My Mother's Hands - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg

My Mother's Hands

Love was in those seamlines,
this I've come to know -
through her daily actions,
My mom's love would show.
Hands stirred pots at mealtimes,
fed her hungry brood;
extra bodies didn't
put her in bad mood.
Friends were always welcomed,
guests we'd often see -
truly Mom embodied
hospitality.
Her hands, strong and able,
made the clothes we wore,
swiftly peeled potatoes;
mopped the kitchen floor.
They kept campfires burning,
stoked the wood stove's flames,
dealt cards in the evening;
beat us at board games!
They flipped perfect pancakes
in cast iron pan;
banged upon the outhouse
so the critters ran!
With her hands she showed love;
teaching something true:
While words are important,
love's in what you do.

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, May 12, 2018

One of my early memories of my mother is watching her stir cake batter in a bowl. I was amazed by how quickly she could beat that batter by hand, and for years tried to emulate her without much success. I was probably thirty by the time I'd mastered "the Power Stir" and I suspect hauling around an infant and a toddler had something to do with acquiring the necessary biceps to do so. This feat invoked the same kind of awe in my young sons as I'd once experienced. Isn't that one of the joys of motherhood? When they're little our children are so sweet and easy to impress!

My mother was never verbally effusive when I was young. She didn't gush over any of us or brag about us to friends, but she showed her love through service. She was a gifted seamstress who made a lot of the clothing my sisters and I wore, sometimes sewing long into the night so that we'd have a new dress for a special occasion. She was a good cook and baker, and she made us hearty and plentiful meals. My parents both had a very open door attitude - everyone's friends were welcome. It wasn't a big deal to ask my mom if a friend could stay for supper - in fact it was really just a formality. I don't remember her ever saying no. In fact, if she realized there was an extra body in the house she'd usually issue the invite herself.

Mom's inner child emerged most often when we were at camp. (That means at our cottage on Lake Superior, for those unfamiliar with Northern Ontario terminology.) She could skip rocks like a pro and taught us all how to row a boat. She loved playing cards and board games in the evenings - by the light of our trusty Coleman lantern. (We didn't get electricity in the cabin until my late teens.) I don't remember her complaining about cooking meals on the wood stove or having no running water out there. She was pretty stoic about boiling cooking water hauled from the lake and accompanying us to the outhouse when somebody reported seeing a snake on the commode. What I do remember is her teaching me how to make hats out of woven leaves, and taking long walks with her up the camp road. Often these walks were motivated by her desire to scout for wild raspberries, and while none of us ever itched to do the picking, we could usually be motivated to fill a bucket or two by the promise of fresh raspberry pie!

Piecrust is still one of my mother's specialties - a home-baked pie from my mother's kitchen is an offer few can refuse - love in a pie plate! My siblings who live further afield will tell you that no visit to see my mother is complete without pie. She was taught at the hands of the best. My grandmother Gardiner was a superb baker, and thinking of visits to her house as a child makes my mouth water. One of the proudest moments of my life was when a sibling tasted a pie I'd baked and proclaimed it "as good as Mom's."

Making holidays special for us was important to my mother. Every birthday she'd ask us how many friends we wanted to invite, what meal we wanted served, and what kind of cake she should make. She didn't gripe if we invited ten kids over and she needed to make an extra cake. She baked like a fiend at Christmastime, not only so that we'd enjoy the seasonal offerings, but so that she'd have plenty to share. Every year she'd share her famous "Swedish Tea Ring" with lucky friends from her church and square dance club.  To this day, when she visits me at Christmastime, she'll arrive with a circular foil wrapped bundle under one arm, and I'm sure my siblings can say the same.

My mother is getting older, but she still loves to entertain, and visit friends and family. She still beats me routinely at Rummikub. She's mellowed a bit in some ways, and is maybe more stubborn than ever in others. Still, we seem to laugh together more often than we used to.

Last week I spent a night at her apartment and realized at bedtime that I'd forgotten my toothbrush. She said she probably had one laying around and proceeded to dig - and came up with two options. One was an unused denture brush - HUGE - (esp. for one who's mouth has been likened to "a large barn with a small door"), and the other was passed on, sans package, by  a friend of hers. I rejected them both in favour of baking soda and my own finger. She thought I was being ridiculously fussy and told me so.

"When did you become such a pain in the butt?" she asked.

"I've always been, Mom", I assured her. "Thanks for just noticing now!"

"Well," she sighed in a resigned tone, "I still love you, even though you're a pain!"

"Same here!" I replied cheekily.

"Don't be a wise guy!" she laughed. Then we gave each other a kiss good-night and went off to our beds.

I don't know how many more years I'll have my mom. Hopefully we can keep on giving each other the gears for a while, but I know time can't be guaranteed. I hope she knows how much I appreciate all of the things her hands have done to make my life easier, and hope she knows that she taught me the importance of showing love through service.

When we were young she'd sometimes get impatient with us, her children, for lazing about when there were things to be done.

