My Mother's Lessons

When you're mad at someone don't hit walls (me in my teens), rather, crochet (or knit, or embroider, or do cross-stitch, or bake bread and punch the living hell out of it) and turn your anger and frustration into something useful. 

If you earned something, stand your ground and keep it.

Private snark and inside jokes are healthy. Cruelty to others is not. 

Children don't need stage mothers when they're pursuing their own interests and dreams. 

Music is essential.  Pavarotti, Gordon Lightfoot, the soundtrack from Camelot, ABBA, Charles Aznavour, beautiful arrangements of Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring, Seals and Crofts, Simon and Garfunkel, and Paul Simon solo, especially this song which she would play on repeat during drives to Fairbanks from Delta Junction figured prominently in my youth:

Recipes are important and so is sharing them. Sour cream chicken enchiladas, "fabulous franks," homemade white bread and sugar cookies were staples of my childhood. The enchiladas and cookies have traveled with me as a wife, teacher and mother and I've shared their recipes far and wide.

Name your vehicle because you're going to talk to it a lot. The first car I remember my mother owning when I was a very young child was named Piglet. 

Collect what you like even if your tastes don't match others. She started me on porcelain thimbles and small lidded boxes, while I eventually became drawn to Noritake Occupied Japan platters and Russian lacquer. 

Have a hobby, even a simple one like reading so you'll never be bored or scared when the lights go out.  They went out a LOT in Alaska, which made owning candles and oil lamps essential, too.  She had more of those than flashlights and batteries, saving the latter to give to grandchildren for reading under the covers. 

Be ready to fight, and it's okay if you cry during it.  You don't have to win, but you do have to leave a big enough mark so that everyone else knows to leave you alone, which was made easier after she started buying me steel-toed hiking boots. The advice and footwear came in handy during my years in Alaska, except in regard to the crazy girls who tried to run me down with their three-wheelers and vans. Villages (and teenage girls) can be intense. 

Support colleagues when they need and deserve it. 

Short hair works on women (she resembled Liza Minelli in my youth).

When someone bans a book, it's time to buy it, read it, and pass it on.  If you really find it meaningful, buy another copy for your bookshelf.  Our last conversation included Maus, society's painful responsibilities and obligations, and the idiocy of some people. 

Students have power.  Kids need and can handle (in many cases) the truth, and should know that there are trusted adults that aren't necessarily their parents to whom they can go and ask.

Creativity is key. Short on toys and a dollhouse that I wanted, Mom took out all of the gameboards from their boxes and gave me her scarves and small knickknacks so I could build my own.

Make Christmas magical for your children. 

Cats are wonderful companions. 

Learn to swear in other languages. Learn to speak other vocabularies, too.

Red is a power color, and big jewelry is armor. 

Always say "thank you," but don't be afraid to go all Faye-Dunaway-as-Joan-Crawford if need be. 

You don't ~need~ a man (but it's okay to want one). 

*****

There were also plenty of life lessons that I learned from my mother that steered me into making radically different decisions than she did, and I know she felt a sting every time she witnessed them.  She passed away in her bed, perhaps in her sleep, this past weekend.  Naturally, I'm reflecting on the evolution of our relationship and admittedly, the absence of her anchoring presence is both jarring and a relief. Her advice, be it sage or adopted from others, would have been doubly beneficial if she had applied it to herself, which was maddening. Knowing better was rarely followed up by doing better, which would have to be my biggest criticism of her, in a nutshell. 

I've missed her raucous laughter for decades now, as depression, a reluctance to seek therapy, a deeply ingrained desire to keep up appearances, and finally, a diagnosis of dementia perpetually delayed timely help. She was no saint and she certainly sinned, but she gave me life, and ultimately decided against placing me with the Catholic orphanage in Texas that she had us visit when I was age three or four.  I remember the orphanage's vast doll collection in glass cases along one wall of the building's main entry, and I remember her asking me if I'd like to "live with all of the beautiful dolls."  She raised me after all, a single mother in the 70s, 80s and beyond, just one example of her Mouseketeer generation.  Memories can be a burden, and I have often wondered if dementia was going to be helpful in lightening that load for her.  She was human, and with her recent passing, my examination of her in retrospect is raw. 

I anticipate that the smell of Shalimar (or the exceptionally rare Jungle Gardenia), the taste of date and marmalade pastry cookies, and of course, certain music playing in malls and elevators will trigger her memory at odd times for the remainder of my life.  Using the items that she gave to me during moments of clarity that shortly later, in her fog, she accused me of stealing from her will be bittersweet, at least for a while. Perhaps, one day, I'll meet more of her not-so-secrets that I will continue to have no choice but to accept and possibly forgive.  This week, however, begins my lesson on how to refer to her as "Mom" and "Grammy" in the past tense.  Acknowledging that I will continue to love her because of and in spite of herself and sharing the best lessons that she imparted to me as my mother are simply life's newest dance steps, added to a continuing choreography for which I am grateful.

Rest, Mom.