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Things My Mother Said…Mother (she was never Mom or Mommy…never) was not my favorite person. My relationship with her was – as ‘they’ say – complicated. I ‘loved’ her because she was my mother…but I did not love the person she was. As a child, I realized fairly early on that she didn’t love me (or my sister for that fmatteract). And in retribution for that immensely hurtful epiphany, we took every opportunity to prove to her that we were NOT the type of little girls she wanted. (No pink dresses, ruffles, garden clubs…et al.)As an adult, after much soul-searching, family research, and general sticking of my nose into other people’s business, I learned that – while she didn’t actually ‘LOVE’ us – she did care for and about us. And – more importantly – that this ‘lack’ of motherly emotion was a result of her childhood and not some basic failing on my, or my sister’s, part.As I said – complicated – I have added a little back story at the end of this piece. But the main purpose of this is as input to the topic of the day (dialog). What follows are several telling dialog snippets. Think about how they define her character. And even more importantly, how they define mine as the author…Dialog should always tell you MORE than what is being said…On the event of my sister calling to say she was pregnant (two years AFTER divorcing her husband and not even considering marrying the father of her third child).“Oh my God, Penny! What will I tell the neighbors?”“What?” Penny had called for reassurance and understanding…a stupid idea in retrospect.“What? What do you mean – what? What will they think? What will Dr. Bouchard think – you know he always wanted you to marry Raymond? What will Father Finn think – how will I face him in confession? What will your friends from high school think – most of them still live here you know…not on the other side of the country?”“And how would any of them know? Were you thinking of putting an ad in the local paper: ‘Wayward Daughter Knocked Up by Psychotic Criminal’?”“Don’t be rude! Of course not. But these things get out!”“Put Daddy on.”“He’s out hunting.”“Please have him call me.”“Yes, but we need to talk about…”Click…Daddy did call her back. He said… “What do you need? Are you OK? What can I do?” Daddy didn’t give a rat’s ass about what “other” people might think.On the event of telling her I wanted to have a green coat just like hers when I grew up…gaberdine, forest green, big marbled green buttons, padded shoulders. I was seven. She was carrying me back from the Dentist after having an abscessed tooth extracted. I was sick as a dog from the anesthetic.“I want a coat just like this when I grow up.” I mumbled over her shoulder while I watched her footprints back away from us in new fallen snow.“No Melinda, you can’t have a coat like this.” She shifted my weight on her shoulder. “You would look awful in it. It is slender and flowing…you are built like your Father…square and sturdy.”“But it’s so soft and pretty…” I burrowed my aching face into her shoulder.“No. We have to buy you ‘chubbettes’ that are built for little girls like you. They hide your shape.”“Why can’t I be a little girl like you?”“Because of your father. And don’t start crying! Ruth Welch is coming over for tea later and I won’t have you looking all red and scrunchy. You look bad enough with all that gauze in your mouth.”I closed my eyes and concentrated on not throwing up all over that beautiful coat.On the event of my son’s 3rd birthday when Daddy had drunk himself into a stupor to avoid coming with her to visit us in New Hampshire.“Mother - Hi! Are you on your way? What time should I expect you guys?”“Your father won’t be coming over with me. He has a stomach bug.”I sighed. “You mean he’s drunk?”“Don’t use that word with your father. He is sick. He has the flu.”“I agree that Daddy is sick, Mother. I just don’t agree with calling it stomach flu when it’s not. My God, the man would have to have the flu every other day!”“I don’t want anyone to know!”“Just who is it you think doesn’t know? How many times have you used that same excuse? Even Eric knows that “Grumpy” smells and acts funny. But he loves him anyway.”“You are so cruel! Why do you pester me so?”“Because Daddy needs help, Mother. He doesn’t need you making up stories for him!”“I am protecting his reputation!”“From whom?” I purposely used correct grammar so she couldn’t veer off into a discussion about word usage. “You’re protecting your own reputation and enabling him to slowly kill himself!”“I will mail Eric’s presents to you.”“Mother! Look, he needs help…”Click…About a year later Daddy succeeded in drinking himself to death. Epilog Written about in more scintillating detail (smile) in several other chapters of my mother’s memoire. These are just the facts. I don’t want you thinking that Mother was a monster – she was just the result of her own mother – who was in turn – the result of dire circumstances and mental depression.My mother was born the day of my great-grandfather’s funeral. Her mother – Annie – had thought the world of ‘Essel’ and had nursed him every day despite being harangued by all her female relatives that caring for a dying man while pregnant was going to ‘mark’ her infant. Normally, Annie was not a strong woman, but for her father-in-law who had been kind to her, she withstood all the criticism and carried on doing all the house work and cooking, caring for her father-in-law, and putting up with constant criticism. The last mourner left the house as late-February snow started to fly – around 4PM. Dr Buzzle was called back to the farm at 2AM to deliver the baby – Faith – in the middle of a blizzard. But that was all that Annie had to give. She descended into a great depression and, afraid she would die, Annie’s husband sent her away just a week later to her sister’s home in Massachusetts. She was gone for 2 years. Mother did not meet HER mother until she was 2 years old. By that time, Faith had been raised by a house full of men busy on the farm. She learned to suck milk from a “sugar tit” dipped in a cup of milk and drank from a cup by the time she was a month old. She was left in the care of a “farm girl” who did all the cooking, baking, and cleaning for the family while Annie was gone. The girl, Nora, put Faith on the bed surrounded by pillows with a hand-me-down doll and went about the business of running the house. I am sure Mother was occasionally picked up, but she was not cuddled and learned not to cry very early on as it bothered Nora.When Annie finally returned, she was physically recovered but emotionally scarred. She did not cuddle or hold her daughter. And she certainly never told Faith she loved her since her family’s religion forbade emotional demonstrations.Hers was not an ‘unhappy’ childhood – but it was a distant one defined by mental illness and religious asceticism. An approach she brought to mothering her own daughters which was offset to some extent by an Irish Father who did love and cuddle us. (How or why these two ever got together is a mystery!) Of course, that fact that Daddy had been irrevocably damaged by his service in WWII added yet another complicating layer to our childhood. It’s never ‘simple’ is it? I always wondered what one had to do to have a family like those portrayed in ‘Leave it to Beaver’, ‘Father Knows Best’, and ‘Ozzie and Harriet’.Needless to say – both my sister and I took the opposite tack with our children. A day did not pass that I did not say “I love you!” and bedtime was a time for hugs and good book. When I started to investigate my ancestry, I learned that Mother probably did her best with what she had. It was relatively easy to forgive her. (It was harder to ‘like’ her – I still have not managed that.) And it is less easy to forgive myself for not seeing the circumstances that defined her until I was well into my 40s. ................
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