In the “Age of Innocence,” (if there were ever a time), they used to say, “I didn’t think they’d try it on,” meaning, I didn’t think they’d have the guts to do it. Some may have said that about my mother, but not me.
I’m not sure she ever really knew how brave she was. I know she wanted to be. I guess I knew first, because my grandfather told me. Standing in the kitchen, opposite the sink – grandma in elbow deep – in front of the window that framed the stripped and hanging cow from the tree, he told me I could turn in, or turn out. That I could armored like my Aunt Kay, or be open like my mother. He didn’t mark either as good or bad, both would be difficult, it was just a choice. My mother returned from the other room. Broken, she had the guts to still be ruffled in white. I had already made my choice. To be wounded, but still believe in love, I would ever be “trying it on.”
It was years later, I relayed his message to her. She hadn’t known that he saw her. It wasn’t the way. I suppose it was thought, “Well, it goes without saying…” but mostly I think that means it simply goes unsaid. I can’t let it be one of those times. Ever ruffled in ruffles, I come to the page, to the canvas, to you, wide open, daily. And on those days when you think you don’t have the strength, the courage, the will, you will think of these words, these images, see my mother’s face and heart, and you will find yourself “trying it on.”
We didn’t have computers when we were young, but we did have “influencers.” Our dining room tables served as our home screens, and we uncomfortably and sometimes reluctantly sat around the table we never used for meals, and oohed and aaahed at the Tupperware or the candles, the home decor that everyone had, and the baskets that no one could afford. The host, (we didn’t have the trendy word for it then) told us how our lives would be so much better if we only had this container that she burped to everyone’s approval, the candle she lit as if it were a sacrifice of all things ordinary, and filled the woven baskets with things we couldn’t afford, or perhaps didn’t even want.
I didn’t have to look up from my mother’s knee to see her eyes rolling. I could feel them wander. Feel her chest rise and fall, keeping time with the second hand on the clock. Watch her pretend to read the order form and slip it under the placemat. It’s so easy now to swipe the screen, but it was almost impossible to do the same with neighbors or sisters-in-law. Yet she, we, made our own way.
I’m not sure what it was that made my mom want something different. Made her repeal against the influence. To not follow the trend, but create a style. Be it home or fashion, the thought of someone sporting the same look as her was repulsive. And oh, I loved her for it. Now, you might say, well, she was just “influencing you”… but I say no, I was inspired. Inspired to create my own self. My own style. What’s the difference you may ask? I think to be influenced is an ending, but to be inspired, oh to be inspired, this is to begin! What a gift this is! To not be trapped at the unused table but be set free through the swinging back door!
So I won’t tell you what to do. I’ll only fling open the door. Open all the windows. The rest is up to you! Enjoy!
