RIP Sugar Bacon

After suffering a severe stroke, my stepmother, Marguerite “Sugar” Bacon, died two days ago at the age of 87. She and my dad had been married 60 years, and after my dad died two months ago, she missed him terribly. I don’t believe in heaven, but if I’m wrong, I’m pretty sure she’s with him now.

Sugar was a wonderful stepmother, and I have no memories of a life without her. I truly thought of her as my second mom.

She was a remarkable woman. Very traditional in her beliefs, she never worked a paying job. She thought a woman’s place was in the home. She also thought it was a woman’s place to say exactly what she thought… about any topic. Her marriage with my dad was a partnership of equals. She never understood what women needed to be “liberated” from. She ran the household, was active in the community, and rose to positions of leadership in the Garden Club. Asking little for herself, she always sought to be of service to others.

It’s been a tough 10 days, and I’ve had to put my blogging on the back burner. The blog will be quiet next week as well for a variety of personal reasons. But I’ll have a lot to say when I come back.

— JAB

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12 responses to “RIP Sugar Bacon

  1. Jim,

    I’m sure all those who comment on this blog share my sentiments when I offer condolences on the passing of your stepmom. It’s tough after both parents have gone, particularly immediately upon passing. And months from now, as others may have experienced, there will be times when you’ll be, say, driving down the road, not thinking of your parents, when something you pass or see will bring on a wave of grief that will bowl you over. It doesn’t stop being tough for some time. It’s just becomes more periodic.

    Best to you and yours. Hang in there.

  2. Rest in Peace.

  3. So sorry, Jim. To amplify on JD’s thoughts, there will also be times when a sound, a sight, or even a fragrance, will conjure up a happy memory to dilute the tears and soften the pain.

  4. I’m sure “Sugar” will be long and well remembered.. and that’s what we all can hope for when we reach the end of our days.

  5. I would never have guessed you were an atheist.

    I’m incredibly sorry for your loss. Whenever someone in our lives pass on a part of us goes with them, and our family members take the largest parts with them, but luckily the parts of themselves they leave behind within us are larger. I never met Sugar, and I’m sad now that I never will, but she clearly lives on in you and lives there well.

    Do not hesitate to call on the community you have built here. No one here would think twice before offering you assistance.

  6. Jim,
    Very sorry to hear. You have been through some rough times of late.

  7. I’m sorry for you and your family Jim.
    I had an excellent and wonderful stepmother. I can think of loads of times my sister and I would go to visit her and enjoy her company whether or not our Dad was there. I’m sure you treasure those memories, as we do.
    I’m also sad to know that a beacon of light for those who enjoy being stay at home spouses and parents is gone. I don’t view that way of life with a negative outlook, as many do. So many try to ‘have it all’ and are frazzled.
    Vic

  8. Sorry to hear Jim. Sugar is a nice name.

  9. What I suspect for all, but believe only for myself given my experience:

    That each of us, in our own unique way and circumstances, ride through this world we live in on invisible shoulders. Words are not up to the task of describing these shoulders. Not even close.

    For, in all their varieties and multitudes and mysteries, these shoulders are hidden, or at best heavily veiled, from our view, particularly their most powerful, intimate, and mysterious parts.

    But to try to get some grasp, however fleeting and tenuous, on this hidden world, think of our conscious selves as only the visible tip of an iceberg. And that the world that it (own conscious self) lives in is on the surface of the sea with a view into the sky overhead.

    So, unknown to it (us), this visible tip of our conscious life and being is carried along, and fed, anchored and buoyed, controlled and sustained, through seas rough and calm alike, by the great strength and wisdom and knowing of the massive ice flow under us, invisible beneath the waters. This submerged ice has many parts, some critically dear to us, who we are, who we strive to be.

    But, despite all this, our consciousness and our sense of self can hardly only begin to know and appreciate the essential power and influence that carries us along atop the sea UNTIL one or more of those parts most dear to us leave our physical world, that singular place where each of us lives alone. When this happens, everything changes or seems to change, and radically so. At first this loss leaves a terrible absence, a great void, and confusion.

    A hole has been blown in our soul. Therein strange things happen. Herein lies great paradox. And mystery. An great challenges, a great opportunities. For what seemingly forever has been hidden, now has risen suddenly into full view.

    For the first time, we can see and appreciate in all its aspects what was invisible before. The dearer the loss, the greater the grief. Here too relief can be found. And new possibilities open to us.

    And ofttimes the greater the grief, the more fortunate the gifts we were given long ago and carried unknowingly into the present, and the better now we can see those gifts and gather them into powerful memories that can sustain us and those we touch into the future. This is the best and highest task of grief. Call it what you will, but something powerfully shows us the way if we open ourselves to the task. So a final gift, perhaps the greatest of all, can be found. New worlds will open before us, and shared with the living. So the greater the grief from the loss, the greater the gift that might be found. And kept alive to be shared into the future.

  10. Dear Jim,

    My condolences, too, on the passing of your Stepmother Marguerite (“Sugar”). Lord, have mercy!

    Sincerely,

    Andrew

  11. Losing the older generation of a close family (especially twice in a short time) is tough, even if inevitable. Somewhere back in the archives of childhood we keep those memories of bringing our best achievements home for parental praise and approval, and most of us continue to do this, after a fashion, all our shared lives. Then they are gone.

    Decades later, I miss mine, too.

  12. My condolences. This has been a tough year. It sounds like she lived a good and meaningful life.

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