Mothering from the Outside In

Mothering from the outside in…. 

Mom was good at holding me in the twilight hours when I scraped my knees sliding into home from Angelika’s house across the way. We lived at the top of a steep dead-end street in Echo Park where the cars all parked on a leveled gravel and tarmac pad. Invariably, I’d slide on that gravel at the end of each day presenting bloody neon knees that were trying to signal the deeper hurt my Daddy was perpetrating right under her nose. It was as close as I could come to telling her and I tried that nearly every day.

My favorite time of day was twilight, just after the Mercurochrome-colored sky had faded to Maxfield Parish blue, and the sting was gone from my knees even though they were still the color of the sunset. Mom would rock me on her lap, singing and lovin' me up 'til my battery was recharged. She was good at holding that healing presence. What she wasn’t so good at was reading between the lines… or cooking or sewing. For that I had to find other mothers to teach me. I learned to mother myself from the outside in.

Mom taught me that the way to make toast was to put bread under the broiler, wait ‘til you smelled smoke, scream, “Aaaaah!” and go to the sink and scrape off the burnt part. She also knew and tried to teach me all the Latin names for plants. I cherish the gifts she gave me and thank her for sending me to search for what she could not give. Colette taught me how to cut parsley with scissors in a juice glass. Lucy taught me how to cut mangoes so they resembled peacocks strutting. Aunt Nora and my friend Wendy taught me how to camp in style - with real crystal wine goblets and fine china. Lynn taught me to make a mean sweet-potato-salad.

All my “mothers” taught me to pass it on… whether that was implicit in their teaching or not. I’ve been privileged to pass on the best of what I’ve received from this team of women most of whom don’t even know one another. I’ve passed on the practical skill sets of mothering to my daughters of course, but also to clients, friends and strangers in the supermarket. Do you know how to choose celery that isn’t bitter? Scratch & sniff the root end. If it smells bitter, it is.  I learned this from a gentle woman shopping alongside me in the produce section at Von’s.

Joan Peck was a wise neighbor during those impossibly painful years when I was 16 to 21. She let me smoke, cuss and drink wine with her. She accepted me for who I was trying very hard to become… even though I didn’t know exactly who that creature might be.

Colette also taught me how to sew on buttons with a French twist, to sing La Vie en Rose with a passable  accent and the usefulness of Beaujoulais wine for building the blood after childbirth. She had married an American G.I. and borne him two children… her son, Francis died of AIDS; Nora sustained a high fever in infancy that fried her brain. She was categorized EMR (Educable Mentally Retarded) but couldn’t speak. I became a surrogate daughter for Colette and she was a great comfort to me from early in my marriage and young mothering to when we visited her on our 25^th wedding Anniversary 15 years ago in her homeland outside Paris. I have darned socks for clients whose toes were poking through their adorable monkey socks and offered buttons to those who’d lost theirs - just because Colette inspired me to pass it on.

One “mother” figure was a woman I never met but only saw in a Smith Hawken garden shop in Pasadena maybe 15 years ago. She was 60-ish, with a white bun atop her head and radiating health, vibrancy and mysterious magnetic charm. She seemed happier in her skin than anyone I’d ever seen... exuding love of life, comfort and grace. I followed her around that shop just basking in her glow.  I aspire to walk in her footsteps and inspire some “40 somethings” when they’re just beginning to wonder how to age.

A grandmother type was picking out prune plums at the grocery store. While juggling one daughter on my hip with her sister in the cart, I asked and the woman told me how to select plums and gave me a recipe for a Hungarian Prune Plum confection. Because it called for a sugar cube in each pitted plum and because I was trying to raise our girls without sugar, I never made the recipe, but I cherish the sweet memory of that offering and keep the yellowing page with my recipes. I regret having been so restrictive with sweets. Our older daughter started selecting friends based on whose mom would let them eat Twinkies and M & M’s! Once, when I made a gloptious chocolate/meringue confection for her birthday cake instead of the usual carrot cake with "health food" written all over it, her mouth dropped to her knees. We all enjoyed it to the last!

My mother in law, Freidabel is on my list of motherly heroines… She taught me to make Stuffed Cabbage, Pot Roast and Kasha Varneshkas, taught me songs in Yiddish, and she taught her sons and daughter to be self-sufficient, productive human beings. She loved sooo much in her too short life. If we could’ve put her and my mom in the blender… we would have had the perfect recipe for “A Perfect Grandma!”

My Grammy Stern is on the list too, for, among other things, teaching me with the patience of Job to use a sewing machine. Even after her death… if I have a sewing question she’s on call.  Aunt Fay taught me how to knit – no less than three times. I still forget how to cast-on. Maybe I'll dial her in heaven and ask for a review.

My high school buddy Wendy came up to Big Basin Redwoods where 2 of our friends and their kids were camping with me and my then three year old daughter Mosa.  Wendy arrived Saturday night with an entire salmon fresh from Fisherman’s Wharf, real china plates, fine wine, crystal goblets and silver cutlery. The gusto with which we 3 tired mothers devoured her lemon and onion studded masterpiece could be heard 300 miles away in L.A. I’m sure my husband looked up, scratching his head… “Do I hear orgasms in the redwoods?”

With all the tedium that accompanies house work and basic mothering, it’s essential to have humor, help and heroines. I’m HUGELY grateful for mine, especially my husband, who is so appreciative and nothing like John Henry…

“John Henry swore by the light of the moon and the green leaves on the tree

That he could do more work in a day than his wife could do in three.

Said she, “My darlin’ dearie, I know that I’m to blame,

John Henry, I’ll go plow the fields and you must stay at hame.*”  Old English Folk Song

(John Henry is humbled and daunted by the amount of work his wife performs flawlessly every single day.)

*home

Happy Mother's Day, Happy EVERY DAY!!

Melinda

PS: At ninety-one, my mom is still with us. We are grateful.  And her amazing care-giver Ellen has become another heroine, helper and sharer of how humorous and  heart-breakingly beautiful the mothering journey can be.