Mother's Day--I wouldn't change a thing

This weekend we celebrated me. In a note on Facebook one of our sons posted a thank-you and some very nice words about his mother (me) and his mother-in-law. I responded with tears in my eyes that I only had one ambition; to be a good mother. I hope that he reads it and understands that I didn't mean that I never wanted to do or be anything else. Motherhood happened and there was absolutely no turning back. There was a time when I thought that my mother was the greatest mom ever, but boring. She was the "June Cleaver" of the neighborhood from her perfectly ironed apron to her comfortable "at home " shoes.  With a smear of lipstick on, she'd meet Daddy at the backdoor as he came home from work. Next, after everyone had washed our hands and faces, we sat down to a perfectly orchestrated meal including a homemade dessert. I'm not kidding! Stay with me here, we did this every single day. My angst-ridden teenage self thought that her style was boring and mundane. Check out those very grown-up words, gleaned from the latest (at the time) vocabulary list. The term "role model" was far into the future and besides, I didn't see what she did as modeling. Mother told me that one day I'd need to learn some homemaking skills, but her words fell on my deaf ears.

Fast forward to my falling in love/dating/marriage/ after the honeymoon days. Oops, I should have paid more attention. I was forced to learn all those things that that my mother had warned me about, but that is a whole other post for another time.

Despite the cooking, cleaning, laundry, and just general wifey stuff; I did sometimes work outside the home. Not a career, mind you, just a means to an end. The end in our case having a little extra "pin money". That pin money sometimes fed us or paid a bill, but we could never depend on it, so when it came, it was a bonus. Sometimes the kids demeaned my stay-at-home status. They can be excused, however, because when it came time for a mom to bake cupcakes for the bake sale, drive for the field trip, organize the book sale, or help in any capacity at their school or outside activities, I volunteered or was volunteered for the job. Somewhere along the way, mothering became my career. I wouldn't change a thing.

That career has allowed me the opportunity to see a child light-up like the scoreboard at a baseball game when he or she finally "got it" after a tutoring session. Some of the kids would never have been able to go to the zoo, for instance, without career moms doing the driving. Cupcakes have become quite trendy, I see. We career moms were on the cutting edge years ago! I have cupcake pans that are older that the pyramids (not really, but that sounded good to say). Hundreds of cupcakes passed through them into the hungry mouths of as many children and a few adults along the way. We career moms have also proctored tests for English as a second language students even we if couldn't speak their language. Most important to me is that I was there for everything my children did, whether they wanted me there or not. I'd like to think that most often they wanted me there. My husband could be called a career dad, because I swear that I can't for the life of me remember his ever wanting to be anywhere more than he wanted to be with our kids and me. His responsibilities to his job could get in the way, but he somehow managed to be there for all the important events, no matter what. I wouldn't change a thing.

The young women of today are career women. They have broken the glass ceiling and are earning big bucks and slaying dragons at work. They have ipads, iphones, Twitter, Facebok, tele-commuting, tele-conferencing and wifi at the Starbucks. It's not a bad thing, mind you, to be so connected. My daughter and daughters-in-law are working mothers. They somehow get it done and manage to post pictures of the grand-darlings on Facebook so that their tech-challenged parents can see them. I admire them. They are all good mothers. They will make mistakes too just like I did and my mother before me. I can't imagine the pressure of a job as well as a home to manage! I wouldn't change a thing.

Who is baking the cupcakes? Who is organizing the book sale? Do schools even have those anymore or can a parent just offer to buy some books to be downloaded to a student's e-reader? Are all the cupcakes bakery-made? Who helps with the tutoring? It  bothers me that the young mothers of today's world are missing some joy, but it will be up to them to figure it out. I have been there and done that to replay an adage. I wouldn't change a thing.

I never set out to be the best mother on the planet. Learning along the way and trying always to be as good a mother as I could be was my only real goal. From the moment I found out that I was carrying that first child; Being a mother was my chosen career. It is one that I am proud of and still find joy in. I pray for all mothers whether they work outside the home or not. I pray for God to give them the courage and strength to handle whatever challenges their kids face. I pray that they will have the dignity and grace to see their kids through when they fail or are rejected. I pray that they can rejoice in their kids' successes and hold their hands and hearts when they are sad or dejected. My mother prayed these things for me, I know that in my heart. I was a good mother, I know that too. After all, I did have a good role model. I wouldn't change a thing.

