Month: December 2020

I am feeling pensive these days. I recently celebrated by seventy second birthday and this year of 2020 has kept me rather isolated at home for many months. It appears that it may take at least another six months before I may be in line for a vaccine for Covid-19 so I have lots of time for looking forward to the future and backward on my own evolution as a person. 

One of the most wonderful aspects of my mother was that she did not attempt to impose her will and ways of doing things on me and my brothers. Of course there were rules to follow and common manners that she expected us to use, but insofar as developing our personalities and our interests she very wisely encouraged each of us to follow our own dreams. As a result the three of us are unique individuals who share many traits and a strong love of family but are otherwise very different. 

My father was absent from my life after I was eight years old but somehow his spirit seemed to influence me on every step of my journey. I embraced his love of music and reading and learning and it ultimately led me to a career in education. My middle brother also felt his influence but seemed to foster more of our dad’s mechanical, mathematical and engineering traits. While my youngest brother was only two when Daddy died he inherited our father’s gregariousness, wit, and love of sports and the outdoors. It is as though we each emulated a piece of the man that he was.

My mother was devoted to home and family but she also had a brilliant mind that drove her to be a lifelong learner. She was the kind of person who lit up a room whenever she arrived at a gathering. She had a big personality with a heart to match. I tended to be quieter, more reserved. I suppose I always felt as though I was more like my Grandma Minnie than my mother. People would tell me that I was the image of my mom but I have photos of my grandmother that put a lie to that thought. 

For a time I wished to be more like my mother who was bold and beautiful, but eventually I came to embrace who I was. I blend in with a crowd. My voice is soft and there is nothing particularly exciting about my appearance. This has become a kind of gift to me because it allows me to observe the world around me without much notice from others. I have become quite comfortable with myself and my thoughts. I watch the world and then record what I see in my writing. I actually enjoy not being noticed. 

My mother taught me to be flexible and determined. She showed me how to deal with setbacks and unexpected changes. She helped me to retain my optimism even when the world around me felt dark and uninviting. She convinced me that every person has a purpose and when he/she finds it life becomes gloriously happy. She showed me that money and things were transitory. 

I remember a time long ago when my grandparents and aunts and uncles were arguing over whether I was more like my mother or my father. It was a debate that was never resolved because I am in fact a little bit like each of them but mostly like myself. People tended to see what they wanted to see in me but I know that I have carefully become the kind of person that I wanted to be, a hybrid of my DNA, my upbringing, my education and all of the people that I have known. 

I love that my brothers and I have stayed true to ourselves and that my mother never once attempted to mold us into clones of either her or my father. She was happy with us just as we are. I tried to be the same with my daughters and I think I did a fairly good job in that regard. I learned how difficult it is to maintain a balance between creating a foundation of moral character for my girls and encouraging them to follow the dictates of their own hearts. Ultimately each of us has to be our own person and sometimes we make choices that those closest to us do not understand. 

Over the course of my lifetime there have been those who have wondered why I did not become a lawyer or a doctor or someone who might have acquired more power and money. I certainly had the intelligence and skills to achieve virtually anything I desired. In truth those things did not excite me like teaching has always done. In many ways I feel as though I was born to be an educator and I always wanted to stay as close to the classroom and the students as possible. I made a conscious decision to forgo a high income to do what I believed to be a vocation. My mother always supported me in that regard. 

My parents gave me and my brothers many gifts but more than anything our mother most especially was always overjoyed to see us just being happy. Her unconditional love and support made us strong and confident that our choices were exactly right. I did not have to be just like either my father or my mother, and neither did my brothers. We are able to celebrate how different we are and know that it is good. I love being myself.

Back when I was still a working gal if it was Friday it meant ending the school day earlier than the rest of the week. Instead of hanging around until after five everyone was gone no later than four, including me. I joined my colleagues in a race from the parking lot and jumped onto the Beltway with glee, heading in the direction of my mother’s home because Friday meant our time together. 

