Category: Commentary

Anyone who reads my blog regularly is well acquainted with the fact that my mother was a very interesting woman. She became a widow at the age of thirty and raised three little ones to adulthood by herself. Just after I left home she began to show the signs of mental illness that eventually would be diagnosed as bipolar disorder. With loving support from family, neighbors and her bosses she managed to work until she was able to retire with a small pension and a monthly Social Security check. Through it all she maintained an optimistic and generous spirit along with an uncanny wisdom that she shared with an eye toward the future. 

Mama believe in the scriptural admonition that there is a time for every season, and by that she meant that each of us must know when it is the moment to play our different roles in life. She had nurtured us when we were children, but encouraged us to fly away from her protective nest when we became adults. She was a working mom by necessity, but she surrendered her job in her sixties with the comment that it was time for younger folk to have the privilege of her position. She at times fretted that older people too often cling to the reigns of power longer than they should, sometimes making it difficult for the next generation to have their turn at running things. 

When people in their seventies boasted that they were still heading companies and working forty hours a week, my mother would sniff and ask why they were not willing to train younger folks to try a hand at their jobs. She believed that it was never a good idea to overlook the up and coming generation or to scorn them by an unwillingness to trust them. She felt the same about politicians, believing that there should be limits to the amount of time that people hold powerful positions, even it they were lifetime appointments.  

Mama was highly respectful of young people. She believed that in living longer we humans had a tendency to focus on the wisdom of the old while ignoring the beliefs of the young. She felt that we had become lopsided in the running of families, businesses and governments by allowing decades long control by a particular individual or group that might instead have stepped aside to give the next generation a chance to find their own way and to demonstrate their talents.

My mother also believed in sharing wealth before death. She was not one to hoard what few treasures she had. When she died she had little of great value because she had already given away much of what she had managed to accumulate during her life. She preferred the idea of providing young people a financial boost to leaving them fortunes when they had grown old. She often noted that she did not worry about becoming a King Lear whose family abandoned him once he had transferred his power to them. She believed that a well run society depended on helping each successive generation and demonstrating faith in their capabilities. 

I often wonder what my mother would think of so many Baby Boomers hoarding their power and their money. She’d wonder why the leading candidates for the presidency in our country are old men who should stay home and leave the running of the country to the generation of their children and grandchildren. She would also be asking why so many speak of our youngest adults with so much derision. Instead she would no doubt insist that it is the natural progression of things to embrace the vibrant ideas of youthfulness. She would remind me that even Jesus carried out his mission on this earth before he was thirty three years old. 

My mother gave me and my brothers infinite levels of confidence in ourselves because she encouraged and respected our thinking even when it diverged from hers. She often laughed at the impact our philosophies had in changing her mind about things. She grew as we did and she saw that as a very good thing. She rarely chided us unless she saw us growing insular and selfish. 

My mother helped me to find my footing when I was a fledgling teacher. Her words of wisdom were simple. She told me to embrace each of my students just as they were and to always demonstrate to them that I valued their differences. Once I stopped judging and ranking the children who came to me, but instead understood that they could and would learn at different paces and in different ways, I became the teacher that they needed. 

I doubt that I would be the person I am today without my mother’s wisdom. Her voice still resonates inside of me. I see the future generations as our hope, not our downfall. I realize that it is now my time to support and encourage the generation that will take humankind into the future. My mother taught me how to look forward rather than holding on to the past. Her influence has served me well.    

I’m that person who has a difficult time just sitting quietly doing nothing. I have friends who meditate each day, but I always feel distracted by my inclination to be busy whenever I attempt to slow the thoughts that race through my mind. I suppose that if I were to admit to one aspect of my personality that might need a bit of change, it would be learning how to simply relax and live in a moment. Instead I am more inclined to be measuring the progress of each day by counting the tasks I have accomplished from dawn to dusk. The more I have done, the better I feel, but perhaps there is something to be said for simply becoming one with the beating of my heart and the breaths that I take. 

I have a dear friend who once showed me the tiny closet that she had converted to a place of prayer. Inside she had placed a large pillow on which to perch while candles and incense filled the air with lovely scents. She told me that she often read inspirational texts and then closed her eyes and simply listened to the silence around her. She shut out the hustle and bustle of the world each day in a spiritual moment that brought her closer to a kind of nirvana and allowed her to understand her place in the vast universe. 

I often think of a sonnet by William Wordsworth whose words seem to describe my own dilemma, “The world is too much with us, late or soon. Getting and spending we lay waste our powers.” I see myself being distracted by so much during the day, that really is not as important as I often deem it to be. I instinctively know that I don’t really have to keep my home spotlessly clean or fret over the weeds in my garden, but nonetheless I grow anxious when things feel out of order. 