"Be a self-starter", she'd say, "Don't wait for someone to tell you to do something. Just pay attention and do whatever you think needs to be done!"

There have been times when I felt like I was channeling her - and those words echoed in my brain. Sometimes I was the frustrated parent thinking, "Why aren't they helping me?" Other times I was the person standing on the sidelines, feeling guilty for not doing enough, or wondering what needed to be done - then taking a deep breath and just doing something.

My mom taught me that love is a verb. So, in honour of busy maternal hands everywhere, lets strive to be "verb-al" in our appreciation for the women whose hands worked hard to raise us.

Happy Mother's Day to all of us - especially my mom, who tried to teach me well. I love you, Mom!

When Spring Springs - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg

Last week I was outside, in my boots and winter coat, chipping away at ice. The temperature was just creeping up above freezing, and the sun was trying to shine. The snow had already melted in most of my yard, but the driveway - shaded most of the day by my looming Victorian house - stubbornly clung to its layer of ice. I decided it had to be gone - pronto.

"Why?" my husband asked - "You know it's going to melt in a day or two anyhow, right?"

"Not soon enough!" I replied. "I refuse to step out my back door onto ice for one more day!"

For the first time in my life I could relate to the middle-aged people I'd always laughed at - the ones who frantically shovel their driveway snow out onto a sunny patch of the road.

It was time for Spring to spring, doggone it!

Canadians get impatient when winter outstays its welcome. About 3% of us suffer from SAD, and just want the cold days to end. The rest of us just get mad. I get antsy when the seasons refuse to align themselves with the neat divisions on the calendar. Back in April of 2010 I penned this untitled ode:

On a frosty Friday morning
when the rain has turned to snow
I have brain freeze and I'm foggy
and my wheels are moving slow.
I'm affected by this weather -
Silly? Yes - but it is true.
I've invited in the grey sky
and it's left me feeling blue.

It has been a rough Spring - a late Spring. An almost non-existent Spring. A Spring that is finally making an appearance now that it's half over. Whenever we have snow in April I tell myself it's an anomaly. Apparently I live in denial when it comes to the crazy seasonal temperature fluctuations that exist in my part of the world.

Still, I know it could be worse.

"Welcome to _______ (insert Northern Ontario city/town of your choice here) where we have ten months of winter and two months of bad ski-dooing!"

Spring in Sault Ste. Marie, where I grew up, was all over the board. Some years we were still ice-skating over our March break, and other years we were riding bicycles in Spring jackets. I always knew the so called season of rejuvenation was fickle in Northern Ontario, but as time goes on it seems that she appears in her own time, and on her own terms, wherever I live.

My attitude toward Spring's arrival is about as capricious as she is. Some years I can't wait for Winter to be gone, and other years I'm capable of amazing forbearance. Apparently 2014 found me feeling more upbeat about Spring's arrival than I'd been four years earlier:

Spring Hopes Eternal

The sky was blue, the sun shone bright
though frigid was the day -
I wore my winter coat and boots
but felt Spring anyway.
Old Winter blew tenaciously;
I didn't really care.
Spring wasn't in the bitter wind,
but she was in the air!
I tromped through mud, I heard a bird -
an optimistic sound!
Snow blanketed the frozen soil,
but Spring was all around.
The calendar announcing Spring
was premature - that's clear.
Perhaps Spring isn't quite here yet -
but I can feel her near!

(Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 23, 2014)

I'm learning that Spring, like anything else, is what we make it. I try not to let the weather upset me too much, but my efforts to remain stoic aren't always successful. Unlike many around me I try not to rush her arrival. This year we got two weeks of warm weather in February, and I was uneasy the whole time. Everywhere around me I saw people getting excited - overly hopeful that winter days were over and warmer days were here to stay. I felt like the lone doomsayer.

"We're going to pay for this in April!" I'd tell people. "Mother Nature has a sick sense of humour."

And (of course) they'd tell me not to be pessimistic. But truly my warnings stemmed from sheer pragmatism, not a desire to burst anyone's bubble. I simply wanted to bring them all down to earth gently before the inevitable April snowstorm sent them all to their beds in misery. Of course we got that storm (rain that turned to hail, that turned to snow, that turned back to rain and froze overnight). Somewhere in there we lost power for thirteen hours and the kids in the area got two consecutive snow days in April - which doesn't happen very darned often, even though Spring messes with us plenty.

But now (knock wood!) the errant winter temperatures are all behind us. Two days ago I put on sandals for the first time and marveled that I'd worn boots just a week earlier. Yesterday I worked in the yard for an hour. The grass is finally looking greener, and before long tulips will be in bloom. Spring comes and goes in a flash, but it sure is pretty while it lasts.

Hey, I've seen snow on Mother's Day...or even Victoria Day. Whatever happens, I'm determined to keep on feeling spring-ish. Gonna try to keep some spring in my step no matter what...

Once Spring finally springs, the heart sings - and I'm not about to stop singing  mid-ditty.