Connections

We can go for months and sometimes years without seeing or speaking to each other and then one of us picks up the phone and we connect. The call feels like sitting together over a glass of sweet tea or a glass of wine just being together before miles separated us. The kids are older and have kids of their own in my case. She is just growing into the mother-in-law role. My husband is newly an at-home guy. Hers has been working successfully from home for years. Their reasons for being at home differ, but as we talk, I realize our concerns are the same. We talked of common things and the not so common. We talked so long that her phone battery suffered a silent death. I've been accused of having mouth the "Ever-ready Bunny" would envy, so I was happy that it was _her_ phone and not mine.

I have not always been the friend to her that I should have been. There was a time that I know now when I could and should have reached out more when I suspected that she was suffering. Letting it go and preferring to not get too involved is the mistake I apologized for making. She understood, especially now that I am the one who needs the comfort. At least she won't have to ever apologize to me for the same sin. Sometimes life gets in the way of doing the right thing. I hope to never let that happen again. Being kind to each other and standing up for one another is what friends should do, but we don't always do it. My good old sense of southern sensibility got in the way. My mother would be proud and ashamed of me at the same time. That is surely a concept that most of the rest of the world wouldn't understand, but in the south we do understand.

Friends are important. We pick them much like flowers because we like them. Sometimes they smell good and reward us with their beauty. We gather bouquets around us and enjoy them. Like flowers; friendship blooms. Our call and the connection is the rose in my bouquet.

Proud to be an American

We spent the night in a nameless ordinary hotel. Sometimes the ordinary is followed by the extraordinary and we are surprised and delighted. This was the case yesterday.

I'd never been to a citizenship ceremony before so I had really no idea what to expect. Our beautiful Luana had studied, made flash cards (besting her friends at American facts), and taken her citizenship test. now the moment had arrived for her to take the oath; to swear her allegiance to the USA. Was she nervous? Did she feel like a traitor to her home? How did her family feel? I was abuzz with the questions and she calmly stated that all was well on all counts. This was right for her and for her budding family. We felt the excitement.

I had shopped for all things American, not easy to find in the middle of February. The local party store offer up sequined tiaras, flags, bandannas, Uncle Sam hats, leis (red, white and blue of course) stars and stripes sunglasses and flag wrapped mints. I bought some of everything! She was delighted, donned the tiara, waved the flags and posed in the parking lot of the USIC building for a pre-ceremony picture.

We moved inside with a sea of what looked like a cross section of the world. Women in flowing Arab garb, dark exotic-looking turbaned men, Asian people of all colors, small laughing children and the rest of us moved through security into a holding room. Everyone had papers to present and a few last minute details to take care of and then they, the almost citizens, were ushered into the ceremony room.

We followed and were seated in a room wrapped in red, white and blue bunting with our flag proudly displayed above every thing else. My throat caught as I looked at our grand-darling quietly taking it all in. She is the perfect mingling of the genes, of course, I am biased. She won't remember the day her mother became a citizen of this great country but we who were there will weave into our family lore like a colorful comforting quilt. Each home country was recognized, 45 in all. All the right things were said by the emcee and then it was oath-taking time. Our son moved into position to record the moment. His father, his brothers and I listened as they spoke their names and promised to defend the United States with all their might. Karaoke-style we sang the "Star Spangled Banner" and said the pledge of Allegiance. The real weeping moment for me was a video of American scenes with background music. I guess it was the music. Lee Greenwood's "Proud to be an American" does it to me every time. I don't know why, but it does. "From the lakes of Minnesota to the hills of Tennessee" is the lyric that pulls at my heartstrings because we are the Hills of Tennessee. Funny. It occurred to me yesterday that my homesickness for those hills for all the years we've been North Carolina transplants, is pale in comparison to those in the room who are so far from their homeland. They, these newly minted Americans, are now our sons and daughters. They come to us from many lands and rich cultures. I wondered about all these new citizens. What were there stories? I wish I'd had the time to ask, but we raced from the room to the parking lot for more pictures and then to a celebration lunch.

