She’s been gone for 22 years—nearly a quarter of a century. It has taken me that long to come to terms with all that I was never able to say to my mother. She was a woman of vast inconsistencies. Born into a tumultuous climate of death and destruction in London, her very existence was at odds with world events. The country of her German father was at war with the country of her British mother. She learned to speak English with her mother, only to be ripped out of that environment at the age of five and plopped into the Grimm land of dark fairy tales, where her words no longer had merit, her presence a reminder of defeat and humiliation. Six eventful years later she was once again uprooted and plopped down in the land of the free.
Much as she wanted to be free, much as she often behaved in ways that perplexed and defied her parents, her friends, and even her children, I surmise that she was never free of the inner conflicts that pulled her in multiple directions.
As stubborn and hardy as she might appear on the outside, inside she was awash with nervous anxiety. Like her own mother, I believe she suffered physically from the challenges that life threw her way. She was at once high-strung and excitable and then calmly accepting of the inevitable. Her anxiety lodged in her gut, making food and nourishment a battle zone. So many things upset her digestion; I never fully grasped her odd food regime. Later, her nerves robbed her of her prized mane of thick dark hair which fell out in gobs, transforming her into chemo patient without the chemo. When the hair eventually returned, to her dismay it came in baby fine and white as snow.
But my mother kept her fears and disappointments carefully under wraps. Few of her many friends knew or understood the hurts she covered over with gypsy-colored clothing and jewelry, verbal audacity, and prescient activism.
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p>For over 16 years, I resented my mother. She was the odd-looking Babushka who tottered into my elementary school with a paisley scarf cinched over her head, her back bent in an upside down ell from the weight of mammoth bosoms and a suitcase for a handbag. As if her appearance weren’t bad enough, mom’s verbal audacity took over as she proceeded to instruct my teachers on what I should be learning and what I was not learning, thanks to their ineptitude.
I so longed for a svelte, blonde mum dressed in a pencil skirt below a cashmere twin set, beautifully coiffed hair, and L’Oreal make-up, a mom who would treat my class to home-made cupcakes and praise my teachers for their wisdom and patience.
But mom was my lot in life. It was years before I understood the social pressures that wore at her and which she continued to rebel against. It took decades for me to embrace mom’s dare to be different, to understand why her friends, as well as my friends, worshiped her. She was an enigma, with a story to cover all bases, and—as I’ve come to understand—a slightly different version of the story for each telling. She dared to challenge the status-quo, to be a single woman, to buy and sell property, to drive the back roads, to walk down the street with her head held high despite murmurs of gossip that trailed in her wake. She was a feminist before the word was burned into our lexicon. Her presence on the planet spiraled in surprising directions, rippling through families, and waking numbed brains. She was someone whose life made a difference.
If I live to be 100, I will never match my mother’s ability to move and impact the lives of those around me. But as the years have piled up, I have come to appreciate my mom’s wild streak, as well as her frailties. She was head strong and complex, and in spite of myself, she turned me into the Rock of Gibraltar, unafraid to push myself in new directions, even if that behavior is unsettling to those around me. Thanks Mom, for always being there, even when I was too dumb to know you were. Thanks for being a woman with a spine, a woman of courage and determination. Happy Birthday!
btg5885 said:
This beautiful. Thanks for sharing. Aren’t we all people of “vast inconsistencies.” I love that line. Take care, BTG
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btg5885 said:
Linda, as I mentioned in a response to your comment in my post, I found this very moving. None of us are perfect and people who grew up in a generation where lives were lost so easily, kept many secrets as they were exposed to painful experiences. I am glad you revisited your impressions of your mother. She sounds like an interesting person, imperfect as we all are. Take care, BTG
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rangewriter said:
Thanks so much for your double effort to come back and respond. You’re absolutely right about secrets…and its not just true of the previous generation. I’ve observed the same in my own generation. The funny thing about secrets is that if a person tells a fabrication long enough, it becomes a part of them and takes on its own reality. Life is just full of gray matter. 😉
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Cindy Salo said:
Linda, this is fabulous! I’ve heard some of your/mom’s story, but I hadn’t realized what a challenging life she had or what a complex character she was. Your descriptions of her jump off the screen–I can see her. Oooh, staying single and owning property? She was one of my foremothers.
Thanks for the sketch of the ideal 50s/60s mom. Love it!
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rangewriter said:
Yeah, you’re exactly the type she’d have had following her around like a puppy dog. (Well, it would have been a mutual following…cuz she’d have been right in your tracks as you bump across the sagebrush.) I think she collected younger friends to serve as stand-ins for the daughters she had who ran away from her. She really did have a lot of friends and admirers, both of her age and much younger.
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Susan said:
What a beautiful expression of your journey with your mother!
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rangewriter said:
Thank you for reading and replying, my friend.
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Sandra Parsons said:
What a wonderul tribute to a strong and independent woman. Did you ever get the chance to tell your mother what she meant to you? After you came to understand her I mean?
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rangewriter said:
I’m afraid not, really, Sandra. Neither of us had the vocabulary for that…even now, I feel that I talk around the subject. But I hope that my actions toward the end revealed my love, The fact that she asked for me to be with her revealed a lot to me.
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Dia said:
I think it becomes easier to understand and accept difficult parents with distance and time. While they’re still alive all the rubbing and sparks start so many little fires that all we can reasonably do is run around cursing and trying to stamp ’em all out before they burn up everything.
This really is a great tribute, Linda. Well done. I imagine she might have argued with you over at least half of it so it’s good you waited to write it till now. 🙂
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rangewriter said:
Thanks, Dia.You are so right about the fire-inducing sparks! I still feel that I’m not quite up to the task of giving her the tribute she deserves.
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Katie Whaley said:
Happy Birthday Mom…wonderful tribute…..we are all part of the whole…..keep on trekking Linda….Your heart delight shows. Kd
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rangewriter said:
Humble thanks, Katie. You’ve been on my mind!
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Robert Brownbridge Writes Stories and Poetry said:
Powerful and so well written description of and tribute to someone – especially one’s complex mother – who was so hard to love. One partial sentence you wrote that I had trouble with: “I was too dumb to even know she was there for me.” You were not too dumb, You had only the perspective and perception of a child and youth whose ability to understand one’s parent and her parenting limitations comes later in life. Makes me want to write about my own strong willed dominating mother whose love was hard to see and understand till long after she died.
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rangewriter said:
I do hope you will write about your difficult mom, Bob.
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Iris Blaisdell said:
If you knew what I discovered (at the age of forty five) was my story, you might look at things even differently. Believe me, the gossip was well founded. She was so busy being independent she didn’t mind walking right over even her own children. And she had a fantastic knack for lying at the same time she punished me severely for doing same.
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rangewriter said:
I would love to know what you discovered at age forty-five. I have my version of what you probably discovered, I have written versions of what you may have discovered, and I have the many slightly varying stories of the countless others who, in Yry’s later years, heard versions of her life story. None of them match up. It would indeed be interesting to know what your version of the story is. Of course, I believe you have my email address if these are things you would prefer not to share on a public forum.
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