It’s Mother’s Day.
Life ended up looking (literally) a bit different than expected this week and I didn’t get around to preparing fresh reflections on motherhood.
So I’m going to repost some thoughts from last year because, well, nothing has changed; if anything, I admire my own mother more, continuing to recognize new ways she has lovingly shaped and influenced my life over the years.
Once again, I want to start by acknowledging we all have different stories to share. Some readers may be mourning the loss of a mother or friend, others processing a difficult parental relationship; some may be desperately wishing to become a mother while others are finding the very role of motherhood complicated and overwhelming. For anyone struggling, I’m sorry for your loss, hurt, frustration, or grief.
It’s a bit of a family joke how much I take after my mother. We look alike, sound alike, and think alike. We both have a tendency for “smoke to come out both ears” when we get worked up. Translation: we’re stubborn and emotional. Apparently (or so I’m told), we even eat ice cream the same way.
But more than anything, I write like she writes.
One of my earliest memories is of Mom perched on the edge of a wooden chair – complete with forest green crocheted “footies” (to avoid scuffing our 1970s-era dining room linoleum) – in front of the Christmas tree.
I was about four, though this same scene was repeated for years, so I’m surely amalgamating memories. I always found a place on the floor by the tree; blonde hair, blue eyes, bubbling with the delight reserved for four-year-olds on Christmas morning. My father would have been there too, having made the concession of waking thirty minutes early to shave and get dressed. Two older sisters and a brother. And Mom, sitting on her chair, clipboard in one hand, a blue Bic ballpoint poised in the other.
Christmas Eve would have found her hunched over that same clipboard. Stockings stuffed – including toothpaste and soap for every member of the family (which, once unwrapped, would be back in the communal pile under the bathroom sink before the turkey was on the table) – and breakfast prepped in the refrigerator. Her world in order, Mom would sit, ruler in hand, preparing her grid. Recipient on the horizontal, giver on the vertical. This careful tracking was as traditional as the cinnamon coffee cake for breakfast, the scented Avon mistletoe figurine on the mantel, and the vintage star (with questionable wiring) glowing atop our tree.
And so Christmas found us – Dad smelling of aftershave, the coffee cake baking, Mom with her pen. One at a time gifts were unwrapped. This year, a stack of Nancy Drew books from Grammie, the one with a fiery temper who was continually offering unsolicited advice but was, nonetheless, recognized as a top-notch gift-giver. Next up, new sewing thread for Mom. Licorice Allsorts for Dad.
Throughout the morning there was, without exception, strict adherence to a single rule: before opening, admiring, or using a gift you paused to announce the giver. And another block in that grid would fill up.
These were snapshots of our life and Mom was recording.
Before the ball dropped in Manhattan on New Year’s Eve, our local postal team carried away the results of Mom’s dutiful records. A thank-you to the opinionated grandmother (those Nancy Drew books sit on my daughter’s bookshelf today). A note of gratitude to my other grandmother, a soft-spoken woman whose cheerful smile – which she removed each night for a bath in Polident – belied the fact she was widowed by 35 with three small children. One year she sent an elaborate tea set. My own children still use it, nibbling on chocolate chips and Cheerios piled on impossibly tiny plates, pouring Diet Pepsi out of the faded purple teapot. I wonder if Mom’s thank-you predicted the generations of use ahead?
Another note for Uncle Paul and Aunt Nadja. The arrival of their Christmas parcel was a tradition itself – wrapped in brown paper and plastered with stickers, this was a gift that kept on giving. There was the anticipatory journey to our local post office, parcel notification in hand. Then the first glimpse of that giant box – bigger and heavier than a child dared hope. At home, Exacto knife in hand, the outer shell would be carefully removed to reveal a pile of boxes wrapped in beautiful wrapping paper. Double-sided tape, crisp corners, and luxe ribbon. Seeing those gifts under the tree was a perpetual delight and I always saved their gift for last. The thank-you note for sisters Hazel and Marion (who always gifted Quality Street chocolates) would be hand-delivered at church on Sunday.
Somehow, Mom managed to capture all the magic of that giving and receiving in her letters, maintaining relationships the way she knew best – through words and a $0.45 cent stamp.
