My mother took in ironing. Just being born, of course I didn’t have the words for it, or any words at all, but I think I knew. I could feel it, the warmth. Not the heat from the iron, nor the steam, but the balm of service done with grace.
It wasn’t humility. She wasn’t lowering herself. She loved clothes. She needed the money. She tested the quality of the fabric between thumb and forefinger. She knew how it would behave. How to make the collar and cuffs respond, not with rigidity, but a wantful desire to frame a face, release a hand. When finished, she didn’t just exchange it for cash, she showed them how to wear it — not as a mannequin, but a woman with style unpurchased. And they knew it. That’s why they came back. They could have gone to the local dry cleaner on Broadway, but they returned to my mother, in the white house, near the end of Van Dyke Road.
I watched her years later, doing it for herself, and I could still feel the hands that cupped the back of my head, marveling at the warmth against my resting spine. My mother took in ironing, and ever returned it with grace.
I don’t own a set of china. Not anymore. When I was a little girl my mom gave me a doll size set of dishes in March for my birthday. She told me about it in February, because she never could keep a gift-secret. She started slowly, displaying the wrapped box. I was in my bedroom, playing with my dolls when she set the box on the bed. “They’re going to love it,” she squealed. I smiled and kept playing. “You know, when they’re hungry or thirsty…” I may have been young, but this was not an indecipherable clue. She exchanged my Baby Malinda with the box, but told me not to shake it, because “the glass would break.” I smiled again, not because I knew what it was, which I did, but simply delighting in how much she loved giving, so much so that it simply burst at the seam of her mouth.
When I opened the present a month later, they were the most beautiful dishes I had ever seen. White with blue and red flowers. A coffee pot. Cups with saucers. Bowls. And plates. They were meant to be displayed. I wanted my entire doll family to be able to see them at all times. I made a small shelf from an Iverson’s shoe box. But how could I make them stand up? I asked my mom for help. Her eyes darted around the house. Questioning. Searching. I knew that she had the answer when her eyes sparkled. She got out the footstool. She hated heights. It made her dizzy. She must really be certain, I thought, for her to risk the spins. She placed the stool in front of the window. I had no idea what she was doing. She pulled a few drapery hooks, randomly, so you couldn’t even see the slight sag. She brought them to the table and pulled the middle tongs. They looked like small easels. We displayed the plates and the cups in her old shoebox. I was February excited for the rest of the year!
There is a slight sag, knowing that I don’t have them anymore. But it’s not noticeable, not when the memories of footstools and drapery hooks shine over the moment. I had such a mother!! This can never be boxed or shelved, but forever carried in the February of my heart.
Her birthday isn’t until July 6th, but it seems fitting to start a little early.
When the podcaster said he was going to be interviewing Carol Burnett, I could feel an extra step in my stride. I loved her. Hearing her voice, my feet walked faster, but my heart put on the brakes, because it wasn’t just true that “I loved her,” it was that “We loved her” – my mom and I. I wasn’t sure I could keep on listening. The pain was exquisite. It was no longer a Monday morning in France, it was Friday night, in Alexandria, Minnesota. In front of the tv. With my mom. Already prepared to laugh. Re-enacting last week’s episode. Draping ourselves in the curtains like “Went with the wind.”
Through the years, some would say that my mom looked like Carol Burnett, and she would smile and tug on her earlobe. That was Carol Burnett’s signal to her grandmother, the woman who raised her. Even long after her grandmother had passed, she ended each show with a tug and song, “I’m so glad we had this time together…”
Without my knowledge or permission, I was long into my walk. Still listening. Smiling. Then laughing. And just like the song stated, “Seems we just get started and before you know it, come’s the time we have to say so long.” And I was home.
I will never refuse the feelings. Tears, laughter, love, I carry them all. Even the hardest ones find their way to joy’s newest path. This morning is just getting started. I write the blog, my ear tug to the loves that got me here, and I begin — prepared to laugh. If you’re reading this, I’m so glad we have this time together.
Waiting to take the flight back to France after my last visit to my mom, sitting at the airport, lonesome, she texted me that she wanted a jacket just like my new one from Sundance. Typing in the size, credit info, her address, I began to smile. I had a beginning.
