The Biblio File May Essay: “For Mama, On Mother’s Day”

FOR MAMA, ON MOTHER’S DAY

 My mother was an ace at draw poker and duplicate bridge. She drank Rusty Nails (a mixture of Scotch and Drambuie). She loved diamonds, and sported them on her fingers, her wrists, and around her freckled neck.

She sported her views, too, telling me (her rebellious daughter) exactly how things were and I should be. Like when I was twelve and complained I didn’t tan, no matter how long I baked in the sun. “Doesn’t matter,” Mama told me. “Boys like girls who are thin and pale.” I remember tilting my head at her and blinking, blinking, then doing sit ups to build muscle and upping my tanning time.

Mama died eight years ago. I’m not, thank goodness, thin and pale. But other things Mama taught and I railed against are now an integral part of me.

“Life,” she would say, dragging on her Winston, “is a struggle.” She’d pause after “Life”, giving drama to her statement. And? I’d think. So?

I wonder what my southern Baptist mother would say if I told her “Life is suffering” is a major Buddhist teaching. I bet it would please her that her Buddhist slant on life normalizes tough events for me now, makes them easier to bear, and gives me strength to accept them and to keep on keeping on.

As a teen, when I couldn’t sleep, upset about a boy or a friend or a test at school, I could count on Mama saying, “Things will look better in the morning when the sun is shining and the birds are singing!” I glared at her. Her name was Polly, but I figured “Pollyanna” fit better. I seriously wanted to deck her perky self.

I can’t count the times I’ve lain awake, worried and fretful, and, in the morning, breathed a sweet sigh of relief. The sun is shining and the birds are singing. The nighttime demons have vanished. Things look better. Really.

I hear Mama most often when I’m looking through my refrigerator. There’s that turkey carcass and those tired carrots. Half an onion. Rice. I’ll just throw them out, I think, but I hear Mama’s Depression era voice.“Honey, don’t waste food. Honey, don’t waste food. Honey, don’t—”

“Okay, Okay!” I make soup from the tidbits, and it’s delicious, and I feel productive and satisfied, and my mouth has a big ole party.

I’m so different from my mother. I no longer drink, so no Rusty Nails for me. I don’t play cards. I’m self-conscious about too much bling and prefer simple jewelry.

But I carry Mama with me. She gave me precious morsels. I particularly treasure these three:

Life—is a struggle.

Things will look better in the morning when the sun is shining and the birds are singing.

And, Honey—Don’t waste food.

#