|Wednesday, Dec. 18, 2002 || Down memory lane. Albeit, dragged there...sort of.|
On Monday, a bulky, padded envelope was delivered to our home.
Return address: Ferndale, Maryland, scrawled in the penmanship of dozens of teacher’s notes, birthday cards, and Christmas tags.
Inside, among some other things, was a book. The Twelve Days of Christmas.
A child’s book. Bright colors. Dancing bears. Leafless, white, birch trees reaching toward snowflakes in the sky.
“Nicole… When I saw these books at Kohl’s they brought back memories of you and your sisters singing to me as we rode in the car. Especially the “five golden rings”. I hope you enjoy this book with your family. Love, Mom “2002”.”
“FIVE GO-OL-DEN- RINGS….ba dump bump bump…”
I thought of Radio Shack tape recorders, the dirty blonde curls and brown locks of my sisters bowed over the microphone, belting out carols in childish northeastern accents:
“Foh caw-ing burds, fwee Fwench hens, two Tut-Tle doves….and a pawr-twidge in a pay-er twee!”
I found myself feeling wistful, happy, and angry all at the same time!
My relationship with my mother has seen the good, the bad, and the ugly. I suppose it is like that with the vast majority of first-born daughters and their mothers, or perhaps it is just daughters and mothers, period.
In many ways it is easy to live far away from my mother. None of the day-to-day “political” bullcrap. Phone conversations are generally kept light and happy. I can live my life as I see best without interference (not that she doesn’t try, bless her heart). I can pack away the emotional baggage for another time and place and just live my life.
At least that is what I try to do.
And then she does something as simple as sending me a book. But it’s never that simple, though I’d like to believe that.
When I first saw that book, the inscription inside, a flood of memories rushed back, tears burning behind my eyes. My mind fought against this wave. “D--- you, Mom, for sending that to me! I don’t need this right now. I don’t want to miss my sisters. I don’t want to miss you.”
And then almost as quickly, I realized that I wanted to laugh, to cry happy tears, thankful for the reminder of a different time, of the innocence of three little girls riding along in a car with their mom. Christmas was coming. And we were singing.
She didn’t seem to care that we sang off key. That we couldn’t harmonize to save our lives. That we got loud and rambunctious and silly.
She let us sing.
I don’t remember her ever asking us to stop.
Thank you, Mom, for letting us sing. And thank you for reminding me that we did.
Just a reminder - Friday, Aug. 10, 2007
Rockin' Girl Blogger - Wednesday, Jul. 18, 2007
A good end - Friday, Jun. 01, 2007
Moving on? Yes and no. - Monday, May. 07, 2007