I love the Sundance store. I’ve been three times already this trip. When I see the perfect blouse, or scarf, or dress, I take a heart picture and send it up to heaven, and life keeps beginning.
When we used to go on trips, my mom and I, before returning home, we had to put a “dream in our pockets” — something new to focus on. Never the ending of this trip, but beginning a new one. I mention it only because she’s still filling my dream pockets. Yesterday, when I got the news from my publisher regarding a new painting commission, it was glorious, but not all that surprising. Returning home, I will have a new project, something to focus on that I love, a beginning.
The sun is coming through the morning window. I have all that I need, and just enough to wish for.
The first time driving into Houston I was still in my teens. My mom and I were going to see her sister Kay. The approach to the city is a cluster of freeways. I wasn’t yet sure if the rumors were true, but certainly the cars were bigger, mostly being trucks, and they were fast! I sped to keep within the blur of the car in front of me, and out of the one behind me.
The time between then and now feels almost as quick. The memories whir in multiple lanes.
Yesterday I was at the wheel again. This time my husband beside me. We got caught up in the medical district. So many hospitals. One beside the other. Each bigger than the next. I weaved my way through the care, both urgent and long, while Dominique searched for a hotel on his iPad. I could see him swiping out of the corner of my eye. “They’re so expensive,” he said.
I wasn’t surprised. This I had known from being a teenager as well. Being a teenager always in the hospital. My mother by my side until visiting hours were over. Having to drive in the dark. No directions, internal or external. No GPS. No phones. Having to drive beyond the security and nearness that only money could buy. She drove to what we could afford.
Anesthesia wearing off, worry setting in, I had no way to know if she made it. If she dared to close her eyes. Dared the comfort of sleep. Miles apart. Still. Quiet. We waited for morning’s heal.
Time has blurred so much, but not the love. Not the love that I felt as my hospital door opened and my mother’s smiling face entered. What she did for me. Still does.
It’s not a spoiler to say that we made it. Then and now.
Life moves pretty fast. Somehow, slowly, thoughtfully, joyfully, we save each other along the way.
From the moment she introduced the assignment to the class, I had a plan. It wouldn’t be hard to find a shoe box to make the diorama. My mom loved shoes. She had a closet full of them.
Mrs. Bergstrom told us that we were going to make a “slice of life” — capture a miniature moment. We could do anything. She suggested scissors and cardboard and paint and crayons. Glue of course, Elmer’s. My head was spinning. Oh, how I loved to make things.
There was an hour after I got off the bus before my mom got home from work. I could have waited. I should have waited. But my seven year old self whispered, then shouted, “Don’t wait!” I opened my mother’s closet and took out the first box in reach. I took out the shiny shoes neatly resting head to toe in tissue paper. I’d like to think There was a moment I think, I hope, that I thought of keeping them wrapped in the tissue paper, but then that shouting self said it might be useful for my diorama — “If you colored it blue and crinkled it up, glued it to the box, it could be one of our 10,000 lakes.” The shoes were left naked on the floor.
I was knee deep, literally, in cuts and folds and colors by the time my mom got home. I was all smiles when I looked up at her from her bedroom floor. Holding the cut-out of myself.
She didn’t return a look of delight like I was expecting. No, it was a look I had never seen before. Deflation. I had been so busy trying to create my own slice, that I forgot about hers.
“It’s my slice of life…” I said sheepishly. She nodded. “And also mine,” she added. She helped me pick up the mess. Put it all on the kitchen table. She wasn’t mad. She even helped me finish. But I knew at that moment, it wasn’t all about me. I took special care to add lovely shoes to the figure that represented her in my tiny box. We were in this together.
I painted a bookmark yesterday of Maya Angelou. At the top are her words, “Then when you know better, do better.” It’s a good reminder for me. It’s simple, but so worth repeating. We are not alone in this life. We would do well to remember as we wander through each other’s dioramas. The word itself in French means, “through that which is seen.” My mother saw me. And I saw her. And oh, how she she made me, still makes me, want to do better.
I read it every year — Maya Angelou’s An Amazing Peace. It is the manger of my Christmas decor. I don’t remember each word by heart, but the feeling, oh, the feeling that these words create — of understanding, of trial, of joy, of hope…and peace, well, they are permanently engraved in my heart. And those feelings latch on to memory and time. Of what was, what is, and what could be. And I live there, coddled in every word. Piece by piece. Peace by peace.
