The Moms in My Life

Happy Mother's Day to the moms, grandmas, stepmoms, step-grans and pet moms! Here are a few of my favorites.

One of my earliest photo shoots with Mom.

Mother Goose has Hatched -- And Other News

Here's some fun news for Mother's Day! Spring has kicked in "for real" these days. On Friday, I got a double whammy of it when I first visited the nursery center and later saw a "nursery" of a different kind -- that of our friend Mother Goose!

And guess what! There aren't four babies. And, as some of you thought, there aren't five.

To the Moms and The Grans We May Never Have Known

Here's to my Mom.

She loved me as a baby...

...and she loved me till the day she died, with all the hopes and pride and worries that I think most moms probably have.

She adored her mother, too -- the grandmother I never knew. She died five months before I was born.

But I think of her as a beautiful bride, one who gave us not only my mom but three aunts I adored.

Here's to my great grandmother, the mother of the gran above. No, I didn't know her either. But I have learned so much of her story in my genealogy research, even visiting the church where she was christened in England.

Here's to my dad's mom. She was lovely, wasn't she?

And she was a terrific grandma, teaching me about life on the farm and giving me a passion for baking.
 

She loved to laugh. And I loved her.

Here's to all the moms, past and present, the ones we knew and the ones we didn't. And if you are a mom, Happy Mother's Day.

Happy Mother's Day!

Mother's Day. It comes around once a year and it can be the hardest day of the year, bringing with it sweet memories and sadness, too. Sometimes I miss my mom so much I can't begin to pull it together. And really, it's been 41 years. I should be over this by now. (I know. You don't get over it. You just learn to work with it.)

I've been going through old files, scrapbooks, dusty boxes and anything else that might have family memorabilia in it for my genealogy project and I came across this poem.

OK. It's not art. It won't win any poetry prizes.

But I'm pretty sure my mom loved it.

We learn a lot of things from our moms and from mine I developed a love of all things creative -- art, theatre, music, crafty things; I learned to love cooking and improvising in the kitchen; I learned laughter and joy, love of family, the lake and the importance of friendships. She stressed how important it was to give back to your community, to others. I hope I also learned how to die. We'll find out someday -- hopefully not soon. Courage, strength, humor, love, grace under pressure.

Or, to paraphrase Joni Mitchell, "You don't know what you got till it's gone."

To all you moms out there, young and old, Happy Mother's Day. What you do matters.

Missing Mom

I hope you're not tired of reading Mother's Day posts. I'm not. I've read so many beautiful tributes by bloggers about their moms, alive and past. And I realize one reason why I appreciate this community of bloggers is that so many share so freely from the heart about someone who mattered deeply.

I wish I had a photo of mom doing her crafty thing. I probably do -- in the scan pile. But when people who knew her say to me "You are so much like your mom," they have it nailed.

I suspect, when I get my scanning project well under way, I will find a photo of my mom doing her thing -- making her gingermen at Christmas, cutting out wee bits of a Holly Hobbie or Anton Piek print and making dimensional collages, cooking up something tasty or using plaster sheets to make a doll over a soda bottle. 

I remember her doing needlepoint and when I was younger (like five) teaching me how to knit. I'd crawl in bed between them early in the morning, bring my knitting and drop stitches left and right. But that was OK.

When I was kid in Scouts, mom was a leader and I remember her doing crafty projects with and for us. I think my attempt at Valentine boxes probably drove her crazy but I learned! And after she tried to explain to me -- ever so gently -- that I may not be a natural born artist like my younger cousin Patty, whom I suspect was born with a pencil in her hand and that I had other gifts, like writing, and I refused to believe her, she did all she could to help me. She bought drawing books and art supplies and drew with me. And I got better!

Mom loved to cook. But when I was 18 and on one diet or another, she made me a fabulous birthday cake -- three layers! -- out of styrofoam, beautifully frosted. With candles. The nicest cake ever but no one could eat it. She'd done every diet known to humankind and knew my struggle and she would do what she could to help and not derail things -- but give me the ultimate gorgeous cake. (That photo has to get scanned too!)

 

I went to my first auction when I was in second or third grade (with a book). She was always collecting something -- antique furniture, glass, dishes. Yes, I got the dish gene from her, too. When she was dying she said, "Please don't get rid of my cut glass till you are 40. If you don't like it by then, you never will and then do what you want." I didn't get rid of it. To this day. And I use it often. (And I do have a fondness for all things vintage!)

Mom loved Christmas. Everything about Christmas was special to her, from shopping to baking to wrapping. One of the times I made her cry was at the ripe old age of early elementary. She had slaved making those candy cane cookies with two kinds of dough. I've made them and they take forever. But I didn't know that for another three decades until I tried them myself. And I didn't understand why she broke into tears when I asked her when we'd have store-bought cookies again.