That the lunch was a Mexican feast struck me as funny! Maybe it should have been hamburgers or some other American dish, but she wanted Mexican so Mexican it was. I've always joked that she is my most American child. After all, her favorite meal is the Thanksgiving meal. She claims that she dreams about the meal in November for weeks before we actually eat it! We even had it in May as a welcome dinner for her Brazilian family when they came for her wedding. There is nothing like the smell of sage, onions and roasting turkey with the a/c running!

We were not complete yesterday. A few of us were missing, but there is a cake with red, white and blue frosting in the freezer for the next time we are all together. The most important thing she said to me yesterday was to freeze the cake for the next "family" get together. Eat the cake we will. This American family knows how to celebrate.

Home

You tell me your stories and I'll tell you mine. Isn't it bizarre the way we'll strike up a conversation with a total stranger and before the coffee has a chance to chill, we've shared a slice of life?

We had just sat down to have a drink on the deck of the big ship when a burly young man joined us. You do that on a cruise. He was a roadie for a band whose groupies were ever present. He told us his stories about the endless driving, travel, long hours, no sleep and how he missed his mama and daddy. We laughed and told him our stories about our kids and their antics. We even told him about the dog (ours) who ate the bag of weed that had been left behind by a college student (also ours) and how she (the dog)was depressed but very hungry afterward. I thought that he might pop a gut laughing. That story will probably be repeated up and down the east coast forever.

That same night we sat next to a very athletic as well as attractive young couple at dinner. Married for three years both in the banking industry, I thought that they'd like our kids since they were so like them; young, attractive, athletic, hopeful, you get the picture. Two days later after several chance encounters and a few drinks with them the talk turned to children. I asked if they wanted to have kids. The young woman looked wistful and said that, yes, they would and in fact had had a son who'd lived for just two short days. He was born too soon and didn't survive. She went on to say that it had been a year that week and she'd been given the go-ahead to try again. That was the impetus for the cruise; to try again, but not to forget the first. She had done a little sun-bathing that day to build up her vitamin D . Behind the wistfulness in her eyes was a faint whisper of hope. I promised to pray for them by name. Explaining that the way I pray is not for the outcome, but rather for the good to come from the journey and the strength to handle what might come next. I pray for grace, peace, health and happiness.

While Gene slept one morning, I ventured alone to the dinning room for breakfast. Feeling very alone, I wished I'd brought my book to hide behind. I shouldn't have feared being alone, however, because I was whisked upon my arrival to a table of older ladies laughing and talking like old friends. I apologized for crashing their party, but was quickly informed that they weren't old friends at all ! Seated next to a sweet-faced lady, I ordered a hearty breakfast and begin to chat with everyone. The lady next to me was a Hospice nurse, I discovered. She was widowed, having nursed her own husband through pancreatic cancer. After his death, she sold the house and moved to the warmer south. Her two sons visit often and she had grandchildren she loved dearly. Again, I noticed something, but couldn't quite place just what. We talked education, politics and the getting older factor. As we stood to leave, she confessed that she hadn't told the whole story about her children. There had been a daughter, gone now nine years. No, she affirmed, you don't ever get over "it"; you just go on and embrace the new normal. "It" happened when the girl was just 18 and full of college dreams. The night before the move to her new campus home the girl and a friend were busy driving around town saying good-bye to their high school friends. Her mother asked her to stay home and get her things in order and the girl promised to do so, but oh just one more good-bye, please. Mom relented and never saw her girl alive again. A car accident; the girl never knew what hit her. The friend lives on in a semi-vegetated state/limbo world in a facility in town. My sweet-faced new friend smiled and bid me a good morning and moved on to find her companions. We didn't meet again, but her story touched me because back home a dear friend of ours is this week in a courtroom facing the monster who killed her child after his afternoon of golfing and drinking. My heart hurts for them. My prayers are for them; peace and grace.

There were other stories heard as well as told last week. Many of them have already faded in my memory, but those two stories of lost hope clutched my heart. I wanted to swim as fast as I could to the solid ground where my children and grandchildren were breathing, laughing and just being. I wanted to hold them, smell their sweet scent, and tell them again and again how much I love them.

