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!
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