She cried when she turned 40 too. So, I didn't get it and I went to show and tell and told. That didn't go over well either!

My parents were photographers with a dark room and lights. One reason I have so many photos from my childhood is that I was an only child -- and their only convenient model! But I remember my first camera when I was about nine. A Brownie, of course. So I could take my own photos. And as you know, I still do.

As one of the more shy and nervous people about appearing in public, theatre wasn't a normal activity for someone like me. When I auditioned for my first play and had a horrible audition experience, she cried with me. And told me not to give up. I got a little part. That, and her support, helped build confidence and a passion. Lots more parts came later. She and Dad were my biggest fans coming to everything I did -- usually more than once. In high school they'd host cast parties. She was always a part of "what was happening." My friends seemed to love her, too. Always a plus.

And she loved the theatre. She took me to my first play when I was probably five and made sure I saw plenty of live theatre at a young age. She fully supported voice lessons and was a tough but constructive critic when I'd practice singing to Barbra Streisand and Mary Martin (because teenager who thinks they are Barbra Streisand or Mary Martin is a little too cocky!) Kind but honest.

She and dad didn't really want me to be a theatre major -- not without a teaching certificate. So I complied till my senior year. And when I backed out, graduated, started and dropped out of grad school the first time and ended up with exciting jobs (working at a drug store and being a bookkeeper, which really is a job never to be given to a math-phobe) she never said "I told you so."

My mother was the one who instigated our move from my first real childhood home and elementary school when I was in sixth grade. It was a very homogenous neighborhood and she felt I was becoming pretty blase and unimpressed by things -- a bad quality in one who is ten. And, she knew, probably in large part because of her experiences teaching elementary school in a pretty rough end of town at the time, that I would have a lifetime of being with people from all backgrounds, religions and races. And I'd better get used to that. So we moved to a district where I would be in a highly integrated high school. It was the best thing they ever could have done for me and taught me that my friends could be of any race, religion or socioeconomic status. If they were good kids, that was good enough.

My mother loved to party and to play. I remember her getting dressed up for some function. She loved it! 

And she adored the lake where she had grown up as a child each summer and instilled that love in me. I have loads of memories of my mom and aunts at the lake, sitting on the porch, laughing for hours. My love of family comes from her in great part as well.

 

Family. Oh yes, when you got the sisters together it was always talk-talk-talk, non-stop. And if one did or got something, the others had to do it, too.

With her sister Grace, my uncle Martin and Dad

With her older sister, Iris

Of course the family that she loved most was my dad and me. They were so unalike when they met. She was from a fairly well to do background, pillar of the community family. Dad was from a farm who struggled during the Depression.

But this short, shrimpy little woman and the big tall guy were wonderfully compatible. The only quarrel I can ever remember hearing them have was on picking the restaurant where to eat dinner. To this day I'm generally pretty happy to let someone else make that decision.

 

She loved to travel and one of the best experiences of my life was visiting a place we both felt close to -- England. The two of us went when i graduated from college. I didn't realize at the time her cancer had started. Neither did she. I just thought she was a tired, old person. (And, a younger one than I am now!) We hit Stratford and Cambridge, did brass rubbings and saw seven plays. Most of

all, we laughed a lot. 

And she volunteered. Her two big things were Junior League and hospital auxiliary, along with church activities. When she volunteered at the resale shop, I'd go along. I have a great fondness for resale shops. And a string of volunteer tasks in my past and present.

My mother grew up and lived in the same city all her life, apart from college and a teaching stint out of town. She taught me city history when we planted flowers at the cemeteries for my grandparents. When I go through town I see the place she was born and raised, the spot I first called home as an infant (well, I didn't know it then!), the houses we lived in later years, the hospital where she died. My roots here run deep. Very deep.

I make her sound like a saint. She could have her snotty moments, too! Especially when she and her sisters got together. But she was really pretty mellow, caring and outgoing and compassionate. She knew how to live and live well. And by that, I mean "live good." (And do I get the snotty gene sometimes? Who me? Oh NO! Not ever!) Right.

And she knew how to die well. I've said before, probably here, that this may well have been her greatest lesson to me. Courage in the face of pain. Joy and a smile whenever possible. Upbeat attitude. A cute dressing gown, wig in place. And Hope. Always hope. Teaching me how to live while dying.

The last photo of Mom before she died in 1977

Which might have been why I really didn't think she would die. I was 25. And I knew. Yes, I knew. But I didn't want to believe it. And I sure wasn't ready to grieve it. Not for another six or seven years. I've learned a lot since then.

