For Mother’s Day: my mother, the essayist
One of the tasks that fell to me since my mother’s death years ago was to go through her papers and photos.
Some “getting rid of” candidates were obvious. Medical records, of which my mother kept very many. Not needed any more, now that she was gone. Ditto her lists of things to do, address and appointment books, and random jottings.
But the rest! A few letters from me in high school and college. Greeting cards. At least a hundred letters from my father when they were dating in the late 30s when he was traveling constantly while working for the government as a lawyer. Those tend to take the form of descriptions of cities and small towns visited, but here and there are some more personal nuggets. A scrapbook of clippings about her activities in the community. A similar one made by her mother my grandmother, and one compiled by her grandfather my great-grandfather. That last one contains his wedding invitation, circa 1883.
Yearbooks. As an only child of an only child, my mother also inherited all the family photos going back to Civil War times and earlier. Some are of people I knew but many lovely ones are of the total strangers who must be my ancestors, and whose identities are lost.
Sorting them out has been time-consuming, and the task is still incomplete many years later. But I try, especially with those things that seem of special interest.
For me that includes my mother’s writing – because she was a writer too, an essayist whose work was often published in local newspapers and who’d written poetry as a precocious child and young woman. I had seen many of her poems and essays before, but some were new to me.
Here’s an essay of my mother’s that I found and read for the first time about a year after her death. I thought it might be fun to publish it on the blog; I don’t think that would have bothered her in the least. It appears to be something she wrote at the age of 80 (during the 1990s) for a writing workshop in response to an exercise staged by the teacher. It’s written in longhand, with various cross-outs, but I’m impressed with how few corrections she had to make in the flow of her thoughts, and how graceful her expression was under the circumstances.
And she seemed to like the dash, too—just like me.
It appears that the teacher had played music for the class, lit some candles, and given the students a sheet of guidelines (these were not saved; I have a hunch my mother didn’t think too much of them), telling the students to write for a few minutes. Here’s what my mother produced:
80 years of living has immunized me somewhat to candles, music, and yes, even meditation—so I looked with a somewhat jaundiced eye at first on Guidelines—and what strikes me at once is the word “Proprioceptive”—what does it mean and where does it come from?
Isn’t that awful—but I do like words and I keep wondering about that one—
The music is delightful and I wonder what is making me put words on a yellow legal pad anyway—and why am I resistant—
Probably because I tend to have used humor as a shield all my life—it helped me overlook hurts, and raise children without going crazy, and a laugh has been like medicine—the best for me.
As an only child I looked for friends—-and it helped me acquire them and saw us through good days and bad.
My husband liked a “light view”—but now it is more difficult because people are different—more violent, angry, and sad. I cling to humor—if and when possible—and its not always possible anymore to find it.
Why am I writing about fun and laughter when I could pick anything? Perhaps it keeps me sane when the alleged golden years have crept up and facing the inevitable is too much. Like Scarlett O’Hara—if it’s unpleasant “I’ll think about that tomorrow”—
Writing fiction is almost impossible for me because “truth is stranger than.” Coincidence, friendships, travels, the endless variety in people who cross your life are enough—there is little laughter these days and I plan to hold onto just as much as possible.
Now I have made a neat ending but the time is not up and the music and candles are still with me—and with them go gratitude for good luck and good health and the ability to cope with what comes—so far so good.
My mother and I were temperamentally very different, although we both liked humor. One of the things we shared was writing, and perhaps that’s why her essays mean a lot to me. I was especially struck in this one by her saying she couldn’t write fiction. I’ve written quite a few short stories, but they’re not my natural genre and I gave up writing fiction about fifteen years ago and it’s been essays ever since.
Some of my earliest writing memories involve my mother helping me write. She was a fabulous typist (she could even use carbons, and boy was she fast on a manual!) and a good editor. When we were young, my brother and I would leave our essays for her to read and correct for grammar errors, and she knew what she was doing.
My mother was also an excellent natural untrained dancer. But even though my mother couldn’t really sing, when I saw Bebe Daniels in the movie “42nd Street” on TV as a child, I was transfixed because the actress reminded me so very much of my mother. Here’s Bebe:
And here’s my mother, at the time of her graduation from college:
I thought everyone had an editor for a mother. I thought everyone had a mother who could write. Turns out they don’t.
The only possession of my mother’s, aside from photos and she always wrote the identities on the back, is her cast iron frying pan. I can remember making pancakes with it when I was 10. In later years, when I would visit her, she could make a whole dinner in that pan. I don’t use it much anymore but I will pass it on if one of the kids is interested.
Neo:
Another gem. Happy Mother’s Day.
Thank you.
Eighty is upon me. It does make you think: wtf.
