She once worked as a gift-wrapper and included a note in one of the boxes: "Help me! I'm being held prisoner in a gift-wrapping factory!" Her boss was not happy.
She can make a face like a cat. And a lizard.
She does a wicked Cartman impression.
She writes poetry. About egg salad sandwiches.
She told me to relax and drink a beer when I was freaking out about my grades in college.
She can row a canoe and rig a fishing pole at the same time.
She takes seven minutes to tell a two minute story.
She's the Scrabble queen. A shit talker and a poor loser.
She feeds her grandKid ice cream and brownies at nine o'clock in the morning.
She is constant laughter and optimism. I don't call her enough, but when I do, she is genuine encouragement.
She is me in 30 years. I could do worse.
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Folklore and Fish Tales Friday: New Mexico Cabin
My grandfather was a one-handed insurance salesman. He left his family in Texas one winter to buy a cabin in New Mexico, a vacation spot for his wife and children. When he was away he wrote letters to his family, telling them about the blizzards he drove through and his negotiations to purchase the land and the building. The letters are over fifty years old, as is the cabin. The letters end with "kisses and hugs to my girls." I know this because I've held the old letters and felt their paper, like cloth, while sitting at the cabin's small dinner table. My grandfather died when my mom was still young, and I never met him.
It's one of those places linked to its surroundings. It wouldn't be the cabin without the trees sloping down the hill, or the rocky earth, so many round rocks that beg for countless hands to line them along paths, to pick them up and place them again on trails after they've rolled down the hill. The dirt roads snaking to all the little vacation homes lead to green views and to the small town of Eagle Nest and further, to the lake and the river, where my mom learned to fish.
The card-playing is done with one eye on the cards and one out the window, waiting for the birds to find the gluttony of seed laid out for them. There's a fireplace, and a kitchen, and two bedrooms. The furniture is decades old, and the books are too. The food on the pantry shelves often expires before anyone can cook it - there are cans of beans from the 1980s and popcorn with a plastic smell. There's a three-ring binder filled with "Cabin Notes," in which each visitor attempts to recount their trip and ends up writing about the people they came with: "We went fishing at the lake today and Papa couldn't figure out how to steer the boat" and "It rained hard today and Gram beat everyone at hearts again; Mom made soup and we laughed and laughed" and "Our last day, but we don't want to leave - work awaits."
There's the cabin folklore:
Have I told you about the time the bear tried to take our fish on the river? Your Papa stood between the bear and the stringer.
Remember when we found the baby magpie and tried to save it? It's buried at the cabin on the path to the outhouse.
That's where the wasp nest was, the one we all stepped in. Good thing Uncle Prunie was there when I was stung right on my eyelid.
And older stories:
Daddy put us on the horses and I thought my mother was going to die - she was so afraid for us!
I couldn't see ten feet in front of me in the blizzard - it took us eight hours just to get to the cabin from the state line.
Fifty years ago, my mother and her family spent their cabin time fishing and riding horses and running through the tall thick pines. In my office, I have a black and white photograph of Mom when she was ten years old. She's got her nose up and is stretched out, pointing one toe and holding up a fishing pole with a four inch trout on its string. She's quite the angler, so much so that when I became a game warden I had to break it to her that she could no longer catch my dad's fish for him (that's called party fishing, ma, and it's illegal).
It's the cabin, this space my grandfather carved for his family so many years ago, that gave my mother her love of the outdoors. It's why she dreamed of living in the country, and why my sister and I grew up where we did, twenty miles from the nearest town, with horses and chickens and a cabin-like home of our own. It's my mother who gave me the idea that problems can be solved as long as you get a good night's sleep and have the time to take a walk in the woods.
Because of the cabin, I have a tangible connection to a man I've never met.
It's one of those places linked to its surroundings. It wouldn't be the cabin without the trees sloping down the hill, or the rocky earth, so many round rocks that beg for countless hands to line them along paths, to pick them up and place them again on trails after they've rolled down the hill. The dirt roads snaking to all the little vacation homes lead to green views and to the small town of Eagle Nest and further, to the lake and the river, where my mom learned to fish.