She left before I landed in the right career with the right man by my side and two great little boys who are now young men. She would have reveled in Greg's art, adored Rick's classical guitar and baking skills (and freaked out with me when he goes on his long cycling excursions) and loved being with Kevin, Molly and our Baby Grand. She wouldn't freak out about changing him like I do. (I'll get over it.)

That makes me really sad and Mother's Day is probably my hardest day of the year. Harder than her birthday or even the anniversary of her death. Her gifts were great ones, though. Gifts I see and live with each and every day of the year. The things I inherited from her are all wonderful -- the cut glass, the dishes, the jewelry, a thousand photos (I think!) -- those are all good. 

But they aren't the real gifts. I live the real gift when I pick up a paintbrush, write a blog post, support a cause that makes a difference, make some new dish in the kitchen, watch the sunset on the beach up north, arrange flowers, take a photo or sit in a dark auditorium and wait for the curtain to rise.

When I visit Southern Exposure and see women my age there with their moms, I get a pang of envy. She would love that so much. But I'd like to think she knows all about it. And road trips to the lake, visits with the cousins, the happiness I feel with my family and friends.

Because really, she's sort of there. I may not be able to see her. But I like to think she's still there.

Remembering Mom on Mother's Day Weekend

Mother's Day is "one of those days." And this year, it comes only a few days after what would be her 97th birthday and only a couple of weeks past the 38th anniversary of her death. Needless to say, I have some very clunky emotional moods and moments in spring. (And yes, it gets easier and no, it never stops.)

I got my cooking passion from mom!

So, please indulge me while I share a few of my favorite photos of my mom, who left all too young and missed oh, so much.

She didn't know when this photo was taken that 40 years later our cottage would be next door to this wall

She was the third of four sisters and for a brief few years also had a younger brother. Throughout their lives they were close, although one sister died when I was only five and her children, all under 13. (The oldest, however, lived well into her 90s.)

At the lake -- Mom is the one laughing in front.

On Grace's wedding day with my grandparents

Gracie, here, died exactly seven months after my mom. I was 25, Grace's kids younger. So most of my cousins have had full lifetimes without our moms to share them with.

I love the old photos. They tell stories of my mom that I remember hearing. I wish I knew more. Some of the photos are stories in themselves. I'm told this photo was once used in an Oldsmobile ad -- it's Mom with her mom and brother. I'd love to find the real ad!

I don't know what it was about old cars, but I love these photos, too. They tell stories, they tell of a time.

I think she was older in this one -- not much. But the faded color leads me to believe this might have been a bit later.

There were times at the lake with her friend Fran. I cherish my visits with Fran who reminds me so much of the vitality and energy of my mom, the mom who would have made it to 97 years. The first person I go see when I get up north is Fran and I'm always delighted with the stories she shares.



But as much as I love these classics, my favorite photos are those from my lifetime. Mom and Dad loved hanging out with my her sister Grace and Marty. All gone now, but oh, the fun times. (None of us can remember why they were all dressed up while at the lake!) No one ever laughed more than my parents when they were with my aunts and uncles. One night while playing cards on the porch, my cousins and I heard continual merriment as the adults took an evening float-boat ride and passed the house more than a few times, the laughter and merriment increasing with every passing moment!.

A rare dress-up photo from the lake

At a wedding where we only knew each other -- Maybe it was more fun that way!

My mom adored Christmas. The house was always decorated to the hilt. Yes, I inherited that addiction. And the ornaments.

I also still have -- somewhere -- my dad's ugly Christmas pants and mom's skirt. Couldn't let that one go (Actually, these aren't the really ugly pants. Those were plaid.)

She was incredibly brave through her cancer and made wise, tough decisions during my childhood (along with my dad) that helped shape the person I am today. She loved to laugh and she loved presents and celebrations. She loved road trips, the lake, her family, everything I ever did, my friends, beautiful jewelry, England, cooking and fun.

But most of all, she loved Dad and Me.

How I wish I could take her to lunch for her birthday, find her the most fun presents, take her on a special day out or enjoy another trip to England together.

She carried her cancer with more elegance, grace, hope and optimism than anyone I've ever met.

She taught me to deal with things -- pain, bad days, fear. To be able to share them but not obsess on them -- at least, not too much with others. She taught me how to live while dying. When she was in the hospital there was always laughter, sleepovers, guests. I asked her once if all that tired her out and she said "I'll get my sleep."

So, here's to my mom -- and to all of you who are mothers or have their moms still. Yes, they all can be annoying or aggravating at times, they make mistakes, the can drive us nuts. But they gave us a great gift by bringing us into this world. They lived lives we'll never really know or understand because every time or era, every situation is different. But they are our moms, and they deserve a day. This day.

And if you are lucky enough to still have one, ask them about their lives, their childhood, take them to dinner or call. Because some day, you won't be able to -- and you'll really wish you could.