Think of mom
She passed away 10 years ago today, in our home, as I held her hand and told stories. At least once every three or four days, I still think about something that has happened to me that I wish I could tell her.
Many of my memories are positive - wonderful trips together to England, Scotland, Ireland, southern California, Quebec. Always giving me rides somewhere as a kid, including to horse shows in terrible weather. Always feeding any friend I brought home, no matter how short notice. Playing big band and swing music and Broadway show records for me, especially the big bands with female lead vocalists. Taking care of the old horses without complaint. Turning the land around the house into wonderful gardens, and painting birds onto milk cans. Taking apart motors and putting them back together. Reading all my brother's textbooks and notes to him when he had eye problems in high school.
In other ways, I think of her with anger, because she deliberately thwarted some of my dreams just as her mother had thwarted hers. She lied to me, a lot, and made my father lie to me, about our ancestry. She took my school successes as nothing special and rewarded my brother for much less even though I worked harder at it. She told me we couldn't afford equestrian lessons, when a good friend of hers was training future Olympians for free a short distance away.
She was crazy about mathematics, and did complex math problems for fun late at night. She desperately wanted to go to university, and her parents sent her to secretary school. As secretary to a stockbroker, the private fund she managed for herself and six friends made proportionately far more than any fund her boss managed.
She was a product of the time - married women, esp. with kids, were supposed to quit their jobs. Mom would rather have worked, and grandma was there to take care of us. So she volunteered at the hospital, even as chair of the volunteer program, even though she hated hospitals. She volunteered at the church, even though she had lost her religion, because the minister's wife needed support against her abusive husband. She did the taxes, banking, bill payments and more for decades for a "slow" man who had worked for my grandfather; we didn't even know. She arranged the music for skating festivals and sewed costumes for the kids; she hated hand sewing. She read mysteries and wished her mother hadn't vetoed that leadership program she was offered in New York after the war, that could have been her big break from a small town "what would people think?" life.
She still had plans and wasn't ready to go; damn cancer.
My father started dating her because she was blond, blue-eyed and a good dancer. He got someone way more intelligent than him (with his philosophy degree), mostly kind and caring, a good if uninteresting cook, and a person who made the world around her better in many ways. I wish I could tell her again that I loved her, and forgave her the lies.
Many of my memories are positive - wonderful trips together to England, Scotland, Ireland, southern California, Quebec. Always giving me rides somewhere as a kid, including to horse shows in terrible weather. Always feeding any friend I brought home, no matter how short notice. Playing big band and swing music and Broadway show records for me, especially the big bands with female lead vocalists. Taking care of the old horses without complaint. Turning the land around the house into wonderful gardens, and painting birds onto milk cans. Taking apart motors and putting them back together. Reading all my brother's textbooks and notes to him when he had eye problems in high school.
In other ways, I think of her with anger, because she deliberately thwarted some of my dreams just as her mother had thwarted hers. She lied to me, a lot, and made my father lie to me, about our ancestry. She took my school successes as nothing special and rewarded my brother for much less even though I worked harder at it. She told me we couldn't afford equestrian lessons, when a good friend of hers was training future Olympians for free a short distance away.
She was crazy about mathematics, and did complex math problems for fun late at night. She desperately wanted to go to university, and her parents sent her to secretary school. As secretary to a stockbroker, the private fund she managed for herself and six friends made proportionately far more than any fund her boss managed.
She was a product of the time - married women, esp. with kids, were supposed to quit their jobs. Mom would rather have worked, and grandma was there to take care of us. So she volunteered at the hospital, even as chair of the volunteer program, even though she hated hospitals. She volunteered at the church, even though she had lost her religion, because the minister's wife needed support against her abusive husband. She did the taxes, banking, bill payments and more for decades for a "slow" man who had worked for my grandfather; we didn't even know. She arranged the music for skating festivals and sewed costumes for the kids; she hated hand sewing. She read mysteries and wished her mother hadn't vetoed that leadership program she was offered in New York after the war, that could have been her big break from a small town "what would people think?" life.
She still had plans and wasn't ready to go; damn cancer.
My father started dating her because she was blond, blue-eyed and a good dancer. He got someone way more intelligent than him (with his philosophy degree), mostly kind and caring, a good if uninteresting cook, and a person who made the world around her better in many ways. I wish I could tell her again that I loved her, and forgave her the lies.