I greatly admire those who purposely pause to care for themselves, those who can leave dirty dishes in the sink or step over clothes thrown on the floor. My mother who had once run her household with an unbending schedule learned to let the cobwebs stay in the corner while she serendipitously drove to just sit watching the ocean waves. Life became a glorious adventure for her instead of a series of tasks to be done. 

I find my relaxed side whenever I travel with my trailer. On those excursions I do not set an alarm. I eat whatever I wish. I wander without aim. I see the world and its people in a spiritual way. I allow myself to relax and I free my mind to get in touch with beautifully random thoughts. It is as though each journey is a pilgrimage that sets me free from being too much with the world. 

Recently I read an article about a man’s discovery of Deer Island in Maine. He noted that he had first heard about the place when reading Travels With Charley by John Steinbeck. Later a friend would tell him that Deer Island was an enchanting place that no words might actually describe, so he decided to go see it for himself. He learned that there was indeed something magical about being there and his advice was that to fully know it, one must actually go there. 

I suppose that one day I would like to wend my way to that island. It would need to be a slow trip in which I tarried for a time here and there. Perhaps it would be nice to first head east along the coast of the Gulf of Mexico, stopping for a day or even a week in Louisiana, Mississippi, Florida and Georgia. I’d definitely want to spend time in Savannah, a wondrous little town that still fills my heart with the most pleasant memories. 

This adventure would have to take many weeks so as not to become tiresome from the drive. I would want to slowly inch my way up to Maine, avoiding the hubbub of cities and instead finding the secret hideaways of nature. Eventually I would travel along the Atlantic Coast to places that my ancestors of long ago might have visited. I’d watch the flora and fauna change as I travelled northward and begin to imagine the earliest people who roamed through the forests before Europeans sailed from across the ocean. My imagination would be set free to simply enjoy the gifts that still linger beyond the grip of civilization. 

For now, my task is caring for my aging father-in-law. I think that to do the best possible job of making his days comfortable I must learn how to relax and meditate on my own. I suppose that I may start by reading passages from books sent to me by friends. I will progress slowly and perhaps with practice I may actually learn how to stop the world for a time each day. I am an old dog, but I don’t think that I am beyond new tricks just yet. There is no better time than the present to try to find and enjoy silence, to hear the wind and revel in simply existing without a plan. It sounds rather pleasant, so I think I will try.

I grew up in a household that was all about coffee. My mom was hardly able to utter a word before she had her first sips of dark black brew each morning. My grandmother gave her grandchildren milky cups of weak coffee filled with sugar. The only thing I really liked about coffee was the smell, and even as I grew older and desirous of the kick of caffeine to start my day I remained unimpressed by the favorite morning drink of most of the people that I know. It was not until I met my mother-in-law that I encountered the joy of tea.

It began on Sunday afternoons when we visited my husband’s parents for a family dinner. Once the leftovers and plates were cleared from the table where we had enjoyed Sunday roast with Yorkshire pudding, the men would generally scurry off to see what kind of sports were on the television. My mother-in-law instead began the process of making tea, an art she had learned from her mother, an immigrant from England. 

My mother-in-law had an assortment of teapots that were worn and stained from brewing countless batches of tea. Her favorite was a rather nondescript chubby little pot that she called “Little Brown Betty.” She had inherited it from her mother who had taught her the correct way of brewing and serving tea. When the water was heated just enough she poured the hot liquid into the pot and swished it around to warm it before putting the tea inside and then covering it with just the right amount of hot water. 

She would carry the brew to the dining table along with pretty china cups and some cookies that she called biscuits in true English tradition. I loved the mildness and flavor of the tea from my first sip and I have never turned back. It is my morning drink of choice, the way I start each and every day. 

Over the years I have tried many different teas. My favorite is Earl Grey, but I am open to trying any variety. A trip to Victoria, British Columbia in Canada a few years ago led me to a blend from the Empress Hotel that is delightfully perfect. It was there that I also learned about the luxuries of an afternoon tea time done exquisitely. I found myself wishing that my mother-in-law had been with us to watch the masterful presentation of tea, scones, and tiny sandwiches.

I seem to collect tea wherever I go. A dear friend introduced me to chai tea and I immediately became a fan. My sister-in-law showed me a tea store in Estes Park that had a fabulous variety of every sort of tea including Cream Earl Grey. Sadly the owners sold the business and the new owners discontinued the brands that I had so enjoyed. When in England I purchased so much tea that I had to pay a fee for my overweight suitcase. 