The card-playing is done with one eye on the cards and one out the window, waiting for the birds to find the gluttony of seed laid out for them. There's a fireplace, and a kitchen, and two bedrooms. The furniture is decades old, and the books are too. The food on the pantry shelves often expires before anyone can cook it - there are cans of beans from the 1980s and popcorn with a plastic smell. There's a three-ring binder filled with "Cabin Notes," in which each visitor attempts to recount their trip and ends up writing about the people they came with: "We went fishing at the lake today and Papa couldn't figure out how to steer the boat" and "It rained hard today and Gram beat everyone at hearts again; Mom made soup and we laughed and laughed" and "Our last day, but we don't want to leave - work awaits."
There's the cabin folklore:
Have I told you about the time the bear tried to take our fish on the river? Your Papa stood between the bear and the stringer.
Remember when we found the baby magpie and tried to save it? It's buried at the cabin on the path to the outhouse.
That's where the wasp nest was, the one we all stepped in. Good thing Uncle Prunie was there when I was stung right on my eyelid.
And older stories:
Daddy put us on the horses and I thought my mother was going to die - she was so afraid for us!
I couldn't see ten feet in front of me in the blizzard - it took us eight hours just to get to the cabin from the state line.
Fifty years ago, my mother and her family spent their cabin time fishing and riding horses and running through the tall thick pines. In my office, I have a black and white photograph of Mom when she was ten years old. She's got her nose up and is stretched out, pointing one toe and holding up a fishing pole with a four inch trout on its string. She's quite the angler, so much so that when I became a game warden I had to break it to her that she could no longer catch my dad's fish for him (that's called party fishing, ma, and it's illegal).
It's the cabin, this space my grandfather carved for his family so many years ago, that gave my mother her love of the outdoors. It's why she dreamed of living in the country, and why my sister and I grew up where we did, twenty miles from the nearest town, with horses and chickens and a cabin-like home of our own. It's my mother who gave me the idea that problems can be solved as long as you get a good night's sleep and have the time to take a walk in the woods.
Because of the cabin, I have a tangible connection to a man I've never met.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Kids and Chickens
She must have felt completely satisfied to be growing so many things at once: babies, swiss chard, rhubarb, corn, peas, carrots and beans. Her dream was to live in the country and raise kids and chickens. I grew up knowing that when my mother was pregnant, she chopped wood and hauled water. My parents' house at the time had no running water, no solar power - just a pump about 100 yards from the house and gas lamps. My ma banked the fires and used them to heat the water for baths and to cook every meal. And to hear her talk about it, she was radiant the whole time.
When my hips and back ache at work, when I feel too tired to keep my eyes open at my desk, I think about my mother and how much she did while she gestated. And I'm ashamed to be so focused on the discomfort. I come from wood-chopping, woods-hiking, bad-ass, child-bearing women; what's a little desk job?
And after all, I have so much more to do than she ever had, right? I scratch my head when I think of my mom and the fact that she never wanted to have a career. She was a working mom for most of my childhood, but out of necessity and not by choice. I proudly (arrogantly) hold my career up as a badge of honor. I'm a working mom, I have EVERYTHING on my plate. And I'm doing it while I'm pregnant. How could my mother know what I'm going through? How could she ever understand?
I tell myself these stories, and then the stories justify ignoring her wisdom.
But my little wood-chopping ma had to move in with in-laws when I was itty-bitty, had to go back to work immediately to help pay the bills, had to put up with her aunt-in-law and outlandish advice like "put some clothes on that child and teach her some shame." Only after my parents righted their financial situation to the point where they could move back to their home did my ma take some time off to have my sister, all the while holding up the family emotionally and making sure the daily bread was on the table.
And then back to work she went, again, her heart wanting home the whole time.
I enjoy my job. I enjoy having a space where I don't have to answer to The Kid or The Old Man, where I do work that interests me, where I can navigate the policies and personalities for promotions. Sometimes - briefly - I can see why mom would have wanted to stay home to raise her children. I feel the ache in the morning when I creep out the door and The Kid is still sleeping; I feel the anticipation on the drive home when I know I'll get to see him. But for my mother to feel that ache every day, to wish herself in her garden showing her kids the bugs, to want to be in her kitchen, all six hands wrapped in afternoon cookie dough - for her to feel that ache every single day and still go to work - what would that be like?
It's a reminder that there are all kinds of strong.
When my hips and back ache at work, when I feel too tired to keep my eyes open at my desk, I think about my mother and how much she did while she gestated. And I'm ashamed to be so focused on the discomfort. I come from wood-chopping, woods-hiking, bad-ass, child-bearing women; what's a little desk job?
