My mother was not Mary in my book MOTHER. She was not one of the church ladies, or even Cathy. She did not really socialize beyond our large Italian family. She rarely left her kitchen where she kept a bottomless pot of coffee on the stove, and fed everyone who stopped by. She was an energetic woman who could crochet, knit, sew, and cook, but she lived the life of an Italian daughter and wife, and dreamt of a sit-down job working for the phone company. She encouraged marriage and children, always fearing for my safety when I worked in New York City.
I had a few false starts in my life, one of which led me to work in a convenience store to make extra money while I was producing a local cable show. The cable show ended but I kept the other job, stocking milk and doing the six-to-twelve shift so I could squeeze in some writing time. My mother visited my furnished apartment which was “too dark” for her taste, and insisted my father wallpaper the kitchen as soon as possible. I think she thought I was sad, because she kept giving me her plants whenever I visited her. Finally, one day I received a phone call from her wanting to know why I didn’t go back to New York City and get a real job and work on my writing at night. I knew I must have seemed pretty pathetic for my mother to even suggest my going to the city. But she had seen energy in me when I worked over there, and even if it made her sick with fear, that was where she thought I belonged.
NY buses didn’t come and go frequently from where I was living, so I drove to my parents’ house to catch one. It was the dead of winter, and the temperature was in the twenties with a brisk wind. I was standing on the corner across the street from my parents’ house watching my mother watching me from behind a curtain. As the minutes passed and I grew colder I longed to get back in my car and head home. I had been as sad, tired, and discouraged as she imagined. I had given up and I was okay with that. But there was my mother’s face, and behind that face the hope that I would just get on that bus, take a step, claim some amount of happiness. And when I’m close to feeling defeated I picture her face peering behind that curtain and know I can’t give up, I still can’t disappoint her.
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2 comments:
Just so you know I was directed here by the Book-of-the-month club.
I haven't read your book as of yet, but it does sound interesting. I do a lot of reading, but rarely do I pick up a novel. It sounds as if your book might be worth doing so.
I have an awesome mother myself. She is Italian/Hungarian, although as strange as this sounds, she has never been any good with cooking (although she makes attempts often). I have always been an independent women, so I never really needed much from my mother, like my sister did. What was so great about my mother was that she knows just when she is needed, and otherwise stands back and lets me choose my own path of live. She has always been the neutral one in the family, the keeper of peace. She never has anything bad to say, she has a great heart, she tries to look for the good in life, even when it hasn't been the best to her. Most importantly her family is what truly matters to her. Whatever makes us happy is what makes her happy.
I feel truly blessed to have such a wonderful mother. I can't imagine the world without her.
Hi Rhonda,
Thanks for writing me about your mother. She sounds wonderful. The cooking doesn't matter at all compared to her other gifts of being a peace keeper and a nurturer. I'd feel very blessed if my children thought that about me.
My main character in MOTHER is a woman who put her family first, lost her mother, and pretty much lost herself. It is about her relationship with a younger woman who loses her mother, but helps her heal.
It sounds like your mother is a wonderful role model. Anyone who leads with her heart and looks for the good in life teaches her children by example.
You are blessed, and an awesome daughter to recognize your mother's gifts.
Linda Ann
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