My mother is an extraordinary woman. She raised four children, managed a household, worked part-time as a nurse until we were teenagers, and then launched a big professional career. She is a doer. She patiently led us through Bible-verse memorization for Sunday School, cooked every meal from scratch (with a little help from Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup), and created handmade Christmas gifts for decades. If you wanted something done, you asked my mother. Amidst the baked hams and scalloped potatoes, the cross-stitched mason jar toppers, and the endless years of diapers, she wrote letters. Every two weeks, for decades, she’d mail a family update to my grandmothers. They recorded births, deaths, blizzards, new recipes, and the status of blooming peonies. They bridged gaps of time and distance as her own children grew and married. Miscarriages and stillbirths, cancer, surgeries. There was a lot of hard to share. But also: awards, graduations, successes, new jobs, weddings, and the arrival of grandbabies. Often written in long hand and spanning multiple pages, they were crafted at the dining-room table (unless we were on summer vacation; then letters were written by the flickering light of kerosene lamps).
Perhaps most memorable to everyone were her Christmas cards, which were distinct from her Christmas thank-you notes; the holiday season warranted two letters from my mother. She devoted entire days to this activity.
In an era before Facebook and Instagram – and, can you even imagine, text messaging – this was her form of connection. She wrote to bridesmaids from her wedding, classmates from nursing school, distant family members, friends old and new, and the church members we saw three times a week. In early November she would pull out her address book and work systematically from A to Z. American recipients were prioritized, since their letters took longer in the postal system and needed to be dispatched first. The cards weren’t ornate, always purchased on a post-Christmas sale the previous year. But the letters they contained were a work of art.
She told the same stories and recounted the same highlights over and over, but in a personalized way. All written in her meticulous handwriting (only in recent years has she finally succumbed to the siren song of a more generic, typed Christmas letter). To the uncle who traveled for work, inquiries about destinations and hobbies; to someone whose loved one had passed, words of sympathy and hope. A few people responded in similar fashion but most, if we’re being honest, just attached their name to the bottom of a Hallmark slogan.
Yet my mother persisted. Year after year after year. Like spring follows winter, Mom’s letters were a constant; each one coloured with the beauty of recorded history. Her words gave meaning to our family story – a meaning that comes simply by sharing and connecting.
When I was 13 we moved. I likely wrote before this point, but here my recall starts. My letters, addressed with loopy adolescent cursive, were filled with details of high-school drama. I sent these letters for years. I wasn’t looking for anything in return (and got few replies), which seems odd for a self-absorbed teenage mind – but maybe even then I comprehended that the very act of writing was a gift of sorts. I shared my stories, my youth, and the world of possibilities in front of me, mostly for the benefit of the elderly seniors and childhood friends I’d left behind.
Then one day I received an unexpected response.
I was in the final year of my undergraduate Biology degree. The requisite hours spent dissecting pig fascia were behind me and I was doing a victory lap of sorts. Sitting alone in a summer rental, I opened a hand-addressed package. I didn’t recognize the sender’s information. The dull yellow of the mailer envelope was covered with black scuffs, paying homage to its journey.
Actually, let’s back up to introduce a new character to the story.
Her name was Nina and she lived at the end of the road. When I say the “end of the road, I mean that literally. The road that skirted my childhood home stretched up and down hills, twisted and turned, lurching precariously close to the side of a cliff face before it abruptly ended at the ocean. And there, nestled on the very edge of a cliff – near the very end of the road – was Nina’s house.
Nina was an artist, her husband a fisherman. The wharf from which he worked was at the bottom of that cliff. They attended our church, and I accompanied Dad through years of visitation. Visits where Leroy – her husband – introduced me to his homemade pickled herring (an acquired taste, but a delicacy I loved) and showed me the jewelry he made from sea glass and stones tumbled in their basement.
Leroy died, Nina grew older, and I moved away.
But I also stayed, I think, through my letters. I like to picture those notes perched on Nina’s kitchen table, stuffed into her napkin holder. Or maybe my letters served as bookmarks in the novel on her bedside table? I wonder how she read them. I want to imagine she couldn’t wait. When she opened up her mailbox, did she smile? Did she save my letters for the end of the day, or tear open the envelope on the walk across the street? Did she laugh with me? Did she laugh at me? Hopefully both.
But Nina never wrote back. Not a single time in all those years.