It was a long ride from southwest Houston where I worked to southeast Houston near Almeda Mall. I always felt a bit of anticipation as I drove over the high bridge that connects the Beltway with Interstate 45 heading north. Because of my mother’s illness I never knew exactly what her frame of mind would be but I faithfully went to see her week after week. If all was well I knew that the two of us would have a wonderful evening together.

Friday evenings with family had always been a kind of tradition for me. As a child my mother took us to see our grandmother Ulrich every Friday night. We would meet up there with all of my aunts and uncles and cousins and have a rollicking time. We children would play games mostly outside while our parents gathered around a table for a poker game or just sat together talking in voices so loud that I always felt sure that people miles away would hear them. Those were literally the very best times of my childhood and somehow spending Friday evenings with my mother when I became an adult felt much the same way. 

My husband Mike never minded that I was galavanting with Mama each Friday because he was always exhausted after his long week at work. He liked having a quiet evening at home to recharge his batteries, so my date with my mom became a rock solid tradition that was always an adventure. 

My mother enjoyed getting out of her house for a few hours. Sometimes when I drove up she would already be sitting outside on a little bench that my brother had given her for Mother’s day one year. She would be dressed up in her finest clothing and a huge smile would appear on her face. Those clues told me that she was feeling well and that we would surely have a glorious time.

She always wanted to eat first and the better she felt, the more extravagant her choice of restaurant would be. Of course she was a woman of simple tastes so she rarely wanted to travel too far from her home or to spend an exorbitant amount of money for the food. Her absolute favorite eatery was Cracker Barrel in League City where she tried everything on the menu over time. Eating there also meant spending an hour or so wandering through the country store section where she almost always found a gift to set aside for someone’s birthday or other special occasion. 

We might eat at a Mexican restaurant or feast at an Italian bistro depending on her cravings. Sometimes she only wanted to head for the Piccadilly Cafeteria just down the street from where she lived. She always thought that we should have dessert and she would magnanimously insist that she be allowed to pay for those sweet treats. An ice cream cone or a slice of pie caused her to beam with childlike delight.

After we had filled our bellies I allowed my mother to decide where we would go next. Sometimes she wanted to visit a nearby mall or take a tour of Walmart. Other times she just wanted to get her weekly grocery shopping done. On very rare occasions she asked to go see a movie or take a drive along the seawall in Galveston. Regardless of what she chose I understood that it would take hours to sate her enthusiasm. It would often be nearing midnight before I said my goodbyes to her and headed home. 

My mother was generally filled with optimism. If she was anxious or on the verge of tears I knew that she was heading for a cycle of depression and mania caused by her bipolar disorder. On those occasions being with her was painful and required great patience on my part, which I did not always display as much as I should have. I felt like I was with a stranger when she was sick. It hurt my heart to see her in a state of confusion and to know that others feared her strange behavior. Those were the times when she was disheveled and her eyes darted back and forth like those of someone caged. She would check her food to see if it had been tainted by someone intent on making her sick. She would argue with waiters and clerks in the stores. Nonetheless I knew that getting her out of the oppressive loneliness and darkness of her house was a first step toward becoming well again. It also gave me an opportunity to determine if she was in need of emergency care from her psychiatrist. 

Sometimes I was so exhausted after a long work week that I did not want to spend my Friday evening with my mother but I always forced myself to go see her anyway. The majority of time I found my fun, happy and loving mother and I would quietly chide myself for hesitating to join her. Even when she was struggling with her bipolar symptoms I knew that it was incredibly important to be with her and so week after week, year after year Friday evenings belonged to my mama. 

After my mother died I felt lost when Friday rolled around. I missed those good times that we had shared. I found myself thinking of the pearls of wisdom that she had given me in our many conversations. I realized how much I had even cherished the evenings when she was depressed and in need of my consoling or when she was manic and there was no telling what she might say or do. I longed for all of her and the lessons about life and love that she modeled for me on our little adventures together. 

My mother never had wealth in her life. She was not a woman of substance. We inherited almost nothing from her in terms of worldly riches. What she gave me was an example of how to enjoy and appreciate the ordinary in times both good and bad. She was a treasure and whenever Friday rolls around I find myself remembering how important it is to grasp each moment and enjoy it. 