Gosh, Neo, I’ve always liked dashes too. Seeing your mother’s picture explains so much about you and this wonderful salon. An arresting and intelligent beauty. Those eyes! Knowing so much and yet hungering to know more. And what she would know and even dream is somehow answered and assured in your eye from behind that apple. With what pride and mystery you must regard this wonderful portrait. In Solomons words “…she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners.” Oh My! What hath Mom wrought? Happy Mother’s Day.
It’s written in longhand, with various cross-outs, but I’m impressed with how few corrections she had to make in the flow of her thoughts, and how graceful her expression was under the circumstances.
I am reminded of the tapes my grandmother made at age 86. I got her started, and after I left, she continued by herself. How to prepare food on the farm, a Civil War story about the DamnYankee Union soldiers invading the family farm, etc. Listening to them decades later, I am reminded of what a good speaker my grandmother was. Verbal tics, such as “um” or “ahh” were practically nonexistent. Though she had only an 8th grade education, a lifelong habit of writing letters and an intimate knowledge of the King James version of the Bible helped her to never be at a loss for words to succinctly express herself.
My grandmother also liked dashes in her writing, especially accompanied thusly:,i. “-hah!” ,/i. If there wasn’t a “hah,” you knew the letter didn’t come from grandmother.
One time my grandmother asked me if she spoke well. I replied in the affirmative. I also liked her regionalisms, like saying “it don’t matter” instead of “it doesn’t matter,” but I decided that might be interpreted the wrong way, so I didn’t mention that to her.
In looking at some of my elementary school papers, I was astonished at the great amount of erasures. In retrospect, that came about not for my being at a loss for words to express myself, but from correcting what I had incessantly been told was horrid handwriting. In my adult years, I stopped worrying about my handwriting, and was pleasantly surprised to get some compliments on my handwriting. I suspect that some of the handwriting problem in childhood had a similar origin to my [then} stuttering- words coming too fast from my brain to smoothly speak or write them.
What a trove, Neo!
What a wonderful thing to have your mother’s writing to remember her by. The essay you shared is so well written and reveals her inner thoughts about how she has used humor and laughter to deal with life’s ups and downs. Many people are unable or unwilling to lay their inner dialogues out so nicely.
My mother never shared any of her personal feelings. She could write poetry and I have a collection of her annual Christmas letters that were done in rhyme and always humorous. But that was the only writing she left behind. She was a person who loved a good party and socializing with friends. She was so good at that sort of thing that wealthy people sometimes hired her to organize social events for them. She was very energetic and always working or volunteering. Anything to stay busy and interact with people. My younger brother and I were less outgoing and were amazed by the way she both worked and played so hard. On her headstone we had this inscribed: “Loved by one and all, she had a ball.”
Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers. I hope you have a ball. 🙂
I am reminded of the tapes my grandmother made at age 86. I got her started, and after I left, she continued by herself.
I wish I had thought of that. My mother was a source of information about writing to soldiers in WWI or bathtub gin in the 1920s. My kids loved to hear her stories. I wish I had recorded them.
Another excellent post Neo!
As Mike+K wrote certain cooking gear are keepers for sure. And, along that line, SWMBO found gems among hand-written recipe notebooks & cards. Unlike the stereotype my MIL was a great cook. And so is her oldest daughter.
( The others are very good too … which is wonderful because I love to eat )
Among the weirdest things we found, at least to us, going through both our families old photos … is that we simply don’t recognize far too many of the people in them.
Relatives … yeah we know them. Even older ones.
But our parents dear friends that we can’t recognize is bittersweet. Those people must have meant something special to Mom and Dad. But they are just old faces to us.
My mother was a poet and an English teacher. She was a child of the depression, one who grew up in a tiny northern farm town. But unlike Neo’s mother, she was definitely not a dancer, since her grandfather was a strict minister, who forbade it. Cards could be played at home, but only after the curtains were carefully drawn. In fact, most earthly pleasures — except for reading — were regarded as children’s pursuits. Adults worked hard and went to church. All the children were terribly smart, and both sons and daughters made successful careers for themselves. Her favorite poet was Emily Dickinson. Unfortunately, as an adult, she was stricken with schizophrenia. Long after my father died, she responded to a newly developed medication, so she found some peace in the last part of her life. Happy mother’s day.
What a lovely post Neo. Sometimes I’m amazed at the things we have in common–in this case, the love of the dash. Your mother’s thoughts on humor is interesting, including it helping her to have friends and the importance of that as an only child. We have a granddaughter who is an only and she at 11 years old has a well-developed sense of humor. When I saw her last month and commented on how happy I was that she has found a new friend (they moved last year, a result of the pandemic upheaval), she said it now truly felt like home because of the friendship. When I look back at my earlier writings I find myself surprised at how my handwriting has deteriorated over the years. I think I took more time when I was younger, in less of a rush, but now habit has developed. I wish you and all the mothers of this community a happy Mother’s Day.
