to do things her way, live her way, and be true to herself... and she did, right until her last breath. But even the fiercest fighters must one day rest. In her last message to me, she quoted William Butler Yeats, "All things hang like a drop of dew/Upon a blade of grass."

In her final weeks, it was as if the most cherished moments and places of her past were calling her back. She'd sent me multiple photos of Lodi Point without explanation.

And then there I was, as if in the photo. At that same spot, holding her ashes. 

I stepped to the water's edge, and the lake was so clear that every stone was visible below. In the water was where my mom was most at home. It's where she was uninhibited, strong, and free. A swimming star by age 14, with a fierce competitive spirit and otherworldly strength and grace, she broke numerous records for swimming Butterfly for the Walter Reed Swim team. She missed qualifying for the Olympics (likely due to her being sick that day) by a fraction of a second. She was a force to be reckoned with; free from the constraints of life on land, she could soar. 

As my mom's ashes merged with the waters of Seneca Lake, they didn't sink. Instead, they seemed to swim out in an expanding, luminous cloud. I could almost see her in full butterfly stroke, leaving us all in her wake - as she entered beyond the beyonds. 

"Haiku For Mom"

her last swim, her best

beyond the lake, her heaven

ashes and water

...

Born Nancy Ruth Eyles in Vienna, Virginia, to Lois Beahm and Walter Eyles on June 26, 1942, Nancy Eyles Salak died peacefully following sudden illness and heart complications on March 28, 2024, in Ithaca, New York. She is survived by her siblings, Walter Eyles, Susan Eyles Dyke, and Mary Louise (Weeze) Torrey; her daughter, Laura Pauline Reid; (Husband, Cain Kamano); grandson Riley Reid; and her many nieces and nephews.

 

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