I see my mother in a brown dress with a flash of deep yellow across it. Handsome! I hear her footsteps as she walks up the street and when she returns home.
She had a wonderfully deep contralto, giving recitals throughout Bristol and singing with friends at our regular musical evenings, where my brother and I would sit one step up from the bottom stair to listen until Mother mentioned supper. It wasn't until she lived with me in Guilderland that I learnt that she knew we were there all the time!
My mom, wearing striped, multicolored pants and a faded man tailored shirt topped with a helmet like an upside down bowl rides her bike to the beach at the lake. Arrived, she chats with everyone already lounging there. The isolation of our house has prevented her from assaulting passersby for conversation . While she talks, she strips to an unremarkable bathing suit grabbed from a random bargain rack. Saying goodbye, she slowly walks into the lake, dips under the rope that demarcates the swimming area, and glides impossibly slowly down the lake. Breaststroke, backstroke, side stroke, she glides past silent docks and the occasional fisherman in his rowboat. Through weeds, around lily pads, breast, back, side, she persists, until only by squinting can a small dot be seen hovering between water and sky.
This is such a meditative picture. I'm completely absorbed in it, beginning with "saying goodbye" and the listing of all the strokes. "She glides past silent docks and the occasional fisherman in his rowboat." The post has the quality of an epic journey.
My mother was a tiny woman who managed to combine chronic anxiety chronic depression, and chronic insomnia into one seamless entity. I picture her at the kitchen table trying to decide what would be her major worry of the day. In spite of all this, I never questioned for one second that she loved me like crazy.
I rejoice in the last sentence of your comment. The women of the 40s and 50s carried a heavy burden, don't you think? I wonder what your internal response to her suffering was when you were a child.
I was fundamentally sympathetic and loving. I knew she was in a difficult marriage and felt trapped. Fortunately, I had a wise and thoughtful older sister who gave me lots of guidance.
My mum is modelling her fall coat for me - mustard yellow cloth, big buttons, wide fur lapel collar and cuffs. Oh, and a belt. She holds her handbag just so, and turns to show me the side view. We both love it!
How old are you in this scene? I don't remember my mother modeling for me, but I always tried on new clothes for both my parents and swirled around to show them off. Then the pinning and hemming would begin.
Thanks Susie....I see my mom in dozens of ways, but often through the lens of her culinary support. Here's a piece of wrote for Guesthouse the examines just that....
Thanks for the Meat, Mom
While I foraged the fridge for other delights, her meat got me through. Sometimes after school, it drove me home through the swampy woods. And when I was lucky, she’d have foil-wrapped flank steak waiting. Charred on the outside, bloody in its center, ready to be sliced ever so thinly, it beckoned.
Her company ham smelled bright and salty. It was meaty rather than slippery in texture, which made me strangely proud. On a good day, I would uncurl my brown bag lunch and reach inside for a sandwich graced with her ham. My sisters carried only one sandwich to that cement school. How early on was it that I ate two? Because I asked for more, she complied. No questions asked.
I loved the dense white bread against the roof of my mouth, which always followed the sharp tang of the mustard and salty ham. That ham pulled me away from that lunchroom smell, the roar of my classmates. And after I ate them, the weight of her meaty sandwiches slowed me down. They made it so that I could walk with deliberation back to my classroom to face the shame of my subpar reading group, where I’d try to decipher the incomprehensible tangle of words on the page.
By high school, the rich aroma of leftovers in our bag lunches embarrassed my sisters. But waiting in my locker, her lunches supported me—especially sukiyaki after my birthday and brisket after Passover, laid onto rye bread with thinly sliced pickles.
Decades later, I’m not sure if her meat was a mother’s love, but it felt like it. Did she know I was out there, leaping toward the strong taste of meat, each meal a stepping-stone out?
Oh...this is wonderful, Amy. A whole essay on meat and a mother's love! Can't get over "It was meaty rather than slippery in texture, which made me strangely proud." The whole subject of the quality and frequency of a mother's cooking is deep. My mother was competent but unimaginative and never as intimate as I gather yours was.
I see my Mom, short and stern, disapproving and intolerant, trying to control her environment. Her lips are pursed and she can hardly keep it together. And I also see her smiling and watching me drink and eat an enormous ice cream soda in a booth with red vinyl seats. I had to stand on the seat to drink it. See where I got my love for sweets?
Crazy about the detail. I get such a visceral sense of how one personality can go in many different directions. I wonder how the two different experiences of your mother sit in your body. I also have vivid memories of drinking chocolate frosteds at the very high counter at Schrafft's on 82nd street next to my mother.
My Mom is young and she is clothed in the fashions of the 40’s and 50’s. She is teaching me about Jesus and telling me that the candle that is lit 24/7 in Catholic Churches all over the world means that He is present with us.....Emmanuel/God with us. She is proud of me and so happy to be with Christopher and her great grandson in Heaven. Love you Mom.....I forgive you. Please forgive me. Amen
My mother is sitting at her vanity table applying her make-up. Powder, pink rouge, blue eyeshadow and purplish lipstick.
I see my mother in a brown dress with a flash of deep yellow across it. Handsome! I hear her footsteps as she walks up the street and when she returns home.
I appreciate the soundscape, Ronnie. I wonder if she had a mellifluous voice like yours.