I expect never to cross paths with anyone I met last week. The world is a big place and even though we shared a small space in time, the space opened and we spilled over the land and moved on to our home place. I will pray for all of them.

Tonight I did touch, smell and love at least three of our kids and three of our grand-darlings. We handed out the gifts and shared a meal. We Skyped with the one lives far away with the other two grand-darlings. For a slice of time all of them filled our home again with their laughter. My heart filled and my prayers were answered. They are safe and happy.

Tell me your stories and I'll tell you mine. My heart is open and waiting.

Once again, I've been disappointed and hurt. Why do some people want to hate and continue to wound those who once loved and supported them? I may be able to answer the question, but even I don't like the answer. They are crazy. not just crazy in the usual way, but crazy in the mental-needs long- term therapy kind. Hate will eat you alive. Mental illness will do the same thing, but with mental illness you are so crazy that you don't see the pacman eating away at you. I'm not the crazy one here; just an observation after experiencing first-hand the craziness of a once close friend.

Letting go has made me stronger. Burying the friendship has been cathartic. Stepping back from the friendship has given me a new perspective. I see more clearly.

I now no longer care. Sad but true.

Thanksgiving

We once had a priest at St. Paul's who did a sermon on giving thanks and remembering those for whom we were thankful. I always think about that sermon when we set the table for Thanksgiving, using the best our china cabinet has to offer. He said that it isn't about the beautiful china or the silver but it's about thanking as well as missing those who used to be at the table with us. Looking at the faces around our table this Thanksgiving, I couldn't help but get that awful catch in my throat and the knot in my gut when I remembered those we now miss. Our parents are gone as well as most of our aunts and uncles. We are now on the front line. We are the ones who will be missed one day.

In my parents' home, there was always a revolving door of relatives on Thanksgiving Day. My Uncle Robert, my grandfather's bachelor brother, showed up from time to time for a holiday meal with us. Where he lived from holiday to holiday, I never knew, although once when I was very little, I went with my grandparents to get him out of a "flop house" right before Thanksgiving. That year he stayed with us, sleeping on the back porch, until he sobered up and moved on. It's too late now to ask where he went because the people who could have filled in those blanks are long gone. I wish I'd asked at the time instead of just wondering. Adults back then didn't talk of those matters to children.

We never spent a Thanksgiving with my father's mother at her house. Sometimes Daddy would would make the long drive to her house in the country and bring her back to have dinner with us and my mother's parents. She was not a happy nor loving grandmother at all. I remember her finding fault and sniffing (yes, sniffing) at everything as if she were displeased by the vast amount of food and goodies we had. Her existence was fairly austere and her own hard scrapple life had made her an unhappy old woman by the time my sister and I were born. Daddy was the youngest of her surviving children. The baby of the family had been killed and my dad almost killed in a horrible school bus wreck when they were youngsters. That and a raging alcoholic for a husband had done her in, I guess. At any rate, she was no fun what so ever and we didn't look forward to her presence at the holiday table. I do wish now that I hadn't been so scared of her and had known her better. My daughter now lives in Arkansas, where my dad's mother was born. Each time I've crossed the Mississippi river going from Memphis into Arkansas, I've wondered about her life in the backwoods on a farm. As the story goes, my grandfather, who was on the run (rumor was that he'd killed a black man in a logging camp)saw her "hanging up wash" . She was thirteen and he fell in love with her and soon they married and moved to rural Tennessee. The rest of that story was, according to my father, a sad and humble existence as the wife of an artistic, but alcoholic man.

My other grandparents were the good guys! Mom was an only child, so we had no cousins to steel our thunder. We were the alpha and omega in their eyes. Thanksgiving and all other holidays were spent being loved and adored. My grandmother really didn't cook much, but she could make great gravy, so Mom let her do just that. Mom cooked all the rest of the meals, holidays included.

Now, I am the "mom' who cooks. My happiest days were/are cooking for my family. Being a true southern woman, you can't be in my house for more than a minute before I offer a drink or food or both. Making no apologies, it's just the way I am.