Now back to that package. The letter was from Nina’s daughter – someone I don’t ever recall meeting – informing me that Nina had passed away. Nina, maker of homemade fish cakes (her home always smelled like fish, which wasn’t entirely pleasant). Nina, owner of the wood-paneled living room where I sat in a floral-patterned swivel chair and watched Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy because we didn’t have cable but Nina did and she would sometimes invite me to stay for fishcakes with a side of Vanna White. Nina, who always set aside a special bag – (shhh: don’t tell anyone, it was a bigger bag) – of Halloween treats for me.
Nina the artist.
Her daughter wrote to tell me how much Nina appreciated my letters. The letters that told the story of how my world was growing as Nina’s got smaller. That Nina was gone. The bulky envelope contained several of Nina’s paintings, watercolours she’d made in her little studio (also perched on the side of a cliff; she clearly didn’t have an issue with heights). Her daughter said she hoped the art would leave me with happy memories of Nina. Her art and my “art” bonding us across time and space.
And I do believe letter writing is art. Like sculpture and oil and lyric. The canvas – heavy paper, hotel stationery, Hallmark cards. The brush – a pen, pencil, crayon and, yes, even a keyboard. From the first tentative letters scribbled by a preschooler to the final, halting scrawl of an aging parent.
I’m not sure what place letter writing has in the modern era. In a world where our stories are told through the filter of Instagram or within the confines of 140 characters.
I send fewer letters in the mail now. Christmas cards, the occasional thank-you note. But each month I write and e-mail Family Updates – lost teeth, first bike rides (without the safety net of training wheels), potty-training successes (and failures), kindergarten concerts; the ups and downs of life all make the cut. Thanks to the wonders of the internet, glimpses of our life show up on screens down the street, across the country, and then ping-pong around the globe – Portugal, Denmark, America. I’ve saved every e-mail, full of details that would be hazy for me (newborn era, anyone?) and forgotten entirely by the kids, without this written history.
Author Julia Cameron talks about piecing together the story of her grandmother’s life simply by reading through the decades of letters in which she [the grandmother] recounted “a series of small miracles. [Her] secret lay in recognizing the quality of life is in proportion, always, to the capacity for delight. The capacity for delight is in the gift of paying attention.”
Letters help us pay attention. To celebrate more fully. Find delight in the ordinary and share it with others.
A few years ago my daughter performed in a local play. A neighbor happened to be in the audience. The next day we came home to find a plate of cookies from that neighbor – congratulating my daughter for her performance on stage (and her little brother’s miraculously quiet performance in the audience). Delighted by the cookies and the praise, she picked out a thank-you card – a doughnut covered with sparkles that read “Thanks, with extra sprinkles!” I don’t know what she wrote, but I’m suspecting something along the lines of: “Thanks for the cookies. I liked them a lot.”
It’s a start.
I watched her from the front window as she looked both ways and crossed the street in fading April light. She was in her pajamas already, a polar bear one-piece ensemble that was suddenly several sizes too small. Delivery complete, she came home flush with accomplishment. There was silence for a few weeks and then a surprise visit from our neighbor to express appreciation for the note. A beautiful cycle of thanks and connection and relationship, bridged with words.
“You don’t get many hand-written notes these days,” said our neighbour, somewhat wistfully. “It’s really nice, you know.”
Actually, I do know. That’s why I write letters. That’s why Mom writes them, and why I hope my daughter writes them too. I can’t force her, of course. But I’ll keep writing mine and hope she writes hers. Maybe she’ll even write some to me.
Things come full circle, and I now get a letter from my Mom almost every day. They aren’t handwritten, but they have Mom’s fingerprints all over them. She sends out hundreds of words via our family text chain. My siblings and I know what wildlife she and Dad spotted through the front window over breakfast. What neighbours they passed on their afternoon walk, how her quilt is coming along, and what vegetables she’s planning to plant come June. We hear about blizzards and doctor appointments and art classes and, sometimes, the state of her laundry pile. Yesterday I learned all about her canoe trip down a local river; Dad, apparently, took a nap on the shoreline after their picnic lunch. I can’t remember, but I suspect she told us what had been on the menu. Egg salad sandwiches?
It’s wonderful. Every word and description of her day makes me smile. Especially because I know This too shall pass.
This Mother’s Day, I’m so thankful for my mother. For everything she did – and continues to do – for me. And for the deep impact of her written words over the years.
And this letter…is for her.
To my Mom, to my daughter and all the other special women in my life (and in loving memory of Nina) – Happy Mother’s Day.
Header photo by Kate Macate on Unsplash
