Written by Marianne Mansfield
Had she lived, Aug. 14 would have been my mother’s 100th birthday. As it happens, she died of emphysema in 1996.
Usually, I don’t get overly sentimental on her birthday, but this seemed like a big one, and an opportunity to reflect on the lessons she taught me. Of course, sitting down to write about the big picture she helped me see leaves me with nothing. Nada.
Most mothers and daughters I know would readily admit their relationships are anything but simple. My mother and I would be no different. I was born in 1951, so the ‘60s, my coming-of-age era, were a time when she and I battled over everything from my curfew to my language.
One of my mother’s claims to fame was her beauty, which was striking. She did a little modeling before settling down with my father to raise my sister and me. She liked to tell the story of the time she reported to a photography studio, only to be informed that the shoot involved modeling “lingerie.” She bolted, but not before informing the photographer that she wasn’t that kind of girl.
My mother had her own challenges. She was a woman smarter than the times allowed her to express. Her family struggled with alcohol abuse, and so did she. She was the eighth of nine children in a good Catholic family, and resented the trickle-down mode of everything from clothes to affection.
So, starting with the small stuff, here are some things my mother taught me. Most are good; some are beyond value. Some I wish I hadn’t learned so well.
She taught me to dress myself, feed myself, and clean myself. I learned from her that nothing was more comforting than her touch. Even as an adult, I would sometimes nestle my head in her lap so that she could stroke back my hair.
I learned to set a proper table from her. I think she taught me to read, although I’m a bit unclear on that. It could have been the Sisters of Providence in first grade.
She taught me to do an Irish jig.
She taught me that my father was always right, or at least, we had to make him believe he was, because he was a man and the head of our household.
She taught me to make a perfect martini, which involved opening the bottle of vermouth in the same room as the gin, but never approaching the glass with it.
She taught me to hold a grudge, for myself and for those whom I loved. If they’d been done wrong, so had I. We were never to forget that.
She taught me that germs were everywhere, particularly on floors in public places and coins. (I used to love to put pennies in my mouth for the tinny taste they left.)
She taught me that aardvarks were nearly always funny and that a good, strong belly laugh trumped an otherwise awful day.
I was always to watch over my little sister, but I could not control her by hitting, yelling, or tattling on her. If something happened to her, it would always be my fault.
She taught me to love jarred pimento spread sandwiches with a glass of cold milk.
I have inherited her addiction to radio listening. To this day, I prefer it over watching TV and most other forms of media.
She taught me that family trumps all, and that stories of the silliness and the heartbreak are the currency of our inheritance. She passed them on to my sister and me. Since neither of us have children, we do what we can by recounting them to each other.
She taught me that it is important to dress up for church. She always wore her girdle to Sunday Mass, no matter how hot a summer day it was.
I find myself sneaking moments to read. She read at every chance she could eke out of her day.
3 Musketeers candy bars were her favorites. They are mine. I like them the way she did: Cold, and cut in neat squares.
Lying was the greatest sin. I think that labeling it as such helped her get to the bottom of whatever tale I was trying to sell her, but to this day, I cannot lie easily. Ergo, I don’t lie much.
She taught me that there is a breaking point. When she stomped to the hall closet, threw on her red wool coat and stormed out the front door into a cold Indiana night for a walk around the block, I knew I’d pushed her to it.
I flung hurtful phrases at her now and then. The worst of which, and the one for which I felt most guilty, was, “I hate you.” She often responded with how disappointed God would be with me. That hurt too.
In her own uniquely human manner, she loved me unconditionally, as I did her. The lesson that we glean from the love some of us are fortunate to share with our mothers is that not much, if anything, is perfect. But there are some things that are just damned good.
Love you, Mom.