It only *seems* impressionistic and dashed-off. There’s art in having a light touch when you know what’s what. Much wisdom.
Your mother had a very healthy immune response to the word Proprioceptive!
Speaking of humour, it’s strange that some people appear to be born totally lacking the gene. There is nothing more lizard-like than one of these types cracking a joke. Uncanny Valley ain’t in it.
What a nice recollection of your mother, Neo. A lot of fun to read.
As my siblings have passed on (they are all gone now except for me, and I’ll be 80 in just over a year), I have gradually accumulated family photos that I cannot identify. My older sister wrote on those she recognized, but that’s only about 1/3 of them. What to do with them? I need to talk to my daughters about that.
I have come across some letters my parents exchanged before they married and while my father was in China during the war. Some great memories and touching words from both of them.
My mother went to a “finishing school” before she married, and learned the social graces as well as how to cook. And she was a marvelous cook! She also had a good education, although she never attended university.
Thank you for sharing your mother, Neo. And thanks for the photo. Very nice, although I was expecting an apple or some other fruit.
Very nicely put, clearly there was a lot of love there.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Thank you for that Neo, it brought memories of my mother who loved to write as well.
As we were growing up my mother was constantly writing, and we all considered it a harmless pastime, useful for writing skits for cub scouts and church and such, until one day she received word that one of her young adult novels was to be published. It ended up getting excellent reviews on Kirkus Reviews, New York Times and others.
She wrote a few others (not nearly as good to be honest) but she loved to write an did so right up until the day she died from cancer. I remember visiting her in hospice in those final days, watching her on the computer writing away at a book that she knew she would never have time to finish.
My mother was a wonderful woman and everyone who knew her loved her. Thanks again Neo.
Neo: What a lovely gift —to your mother’s memory and to all of us out here, reading her words and yours, and moved by them to add our own. Happy Mother’s Day.
That was fun, Neo. Thank you.
I just can’t physically go through all that stuff that my folks and relatives have left. I start reading, get interested, and there goes the remainder of the day. It’s better to have your kids–or someone who is not interested–peruse these mementos after you are gone.
My Dad used to tell me that every family needs a good fire once in a while. A little hyperbolic.
Neo: What a lovely woman, your mother. And what a treasure, to have her writings.
My mother was a writer, too, a newspaper reporter for a while, before I was born, a poet later. But I wish even people who don’t consider themselves writers would do journals, or just occasional musings on their lives or what’s going on around them, for their descendants. It’s such a gift to find things written by family members long gone—to get an intimate sense of what they were like and cared about.
Several years ago a distant cousin presented me with a box of letters from another distant cousin, a Civil War soldier. These were letters sent home a year or so before he ended up in Andersonville prison, where he died. He was just a young boy, eager for gossip from home, telling what his life was like in camp. Plain words, but full of his personality and precious to me.
There’s not a lot of letter writing anymore—email is just too easy, and probably not often saved by recipients. But consider putting pen to paper from time to time, as a gift to some others who might be thrilled to get to know you better, years from now.
Thanks for this post, Neo, and I’m another dash lover.
Oh Neo – this made me cry. And I shared with my husband and we both cried,
The good kind of tears.
Thank you.
(I love the dash, too, btw)
I have been “accused” of possessing a dry wit. I think anyone possessed of a humorous personality has to have a great sense of irony and being an extrovert is a plus. My mother, a teacher before kids took over her time, taught me by example of the love of the written word and for which I am eternally grateful.
I remember when I was in high school, we moved to a new house and while we were packing up and purging, I found the letters my parents wrote each other when they were dating, from over twenty years earlier. When my mom died, about thirty years later, I couldn’t find them. I can’t believe my parents threw them away…
A sense of humor makes life so much better. I pity those who lack it.
My mother died on Mother’s Day, a May 9th, thirty-nine years ago. I still miss her.
Humor as a shield and laughter as medicine.
Your mom was a very wise woman.
You have so touchingly described the beautiful portrait of your mother, dear Neo! Happy Mother’s Day!
My mom was a scientist in a petrochemical laboratory, she had several inventions in that area. I loved her very much and was proud of her, but I lost my mother when I was very young .. so sad ..
My mother liked to do family & community history after she retired from teaching.
She published a book about a small “suburb” of our not-so-big town, which had boasted the first college in the area before it declined, that sold well to former residents and genealogy societies, and came out in a second edition just before she passed away.
Many of her childhood and college friends remained in the town all their lives, and the “study club” they started at school was still going strong that year.