And after all, I have so much more to do than she ever had, right? I scratch my head when I think of my mom and the fact that she never wanted to have a career. She was a working mom for most of my childhood, but out of necessity and not by choice. I proudly (arrogantly) hold my career up as a badge of honor. I'm a working mom, I have EVERYTHING on my plate. And I'm doing it while I'm pregnant. How could my mother know what I'm going through? How could she ever understand?
I tell myself these stories, and then the stories justify ignoring her wisdom.
But my little wood-chopping ma had to move in with in-laws when I was itty-bitty, had to go back to work immediately to help pay the bills, had to put up with her aunt-in-law and outlandish advice like "put some clothes on that child and teach her some shame." Only after my parents righted their financial situation to the point where they could move back to their home did my ma take some time off to have my sister, all the while holding up the family emotionally and making sure the daily bread was on the table.
And then back to work she went, again, her heart wanting home the whole time.
I enjoy my job. I enjoy having a space where I don't have to answer to The Kid or The Old Man, where I do work that interests me, where I can navigate the policies and personalities for promotions. Sometimes - briefly - I can see why mom would have wanted to stay home to raise her children. I feel the ache in the morning when I creep out the door and The Kid is still sleeping; I feel the anticipation on the drive home when I know I'll get to see him. But for my mother to feel that ache every day, to wish herself in her garden showing her kids the bugs, to want to be in her kitchen, all six hands wrapped in afternoon cookie dough - for her to feel that ache every single day and still go to work - what would that be like?
It's a reminder that there are all kinds of strong.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Blueprints
"Like the dead-seeming, cold rocks, I have memories within that came out of the material that went to make me. Time and place have had their say." - Zora Neale Hurston, Dust Tracks on a Road
I've spent most of my adult life convincing myself I'm nothing like my mother.
My mother and father met in a laundromat. He had purchased some land, thinking his wife at the time would want to move to the country with him. As his dream came closer, his soon-to-be ex-wife moved farther away from him. He lived on a beautiful piece of land while he built his house: a floor topped with a wood framework at first, the bare bone beginning of his home. My mom moved into the start of a dream - a house so new she could see the moon straight through the skinned walls and ceiling when she fell asleep at night. My mother wanted land, wanted children, and a garden, and so did my father. They endured freezing cold nights with nothing but the structure of a house - no insulation - between them and the stars.
I spent my childhood watching them build our home. Solar power. Indoor plumbing. A blue tile floor. Carpet. A telephone. A color television with a VCR player. Two years of adding on new bedrooms. A new porch to replace the tiny one perched over the front door. Even today, a new dining room, a new kitchen. Molding their dream, solidifying their vision for themselves. Refusing to let snow and winter and mud and gas wells drive them out.
We forgive our men, my mother and I, for thinking that a home is simply wood and nails, paint and bricks, heat and water. We forgive them because we have food and shelter and laundry detergent and money for shoes and new furniture. We forgive them for not noticing our contribution to building our homes.
Our contributions are very real. Ask any woman if what she does for her family can be packaged, reproduced, sold, described in color and shape, texture and weight. She will say no. If you say, well then, your contributions are nebulous, indescribable, and therefore invalid, you would be wrong.
We keep in touch with our men's families. We send cards, letters, answer the phone when their mothers call.
We understand when our men need their space, and leave them alone.
We care for our children's emotional needs. We are the soft place to fall for our children, and this, out of all our contributions, is the most likely to be overlooked, minimized.
We plan time with our men. We insist that we get away from work and responsibility for a mental rest. We make the hotel reservations, arrange for the care of pets and kids, and check in with our men to make sure they are having a good time.
We do the chicken soup, tissue, poor baby, thermometer things when our men are sick.
We eke out time for ourselves when we can.
My mother moved into a shell - not a house, not a home, a shell - and has spent the last thirty-three years making it a home. She had the wood and the walls but where was the warmth? Where was the insulation that kept out the cold?
We believe in our dreams, we believe in our men, and so we are willing to forgive our men for forgetting the warmth, for thinking the structure of a house is enough.
I've spent most of my adult life convincing myself I'm nothing like my mother.
I've spent most of my adult life convincing myself I'm nothing like my mother.
My mother and father met in a laundromat. He had purchased some land, thinking his wife at the time would want to move to the country with him. As his dream came closer, his soon-to-be ex-wife moved farther away from him. He lived on a beautiful piece of land while he built his house: a floor topped with a wood framework at first, the bare bone beginning of his home. My mom moved into the start of a dream - a house so new she could see the moon straight through the skinned walls and ceiling when she fell asleep at night. My mother wanted land, wanted children, and a garden, and so did my father. They endured freezing cold nights with nothing but the structure of a house - no insulation - between them and the stars.