Last weekend our oldest grand-daughter came over for a sugar cookie baking session. Her hands worked the dough, rolled and cut it and then, after baking the cookies, she carefully decorated each one. Never mind that they are not "Martha Stewart' beautiful; to me they are just the prettiest goodies ever. Each sprinkle, each dribble of icing, represents a frozen minute of time when the rest of the hurry-up mode of the holidays stopped for us! Like the cookie-baking with my mom, she will, hopefully, remember the sweet smells and the shared time with me.

In a couple of days, our God-daughter will come over for an afternoon of baking and decorating cookies too. She is all grown-up, well almost if you count being a senior in college. We have repeated our Christmas tradition each year since she was two years old. How the time has flown! She tells me that after graduation in May she will go to grad school next year. Huh? Do grad students bake cookies with their Godmothers? I pray that they do and that she will carve out a tiny bit of time to do just that with me. Getting out the cookie cutters this year, I found a paper cutout that years ago was a pattern of her hand. the year we made those cookies she painted rings on the tiny fingers and we laughed about them. Will a real ring be on her finger soon? I don't know why I saved that pattern, but I' m glad that I did. One day I hope to show it to her daughter while we bake.

Time is the best gift anyone can give as well as receive.

There is nothing like a good hamburger! You know the kind, big juicy and loaded with tomatoes, lettuce, onions, pickles and mustard. A body just plain needs one every now and again. My friends think that I have the most pedestrian palate, but what they don't know is that I've been there and done that with the gourmet stuff.

Don't get me wrong, now; good high brow food is a pleasure on many levels. A beautiful, well prepared plate is a work of art, but for the sake of argument, good plain food done well is extremely satisfying. What chaps my fanny is the whole group of people who wax on and on about a bowl or a plate that looks only slightly better than some of the contents of diapers that I've changed. Where does that crap come from?

The kicker for me is the people who ooh and ahh over the stuff! I have visions of the chef, in appropriate cheffy duds appearing in the middle of a swell dinning room, to announce that the night's special offering is ...drumroll, please...Squirrel's testicles braised in chicken urine with a duck feces reduction. I imagine the cheers and clapping! It's an "Emperor's New Clothes" part 2.

While I am ranting about this topic, I'd like to say that I feel the same way about the salads that consist of a bowl of weeds with dressing that smacks of toilet bowl cleaner. What's that about? Since when was a bowl of crispy green lettuce and crunchy regular veggies a thing of the past? I welcome variety, I really do, but not in my salad bowl! Those curly leaves look just like hairballs and those bitter, dark ones taste like weeds smell. Yuck!

I am aware that anyone reading this is probably chortling over my disgust and thinking that I truly am a rube. So, I should be offended? Not! Our forefathers and their significant others survived on good solid food. Today the buzz words are , "local", "fresh", "organic" and "natural". In our household these are not just words, with the possible exception of organic; they are our mantra. My mother was a scratch cook and for the most part, so am I. Highly processed foods or those packaged in cellophane were not in my mother's pantry. My sister and I watched my mother and grandmother "put-up" vegetables for the winter. Mom slaved over a hot stove in a kitchen that was not air-conditioned until 1956. She and my grandmother would get up at the crack of dawn, leaving me in the care of my grandfather, to go to the Scott Street market, where the farmers would come to sell their produce. Dragging in great baskets of corn, peas and tomatoes, they would announce that before playtime, I had to help with the shelling and shucking. Afterwards, they would blanch and freeze all the goodies and put them in our "deep freeze" (freezer). Mother's insisted that fresh equaled quality. We were the envy of our friends whose moms never saw the Scott St. market, nor the inside of the freezer.

Today in my own kitchen, the smell of tomatoes fresh off the vine (mine or anybody else's) brings back sweet memories of those long ago afternoons. Peas simmering in a both laced with ham can make me swoon! Fresh corn on the cob dripping with sweet cream butter can cause a near orgasmic reaction.

I, like my mother, enjoy feeding people. Whether it's a meal or just a simple dessert, I love to see people eating something I've prepared. Organic? Sometimes. Fresh, mostly. Good? You be the judge! Bless the cook!