Each month, someone was assigned to write on a topic of their choice and deliver a presentation, followed by pot-luck home-made pie or cake or cookies of course.
One of her essays was on female soldiers (in disguise, naturally) in the Revolution, Civil War, and other conflicts (there were more than she – or I – had imagined); one on “funeral eats”; and one on the true date of Christmas, which almost got her read out of the Baptist Church she had been a member of since Cradle Roll (hint: it was not December 25th).
Good times.
It appears that we should name ourselves The Dash Salon or something similar.
“Proprioception, also referred to as kinaesthesia, is the sense of self-movement and body position. It is sometimes described as the “sixth sense”.”
I would think a dancer, amateur or professional, would be well acquainted with the concept, if not with the word for it.
It’s a word gets bandied about in dynamic bike fitting circles too. That’s where I first met it. It’s the kind of word begging to be a lovely long compound word in German, so was disappointed to check and find that they just say Propriozeption. Germans are Toast.
Körperbewegungbewusstseinsgefühl.
Prima!
For a compendium of made-up compound German words, see “Schottenfreude: German Words for the Human Condition” by Ben Schott:
https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/314936/schottenfreude-by-ben-schott/
Courtesy of our German neighbor, who regards it as a challenge to invent new ones.
I am truly happy for all of you who had or have wonderful, loving, and encouraging mothers. My mother debated whether or not to take me home after birthing. In later years, she would yell and scream if I did something children do. Sometimes she would multitask by yelling curses while swinging a leather belt on my back. There was that time when the belt wasn’t available, but that four feet of 2X4 lumber did just fine. My mother would sometimes tag team with my father who would wrap his arms around me from behind while she pummeled my head and shoulders. Yes, I am truly happy for all of you and your mothers.
Indigo Red:
Some mothers are great in just about every way, some are more of a mixed bag(I think this is the most common category), and some are destructive. Sounds like you got unlucky. I hope your later life has made up for it, at least somewhat.
Some mothers are great in just about every way, some are more of a mixed bag (I think this is the most common category), and some are destructive.
All but a single digit minority are a mixed bag. Most people come to a point where they’re sentimental about their mother, not because she’s great but just because she’s yours.
Thoroughly enjoyable read!
That’s so sweet Neo!
Reading it brought to mind something my grandmother wrote, who lived into her 90s. We only saw it after she passed away — her high school valedictory address from 1919. This was right after World War I, Germany having formally surrendered on November 11, 1918.
Like your post, reading it causes your eyes to well up a bit, and your “heart to swell with pride.”
It was just two notebook pages in length, on one side, double spaced, cursive, and beautifully written — brief in a way like the Gettysburg Address. Reading it some 70+ years after it was given, it was clear immediately that it is superior to most speeches given today. Of course it was a happy time. She gives thanks. And she drew an analogy between the troops training and preparing for war, and teachers training these “soldiers of knowledge” for life.
And looking more closely, it was folded up, to 1/16 in size I think. On the outside she had written her name, and also signed was “Mrs. Strong” (in a slightly thicker ink), clearly her mother. If you look at the speech itself, it is all in my grandmother’s writing, except for one slight revision or addition at the end. You could tell by the thicker ink, inserted by her mother at the end was “teachers, classmates, and friends” — just as the address had started. These were the groups she was addressing; this was her outline.
So you had to look at it some just to see this, but it was clearly edited by her mother.
Before she passed away, well into the computer age, a couple of cousins got her set up, and she wrote many interesting recollections from her childhood and as a young adult, including about my grandfather.
A note for Indigo Red, in sympathy – my best friend from college told me once that her mother admitted to my BFF (then in her teens) that she deliberately got pregnant so the father would marry her, and intended to get an abortion if he hadn’t. That something rotten was at the root of their mother-daughter relationship had always been clear to my BFF by the way she was treated (fortunately, her dad, unlike yours, was loving and supportive).
Another BFF (it is possible to have several) was the oldest of a large family and had an emotionally abusive father and passive mother; that pattern persisted until she & her husband finally cut him out of their lives in later adulthood, to protect their own children.
I used to get somewhat upset that our invocation of motherhood in children’s songs, church talks, and community ritual (which is the role of Mother’s Day, and Father’s Day ditto) was sometimes painful for them, and for other friends and family who were single, childless, or victims of abuse (sometimes all of those).
My epiphany a few years ago (FWIW) was that we were trying to encourage children, youth, and even adults to strive for the higher ideal in their own lives as parents, no matter what their present experiences were, or had been as children.
Turning things around for future generations is the intent.
My friends were determined to do just that, and succeeded in breaking the negative cycle of their families.
Don’t know if that helps or not, but it has been useful to me & those I’ve shared it with.
No Replicants here. (Voight-Kampff Test).