know whence you came
this is a post about my mom that I wrote when I was at her house just before Christmas. It's fragmented and staccato: observations in no particular order.
I drove up to my mom's house today, both to visit her and my step-dad and to see my friend Mike, who is in town from Chicago for a few days. My mom's house is extremely clean and organized. Not OCD organized: more like perfectly placed clutter. Everything in its right place, even the little tchotkie things that make no sense to me but hold some emotional or aesthetic meaning for her.
She has a thing for new houses--old ones are just too much work. Something is always breaking. Nothing is ever perfect and new. But then, even when it is new it's not new enough, or has imperfections. I have witnessed her in two new houses. I weep for her contractor. Not even angels could build a house to her exacting specifications. Paint colors aren't quite right. Wood floors don't have the right sheen. That sort of thing.
My mom grew up poor. I'm no psychologist, but I'm sure this has something to do with her standards. She once told me about fighting off a mugger when she was twnety because he was trying to steal her purse and she only had a few dollars left. She won. She has fight.
I only just realized today that my mom rarely sits down for long--maybe long enough to eat, but that's a rarity. Even when I haven't seen her in months, as soon as I get here I may sit down to talk but she remains standing, constantly doing and moving and organizing and cleaning up the tiny messes that life leaves behind (a pot; a glass; a candle holder, now empty, turned into a storage jar). I am instantly faced with my own restlessness, which Katie often shakes her head at in loving bemusement.
Tonight I got back to her place, 1am. In my bedroom were: (1) air filters for my furnace (wrong size, but then she never asked if I needed any--they just appeared) (2) padded mailing envelopes, which I did say I needed, but she left two sizes because she never found out which size I was looking for (3) a printout of the weather emergencies for tomorrow: blowing snow and dangerous wind chills. See, she will leave for work before I get up but wants to make sure I'm prepared.
My mom doesn't have a college degree, but she's quite wily and smart and resourceful. She holds together the county office she works at, even if sometimes she can't hold herself together. If her standards aren't met, even by her superiors, she will let this be known. She's a union rep and she fights hard. My friend's dad is in meetings with her once a month for county business. She's there as the admin, to take notes, etc. "She does really good work," my friend's dad says. "She keeps everyone in line."
These are pieces, just pieces, and even after so long away from home I'm still too close to mold them into a whole picture. But they make up some parts of what I am, how I became me. Understanding her is part of understanding me, both the faults and the triumphs.
I drove up to my mom's house today, both to visit her and my step-dad and to see my friend Mike, who is in town from Chicago for a few days. My mom's house is extremely clean and organized. Not OCD organized: more like perfectly placed clutter. Everything in its right place, even the little tchotkie things that make no sense to me but hold some emotional or aesthetic meaning for her.
She has a thing for new houses--old ones are just too much work. Something is always breaking. Nothing is ever perfect and new. But then, even when it is new it's not new enough, or has imperfections. I have witnessed her in two new houses. I weep for her contractor. Not even angels could build a house to her exacting specifications. Paint colors aren't quite right. Wood floors don't have the right sheen. That sort of thing.
My mom grew up poor. I'm no psychologist, but I'm sure this has something to do with her standards. She once told me about fighting off a mugger when she was twnety because he was trying to steal her purse and she only had a few dollars left. She won. She has fight.
I only just realized today that my mom rarely sits down for long--maybe long enough to eat, but that's a rarity. Even when I haven't seen her in months, as soon as I get here I may sit down to talk but she remains standing, constantly doing and moving and organizing and cleaning up the tiny messes that life leaves behind (a pot; a glass; a candle holder, now empty, turned into a storage jar). I am instantly faced with my own restlessness, which Katie often shakes her head at in loving bemusement.
Tonight I got back to her place, 1am. In my bedroom were: (1) air filters for my furnace (wrong size, but then she never asked if I needed any--they just appeared) (2) padded mailing envelopes, which I did say I needed, but she left two sizes because she never found out which size I was looking for (3) a printout of the weather emergencies for tomorrow: blowing snow and dangerous wind chills. See, she will leave for work before I get up but wants to make sure I'm prepared.
My mom doesn't have a college degree, but she's quite wily and smart and resourceful. She holds together the county office she works at, even if sometimes she can't hold herself together. If her standards aren't met, even by her superiors, she will let this be known. She's a union rep and she fights hard. My friend's dad is in meetings with her once a month for county business. She's there as the admin, to take notes, etc. "She does really good work," my friend's dad says. "She keeps everyone in line."
These are pieces, just pieces, and even after so long away from home I'm still too close to mold them into a whole picture. But they make up some parts of what I am, how I became me. Understanding her is part of understanding me, both the faults and the triumphs.
random bits cobbled together by j-dub
3 Comments:
It's a beautiful post.
That's a great post. My mom died when i was 10, but she still made me who I am today.
I've been thinking about my mom this way lately--in bite sized pieces.
Am I thinking about her this way because of your post, or am I just noticing the "fragmented and staccato" now more?
I'm not sure.
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