I recall taking a silly quiz that one of my friends brought to school when I was in high school. Each question involved making a choice between this or that. I had to indicate whether I preferred the beach or the mountains, warm weather or cold. Ironically I tended to choose all of the answers that described a place totally unlike my hometown which is as flat as any place might be and hot for most of the year. I suppose that I have always thought that it would be lovely to be in a place that gets cool enough in the fall to create magnificent colors and cold enough in the winter to make use of my coats and sweaters which usually become outdated before I have worn them out.

When I was in England not long ago I had to wear a light jacket in May, a wonder to me because back home I would have been wearing sleeveless tops and shorts. One of my journeys on that trip took me well north of London to visit York where we slept at night with the windows open and had no need for air conditioning. In our explorations we journeyed to the coast and explored a little village that lies on the North Sea. It was windy and blustery there as I looked into the vast expanse of the water and imagined Danes landing in their boats in medieval times. I could envision fishermen plying their trade on the often perilous waters. 

The winds from the sea made my light weight coat seem useless but I loved the feel of the frigid air blowing on my face. I felt history in the sting on my cheeks even as I shivered from being unaccustomed to such weather. Luckily help was just up the hill from the water’s edge where a little shop offered beautiful handmade wool sweaters made by local wool weavers. 

I was enthralled by the organic colors and the intricate pattern of the garments. The owner of the shop explained that they were made just like the sweaters worn by the seamen from the town who once launched their boats from the same coves that I had just explored. I learned that every fishing town had its own weave for the garments that the men wore on their journeys on the sea. Because the waters were often rough shipwrecks were commonplace and the sweaters identified the bodies of those who died. 

I purchased one of the beautiful sweaters in a cranberry colored hue. I put it on immediately and felt warm even as the day wore into evening and the temperature continued to drop. I sat at the top of a hill munching on fish and chips and imagining that I could hear the voices of the villagers of long ago. I suspected that in spite of the beauty of the place life had been difficult there. I wondered how many times some poor soul had worn a sweater like mine only to end up drowned in the unforgiving waters during a storm. 

My sweater instantly became one of my favorite items of clothing but when I returned home from my trip I had to store it away because the days and even the nights would be hot for many months. I waited patiently for a day cold enough to warrant donning my sweater and many many weeks passed. Not even December brought the kind of temperatures I needed. It was January before I awoke to almost freezing temperatures that promised to be appropriate for my North Sea gear. 

I wisely wore a thin t-shirt under the sweater in case it became too warm for the heavy woolen clothing. I made it to about noon before realizing that the mercury was inching up and the sun was bearing down a bit too much to remain comfortable. I had to remove my beautiful sweater and store it away until the next frigid day, which has yet to come. 

There was a time when I wore coats and sweaters from late November to the end of February even here in my mostly warm part of the world. The changing climate has slowly eradicated the need for winter gear where I live. Coats and sweaters and boots and gloves last forever because we have to wear them so rarely. I suppose I will be lucky to don my sweater more than half a dozen times in the next ten years. Perhaps I will just need to travel to the north or return to England to find an excuse for bringing it out of storage.

In late September of this year I visited Rocky Mountain National Park. I brought my sweater hoping that I would need it in the high mountains. Even there it was unseasonably warm. The cranberry colored garment never left my suitcase. Somehow it served as a warning to me that our climate is changing in disturbing ways, a thought that was confirmed only a few weeks later when many of the places I had just visited were ablaze with wildfires. 

We humans are continually challenged by nature whether we battle storms on the sea or the ravages of a virus. We study our problems and find ways to either overcome them or adapt to them. We are clever in that way. My sweater reminds me that we are linked together in a long chain that reaches way back into history. We stumble and fight and fall but somehow we always manage to use our wits to press forward. We adapt and progress never losing sight of where we have been. It may take a bit to get there but I believe that ultimately we will be fine and one day I will wear my sweater again.