I spent my childhood watching them build our home. Solar power. Indoor plumbing. A blue tile floor. Carpet. A telephone. A color television with a VCR player. Two years of adding on new bedrooms. A new porch to replace the tiny one perched over the front door. Even today, a new dining room, a new kitchen. Molding their dream, solidifying their vision for themselves. Refusing to let snow and winter and mud and gas wells drive them out.
We forgive our men, my mother and I, for thinking that a home is simply wood and nails, paint and bricks, heat and water. We forgive them because we have food and shelter and laundry detergent and money for shoes and new furniture. We forgive them for not noticing our contribution to building our homes.
Our contributions are very real. Ask any woman if what she does for her family can be packaged, reproduced, sold, described in color and shape, texture and weight. She will say no. If you say, well then, your contributions are nebulous, indescribable, and therefore invalid, you would be wrong.
We keep in touch with our men's families. We send cards, letters, answer the phone when their mothers call.
We understand when our men need their space, and leave them alone.
We care for our children's emotional needs. We are the soft place to fall for our children, and this, out of all our contributions, is the most likely to be overlooked, minimized.
We plan time with our men. We insist that we get away from work and responsibility for a mental rest. We make the hotel reservations, arrange for the care of pets and kids, and check in with our men to make sure they are having a good time.
We do the chicken soup, tissue, poor baby, thermometer things when our men are sick.
We eke out time for ourselves when we can.
My mother moved into a shell - not a house, not a home, a shell - and has spent the last thirty-three years making it a home. She had the wood and the walls but where was the warmth? Where was the insulation that kept out the cold?
We believe in our dreams, we believe in our men, and so we are willing to forgive our men for forgetting the warmth, for thinking the structure of a house is enough.
I've spent most of my adult life convincing myself I'm nothing like my mother.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Today's Writing Prompt
From the blog http://oneminutewriter.blogspot.com/ I'm picking up today's writing prompt, Signal: Think of the biggest goal or dream you have. Is life giving you a red, yellow, or green light?
Right now, ahora, I want to improve my relationship with my mom. She and I are almost exactly alike and our relationship has degenerated into communication between strangers. I retreat into mean jokes or sarcasm or plain old silence, and I have stopped trying.
What I want for me: I want my voice to be heard.
What I want for her: I want her voice to be heard. I want her to feel safe to talk to me.
What I want for us: I want us to start having fun with each other again. I want us to be able to effectively handle conflict.
Life is giving me a green light. My mom was brave enough to come to me and tell me what her feelings were, and I thank her for that. I can be an intimidating, disrespectful, angry little shit. Strong moms don't give up on their daughters, and strong daughters can admit when they've been stuck in a pattern of making mistakes. Baba Yaga has officially kicked my ass, and I deserved the wake-up call.
My employer offers Crucial Conversations training, and it so happens that this week I'm spending three days in the training. Funny how all these mediation and conflict resolution skills are imprinted like stone in my mind at work, and when I see the people I care most about, I lose the ability to say how I feel while keeping the conversation neutral and safe.
A big push and a green light. I love you Mom.
Right now, ahora, I want to improve my relationship with my mom. She and I are almost exactly alike and our relationship has degenerated into communication between strangers. I retreat into mean jokes or sarcasm or plain old silence, and I have stopped trying.
What I want for me: I want my voice to be heard.
What I want for her: I want her voice to be heard. I want her to feel safe to talk to me.
What I want for us: I want us to start having fun with each other again. I want us to be able to effectively handle conflict.
Life is giving me a green light. My mom was brave enough to come to me and tell me what her feelings were, and I thank her for that. I can be an intimidating, disrespectful, angry little shit. Strong moms don't give up on their daughters, and strong daughters can admit when they've been stuck in a pattern of making mistakes. Baba Yaga has officially kicked my ass, and I deserved the wake-up call.
My employer offers Crucial Conversations training, and it so happens that this week I'm spending three days in the training. Funny how all these mediation and conflict resolution skills are imprinted like stone in my mind at work, and when I see the people I care most about, I lose the ability to say how I feel while keeping the conversation neutral and safe.
A big push and a green light. I love you Mom.
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