One of my former students once invited me to a morning tea time at her home along with her brother who had also been a student of mine. She served many different Asian teas that were delightful. Her brother presented me with tins of the various varieties that we had tried as well as a wonderful book outlining the history of tea and tea making. He also gave me several beautiful tea sets that I enjoy using when guests come to visit.

There is something slow and purposeful about tea. It forces me to tarry for awhile, to slow down my pace from frantic to relaxed. When done right it is a kind of ritual that honors the people partaking of the brew. It is a tradition handed down over time and I have been lucky enough to learn of it from my mother-in-law.

I have converted a few of my grandchildren into tea aficionados and I have a niece who used to come to my home every Tuesday afternoon for tea. Covid interrupted that little tradition and now she is a high school student who is far too busy to pause from all of her activities. I generally sip on my tea alone now. As I drink from my cups I think of all of the joy and social interactions the taking of tea has brought me and countless souls over time. It is more than just the consumption of a caffeinated drink, it is an art form.

One of the grandsons whom I took to the Empress Hotel so enjoyed the tea from there that I used to regularly send him a box. He’s in his first year of college now and no doubt has little time for the rituals associated with tea, but I suppose it might be a wonderful surprise for him to receive a little bit of heaven in the mail. I think I will order some of that tea for him today. I hope as he sips on it he remembers the love that we all felt when we were together just as I remember my mother-in-law so expertly preparing the delightful pot of tea for me.

The history of tea is filled with all sorts of intrigue including revolutions. It’s more than just some tiny leaves turned into a delightful brew. It is my way of clearing the head, enjoying a moment of tranquility and remembering the love that went into creating the many cups that folks have enjoyed.  

My mother felt a kinship with Queen Elizabeth. She often noted that she and the Queen were born in the same year. She felt that they had a similar appearance with their dark hair that tended to be styled in the same manner. Both of them had experienced World War II, but obviously in very different ways, and they had their first babies at around the same time. Mama often viewed the Queen as a kindred spirit and a person that she greatly admired. 

My mother used Queen Elizabeth as a standard for how women should behave. She loved the Queen’s loyalty to her country and her steadfast insistence on performing the responsibilities of her role with great care. To my mother Queen Elizabeth was an exemplary role model for integrity, honor, hard work, and dedication to duty.

I sometimes wondered if my Mama patterned herself after the great woman that she so admired. Like the Queen my mother shouldered her fated role in life without complaint, often sacrificing her own freedoms for the good of her family just as the Queen did for her country. Neither of them could have known as little girls what challenges lay before them, but when the hour of destiny came, they rose to the occasion.

I think of Queen Elizabeth through the eyes of my mom. I picture her working as a driver during World War II in service to the cause and I realize that she had a spunky side of her personality that was often hidden behind the manners of her station. I sense that in Prince Phillip she found a great romance that is sometimes the stuff of fairytales just as my mother found her prince in my father. I saw the Queen as a quiet woman who might have preferred a different kind of life, but rose to the occasion when her father so suddenly died. She was stalwart who served her country through seven decades when she might have preferred to live anonymously at Balmoral with her family and her Corgis. She did not flinch from her responsibilities, even as she grew frail, pulling herself together to welcome the new Prime Minister only days before her death. She had grit.

Historians will parse the life of Queen Elizabeth II through a critical lens, but one thing that is certain will be her unswerving devotion to what she saw as her obligation. In that regard more than any other, she and my mother were indeed very much alike. Each of them may have made mistakes here and there, but without a doubt they were both faithful to God, country and family, traits that are sometimes viewed as a bit old fashioned. 

As a little girl my mother treated me as though I was a princess. She carefully sewed dresses for me in golden cloth and regal red. She tutored me in manners and elocution. I suppose that she wanted me to be as refined as Queen Elizabeth. She took her admiration for the Queen and fashioned it into a road map for her own life. 

Mama often dreamed of visiting with Queen Elizabeth. She somehow believed that if they ever sat down together they would find that they had a great deal in common. Never mind that my mother was the youngest of eight children in an immigrant family that struggled financially. Mama believed that the merit of a person had nothing to do with titles or wealth, but was to be found in the dignity with which they carried themselves through life. In that regard she saw the Queen as a super star. 

Mama once spoke of what she would do if she ever had an opportunity to sit down with Queen Elizabeth for tea. She admitted that she would have a difficult time curtsying to her.  She felt that being an American meant that she did not have to demonstrate deference to the Queen. She said that her parents came to America to be free from such things. Nonetheless, she was certain that once she got past that little tradition that she and the Queen would have a jolly good time. She said that their kinship as wives and mothers would surely lead to a wonderful conversation and probably lots of laughter as well. 