This is the first year that I don’t have the book beside me. It rests seven hours ahead in another country. But I am not without it. “I am not without.” I say the words slowly, truly, and perhaps learn the meaning of Christmas once more.
Isn’t it the same with love? It may not sit beside us. But we are never without. This is my truest peace. I hope you can feel it — on this joyous of days — ever.
Merry Christmas, everyone. It is amazing.
“ Peace, My Brother. Peace, My Sister. Peace, My Soul.” Maya Angelou
There is a natural instinct, I suppose, when you experience something wonderful, to want others to feel the same. “You’ve gotta taste this,” we say. “You’ve got to see this!” And I enjoy sharing things from around the world. But these are the obvious things. The guaranteed positive response. The Eiffel Tower, example. The Vatican. I feel blessed to have stood beside the Colosseum. Floated in Venice. But it’s not a surprise really. I expect people to like these photos.
Winter in Minneapolis. Not the expected destination for travel. But there is beauty. And I see it. Maybe it’s all just a reflection of the people I’m with, but the light!!!! The beautiful light of this city. One that I claim. This is something! I shared the image with my French family. When she replied, in French, how beautiful she thought the light was, it made me feel special. Not just because I took the photo. But that she could see it too. We were a little more connected. Sharing this truth.
It’s why I share the stories of the places I love, but even more so, the people. When I wrote this poem about my mother, The Truth about you, I did it because sometimes I just can’t imagine the incredible luck, the pure blessing, of having such a mother, and I just want everyone to know. To see it. To see her. So pardon my repeats, as I keep spreading the news. The joy. The love I have for my mom, my city. This world.
The light is coming in from the window. I hope when you see it this morning, you will know, it’s for you too!
I suppose it all takes time. To see the ordinary. And to appreciate it. Those of you that follow me here, have come, I hope, to know my grandparents, my mother, my schoolmates, and teachers. Some might say “just plain folks.” And that’s probably true. But maybe that’s the real beauty of it all. To find the spectacular in farmers, housewives and receptionists. To see the extraordinary in the daily living.
And in seeing them, it helps me see myself. Helps me find the gratitude of the day given. Of the toast for breakfast. The smell of coffee. The hand that reaches out for mine.
I am reading the book, “Love, Kurt (The Vonnegut Love Letters). I have this book, only because I have a special friend. Last year, together with our husbands, we went to Stillwater, MN. My friend and I stood in the bookstore as if before the Christmas morning tree. So many gifts in front of us, we had a hard time deciding. We each settled on our present. I loved her choice as much as mine. This year, she gave her book to me. Those simple words don’t seem to give it enough meaning, but I will tell you that it fills my heart. It brings me back to a laughter filled day on brisk streets and slow choices. It, for me too, is a love letter.
In the book, Kurt Vonnegut writes with his young pen, to his young wife, “Angel, will you stick by me if it goes backwards and downwards? Holy smokes, Angel: what if I turn out to be just plain folks?” Tears fill my eyes. I imagine we’ve all had the worries. Will I be special enough to be loved?
It’s these memories, of course, that give me that comfort. That give me the yes. My heart is packed full of the love from these glorious and plain folks. And I have loved them. Love them still. And I am one. Proud to be living with these extraordinary people. It is plain to see, they, we, are more than enough to be loved.
I can feel her eye roll all the way from heaven as I sit in the hotel breakfast lounge. Not for me, of course. She would never have allowed me to go out into a public area dressed like that. She led by example. Hair, make-up, clothes — even when at their most casual — impeccable. And I wanted to be just like her.
When I was old enough, she got me my own starter kit for make-up. Most likely they were the free gifts from her purchases. She wanted me to learn with my own products. And not to mess up hers. This was clear from my earliest of memories. If I wanted to dunk my cookie, she gave me my own cup of coffee. And so it was with make-up. With clothes. I could admire her shoes, but never walk around in them. Because these things were special. They meant something. She took pride in herself. To be tall in stature was good, to be tall in self-worth was priceless.
And so we dressed for the occasion. Each day was just that. Whether we were toasting, or just going to the lobby for toast. I finished my morning coffee, not in judgement, but in thanks. I stand tall. Every day. My mother still sees to that.