She had a wonderfully deep contralto, giving recitals throughout Bristol and singing with friends at our regular musical evenings, where my brother and I would sit one step up from the bottom stair to listen until Mother mentioned supper. It wasn't until she lived with me in Guilderland that I learnt that she knew we were there all the time!
My mom, wearing striped, multicolored pants and a faded man tailored shirt topped with a helmet like an upside down bowl rides her bike to the beach at the lake. Arrived, she chats with everyone already lounging there. The isolation of our house has prevented her from assaulting passersby for conversation . While she talks, she strips to an unremarkable bathing suit grabbed from a random bargain rack. Saying goodbye, she slowly walks into the lake, dips under the rope that demarcates the swimming area, and glides impossibly slowly down the lake. Breaststroke, backstroke, side stroke, she glides past silent docks and the occasional fisherman in his rowboat. Through weeds, around lily pads, breast, back, side, she persists, until only by squinting can a small dot be seen hovering between water and sky.
This is such a meditative picture. I'm completely absorbed in it, beginning with "saying goodbye" and the listing of all the strokes. "She glides past silent docks and the occasional fisherman in his rowboat." The post has the quality of an epic journey.
Thanks
My mother was a tiny woman who managed to combine chronic anxiety chronic depression, and chronic insomnia into one seamless entity. I picture her at the kitchen table trying to decide what would be her major worry of the day. In spite of all this, I never questioned for one second that she loved me like crazy.
I rejoice in the last sentence of your comment. The women of the 40s and 50s carried a heavy burden, don't you think? I wonder what your internal response to her suffering was when you were a child.
I was fundamentally sympathetic and loving. I knew she was in a difficult marriage and felt trapped. Fortunately, I had a wise and thoughtful older sister who gave me lots of guidance.
My mum is modelling her fall coat for me - mustard yellow cloth, big buttons, wide fur lapel collar and cuffs. Oh, and a belt. She holds her handbag just so, and turns to show me the side view. We both love it!
How old are you in this scene? I don't remember my mother modeling for me, but I always tried on new clothes for both my parents and swirled around to show them off. Then the pinning and hemming would begin.
Thanks Susie....I see my mom in dozens of ways, but often through the lens of her culinary support. Here's a piece of wrote for Guesthouse the examines just that....
Thanks for the Meat, Mom
While I foraged the fridge for other delights, her meat got me through. Sometimes after school, it drove me home through the swampy woods. And when I was lucky, she’d have foil-wrapped flank steak waiting. Charred on the outside, bloody in its center, ready to be sliced ever so thinly, it beckoned.
Her company ham smelled bright and salty. It was meaty rather than slippery in texture, which made me strangely proud. On a good day, I would uncurl my brown bag lunch and reach inside for a sandwich graced with her ham. My sisters carried only one sandwich to that cement school. How early on was it that I ate two? Because I asked for more, she complied. No questions asked.
I loved the dense white bread against the roof of my mouth, which always followed the sharp tang of the mustard and salty ham. That ham pulled me away from that lunchroom smell, the roar of my classmates. And after I ate them, the weight of her meaty sandwiches slowed me down. They made it so that I could walk with deliberation back to my classroom to face the shame of my subpar reading group, where I’d try to decipher the incomprehensible tangle of words on the page.
By high school, the rich aroma of leftovers in our bag lunches embarrassed my sisters. But waiting in my locker, her lunches supported me—especially sukiyaki after my birthday and brisket after Passover, laid onto rye bread with thinly sliced pickles.
Decades later, I’m not sure if her meat was a mother’s love, but it felt like it. Did she know I was out there, leaping toward the strong taste of meat, each meal a stepping-stone out?
Oh...this is wonderful, Amy. A whole essay on meat and a mother's love! Can't get over "It was meaty rather than slippery in texture, which made me strangely proud." The whole subject of the quality and frequency of a mother's cooking is deep. My mother was competent but unimaginative and never as intimate as I gather yours was.
Thanks Susie. It was published in Guesthouse along with a few other shorties!
I see my Mom, short and stern, disapproving and intolerant, trying to control her environment. Her lips are pursed and she can hardly keep it together. And I also see her smiling and watching me drink and eat an enormous ice cream soda in a booth with red vinyl seats. I had to stand on the seat to drink it. See where I got my love for sweets?
Crazy about the detail. I get such a visceral sense of how one personality can go in many different directions. I wonder how the two different experiences of your mother sit in your body. I also have vivid memories of drinking chocolate frosteds at the very high counter at Schrafft's on 82nd street next to my mother.
I remember standing on the red vinyl seats I order for my lips to reach the straw - our favorite place, Carol’s, in the Bronx
Where was this in the Bronx? Was that where you grew up?
I am not sure, we lived in the Bronx my first year of life.. grew up in Westchester.
My Mom is young and she is clothed in the fashions of the 40’s and 50’s. She is teaching me about Jesus and telling me that the candle that is lit 24/7 in Catholic Churches all over the world means that He is present with us.....Emmanuel/God with us. She is proud of me and so happy to be with Christopher and her great grandson in Heaven. Love you Mom.....I forgive you. Please forgive me. Amen
There is a bright light around all of you.
Thank you 🙏🏻