I suppose that my mother’s influence resulted in my own admiration of Queen Elizabeth. She has been a presence for all of my life. Even though I am not from Great Britain, half of my ancestors were. Through them, the Queen and I shared some history. I have always had great love for the British Isles and when I finally visited a few years ago I felt that I was living the dream that my mother had instilled in me. I felt the influence of Queen Elizabeth all around me.

I knew that the reign of Queen Elizabeth II would one day come to an end. I had seen how her health was failing, but the reality that she is gone has hit me as hard as if I were actually a citizen of her realm. It almost feels like losing my own mother again and I find myself wondering how the world is going to be able to get along without this incredible woman. 

We are surely going to miss her elegant presence, her colorful outfits, her lovely hats, her manners and her compassion. With a willful strength she dedicated her life to her country from the time she was only a young woman in her twenties. She witnessed a changing world and somehow found ways to transform herself with it, but always she was a steadying force. May God be with her and may He guide and comfort her nation as they begin a new era without her. I’d like to believe that just maybe she and my mother will finally have an opportunity to sit down together in heaven for a spot of tea. It makes me smile to think of that.

It would usually be a Saturday morning, a day when we slept a bit longer after a week of work and school. We would hear someone honking insistently in our driveway. I would throw on a semblance of clothing and go outside to investigate. Just as I suspected it was always my mother, up early and ready to go have a good time. She’d be sitting behind the wheel of her car with a big grin and as soon as I appeared she would gleefully hold up a bag of groceries that she had purchased for our family while doing her own shopping. 

As soon as she saw me, she would kill the engine and emerge from the car, still smiling and carrying bags of goodies that she had brought to us. I would rush over to help her, feeling a mixture of delight and annoyance at her unexpected visit that had interrupted my sleep. Mostly I was laughing and smiling inside because I knew how much love came with her arrival and filled those paper bags that she so proudly carried. 

My mother was a true child of the Great Depression. She understood clearly what it was like to struggle to put a meal on the table. Food was like gold to her, so when she brought gifts of bread and canned vegetables it was a sign of great generosity and concern for our welfare. It was also her way of telling us how much she loved us. She was a true believer that one should never visit another without bearing some small gift for the person who was going to open their home to her. She was always the Mama looking after her children, no matter how old and successful we had become.

There were indeed times when her early morning visits rankled me. Usually that happened after a very busy and tiring week at work when I cherished the time to myself on a Saturday morning. Those were also the moments when I had not yet considered what life would be like when she was no more. It did not yet occur to me that I would one day be longing for the sound of her horn awakening me from my slumbers. I had not yet imagined that one day her beautiful smile would only be a memory. I suppose that I took her generosity and undying love for granted back then, because it was always such an ever present aspect of my life. 

Recently my daughters and I were reminiscing about Mama’s Saturday morning visits. We thought of how lovely and simple our lives had been back then and how totally filled with unconditional love they were. Our worries were few and our needs were so simple. In so many ways my mother was symbolic of all things good, even as she juggled a million little hindrances to her well being. She was a Phoenix burned again and again, but always rising from the ashes with a kind of innocence and a smile. 

Sometimes Mama came to my driveway with a plan. Getting into our house with her paper bag of groceries was a subterfuge for other ideas that she had concocted. She might urge us to comb our hair and put on our shoes because she want to take us to the beach or on a day of window shopping at the mall. She might suggest that we accompany her to visit one of her siblings across town or that we pack some things for a random picnic. With her, things happened out of the blue, as though she had awakened thinking that it was a good day for some fun. 

If nothing else was pressing we would reluctantly go along with her joyful thinking, sometimes with a bit of hesitation. Experience had taught us that we would always end up having fun, but our practical natures reminded us of things that we felt we urgently needed to do.   With a wee bit of annoyance we would go along with her whimsy without ever thinking that one day we would really miss those random excursions with her. Somehow she made even a simple drive feel like an exciting adventure, ignoring our dieting with offers of ice cream and donuts. 

I’m a steady soul, a reliably regimented person who follows a calendar, a weekly routine, a daily repetition of structure. I fall victim to my own organization without the influence of an impish sprite like my mother or my departed friend, Pat, who also pushed me into adventures with her. I need people in my life who will take me away from the mundane and show me how to have fun even when I think I don’t have time. 

Sometimes I hear a car approaching and I find myself hoping that it is my mother once again filling my driveway with so much enjoyment. Then I remember that those days are long gone, but the memories linger to make me smile. People like my Mama are a gift that we cherish even long after they are gone. Perhaps I need to put on my shoes, forget about my plans, and do something out of the ordinary today. I think she would like to see me do that.