Happy Birthday Mom!

Hi, Mom. Carrying on the tradition of the birthday story. I hope you enjoy it.



I thought we were poor when I was in junior high school - that awkward time of self discovery, a time of measuring your life against some perception of reality that you have concocted out of scraps of truth and bits of innuendo. Back in those days, young ladies took Home Economics. No question, no debate, you were simply signed up for Home Ec in the same period as the boys time in shop.



This particular semester we were learning how to host the perfect tea. I didn't know anyone who formally took tea in the afternoon, even when they were having out of town company. Nonetheless, all well educated ladies had to know how to hold a tea, even in podunk upstate New York. For weeks we had been baking little tea cakes and fancy breads, making finger sandwiches with all sorts of fillings I had never even heard of, measuring, cutting, sifting, rolling, folding, baking - the multi station kitchen a veritable haven of tantalizing scents and mouth watering pastries. Every counter sported a thin layer of white flour dust, every pot and pan had been disturbed, every ounce of Saran Wrap layered over the fancy glass and thin china plates filled with delicacies. Presentation is everything!



I had concentrated on getting our assignments done. At least here was an area I knew something about - after all, we girls assisted Mom in the baking of Christmas cookies every December! I ought to be able to hold my own in cooking. It never occurred to me that we were actually going to give a tea. By the time I realized that the parents were to be invited, it was practically the day of the event. With dismay, I realized that the mothers who would be attending were the upper crust of our little town - wives of senators and lawyers and businessmen. They would dress for this formal tea in ways our family could only dream of.



Suddenly I was embarrassed to have you come with your homemade dress, toting two babies, your hair uncoifed, your nails unpolished. You were not a lady of leisure with maids to take care of you. Your hands were worn with scrubbing and dishes and diaper washing. Bad enough that I was expected to serve the goodies we had worked so hard to prepare (without ever being able to taste the dainty delicacies!), but to have to endure humiliation on top of that seemed unbearable. So I never gave you the invitation. I honestly thought it would be better if I didn't put you through the experience. I was so young. And clearly not seeing things straight.



Imagine my surprise when you appeared, sans baby, in a decent Sunday-go-to-meeting dress (why did I think you would wear your house dress to a formal event?). How in the world did you find out about the event? (I didn't know they mailed out formal invitations.) You seemed to know just how to sit, just how to take the little finger foods, just how to chat about niceties with the other mothers. No one else seemed to think you were out of place. I fluttered from kitchen to parlour (formal parlors have 'u's in them) with serving plates, watching the level in the punch bowl, keeping a eye out in case you got into trouble. My heart was in my throat the whole time.



Never did it occur to me that you had an actual college degree, something most of the women in that room did not have, being in the 1960s. You also had moved about some and seen more of the world than most of them. As a pastor's wife, you had attended events like this more often than I could have realized. And you have a heart of gold that would put anyone else's to shame. If I had thought of who you are instead of how much money we had in our bank account, I could have saved myself an entire afternoon of distress.

I watched you balance a cup of tea and a plate of pastries with ease and grace. You chatted with aplomb about the difficulties of grass stains on dungaree knees, about what the president was doing to help improve education, about the racial tensions in the news. You laughed at the jokes in all the right places, you didn't drool or spill anything or even seem uncomfortable. You didn't get into trouble. Not at all. In fact, you seemed to have a wonderful time talking and laughing. How curious to observe your Mother being someone you have never seen before! I shook my head in amazement. My Mom a social butterfly!



We girls were not allowed to mingle with our mothers. We were the hired help keeping things running smoothly. After the event, we stayed to clean up, washing the plates and cups, putting the paraphernalia away in the carefully organized cupboards. How like your kitchen, so thoughtfully arranged. I had seen many of those affluential mothers interact with girls in my class enough to know their lives were not unblemished. They endured a certain nervous tension about deportment that I never had to encounter.



I thought about it for a long time, puzzling over this unexpected glimpse of Mom as a real person with interests and friends and a life of her own. My estimation of you rose considerably that day. I was fiercely proud of you and held my head higher in the hallways of Knox Street Junior High School. More importantly, I came to understand the amazing sacrifices you made for us kids, to see a bit of what you gave up to spend time with us, to nurture us. I still shake my head in amazement. We were in fact, rich in ways that count, ways that most of my friends would never be. Thanks, Mom. Thanks for being there, and for being you.