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Little Lessons
from My Mother
"I am your mother, and when I'm gone you'll never have another."
I remember my mother telling me that from time to time as I grew up.
Maybe she said it because she lost her mother when I was five. Maybe she meant
it to be a lesson, a precaution, a warning: people are special, unique
individuals and should be cherished while they are here. Most of life's
instructions are reflective. They come unannounced, without a proclamation
declaring, "Here's an important teaching now!"
They sneak up on you when you're being, living, doing. How much easier would
life be if we were told in advance, "Hey, pay attention to this and write it
down. Don't miss it it's going to be crucial one day." That's not how it
happens - life has a way of happening to you before you realize it.
My mother is still teaching me, although now that we are both older, the topics
have changed, and the subjects seem more serious. Now we discuss life, death,
dealing with difficult people, what to do about a job you don't like, or how to
be happy. She may not have all the answers, but she has sound advice and an
opinion I value greatly. Somehow mothers always know. I once told a friend
that mothers must automatically be given all the information and wisdom they
will need to impart on their child. She agreed. Is this a maternal instinct or
merely the passing down of knowledge from generation to generation?
I learned many things from my easy-going mother, mostly from her sharing her
life with me. There were no sit-down talks on how to live life or how to grow
up to be a good person. No lectures or "I expect you to" speeches. There were
no great tragedies or hardships growing up; we had plenty of food and a nice
house in rural upstate New York.
Everything wasn't always roses and sunshine, but we were content. Maybe that's
why the lessons I learned, the things I were taught were simple, basic. Don't
lie. Be nice. Take in abandoned animals if you can. Act responsibly. Perhaps
the one main thing my mother taught me was to be my own person, to develop my
own sense of identity. Why do what everyone else does? "If they don't like it,
frig them!" she'd say. She still has that independent attitude.
My mother
encouraged me to pursue my own hobbies and became interested in them without
judgment. She went with me to concerts when I had no one else to go with. We
listened to music together; she played her Roy Orbison and Jackie Wilson
albums and told me stories about being raised in New Jersey. We were
never bored and always had interesting diversions. Growing up I'd often hear,
"Let's go have an adventure." We'd soon be on our way to an indoor flea market,
to visit one of her friends, or to shop at the
record store forty minutes away in Albany. Her parenting style was more liberal
and hands-off than that of most other mothers. I was shocked to learn that many
girls in my high
school fought with, hated, and in some cases, never conversed with their
mothers. To them, a mother was an authority figure, a demanding and restrictive
parent. To me, mother meant friend and confidant, someone who loved and trusted
me. Looking back now, I realize that I mostly kept out of trouble to spare her
disappointment rather than because I feared punishment.
Some of the "things" my mother taught me were small: almost anything can be
baked at 350 degrees in the oven, when making stuffed cabbage you have to roll
them tight, tar comes off your car windows with Coke, and never put anything in
writing unless you're sure. Many teachings were more substantial. After supper
on spring and summer evenings she'd say, "Let's go outside and putter." In
our language, this translated into gardening. Whenever we could, we'd go
outside, sit on the front lawn and putter in the numerous flowerbeds. We'd
plant petunias, move tulip bulbs, check on the inpatients in the flowerbox,
weed, and water. She taught me about the flowers, explained the difference
between annuals and perennials, and showed me which green thing was the weed and
which one was the flower. During these times we'd discuss life, relatives,
school, her job, why people are the way they are, or whatever else came to
mind. Again, I wish I'd had the foresight to write it all down and memorize
every word, for I'm sure I missed a few lessons.
All of her sincere knowledge and wisdom has been carried over into my gardens,
my flowerbeds. Even to this day, there are times when I point to something
growing and ask, "Is that a weed?" and she has the answer. Other people don't
know how to plant, grow, or enrich, but to me, it's second nature. Looking
back, it seems that my mother was cultivating more than flowers in the garden.
This article won 8th place in the 2009 Positive Way Relationship and
Development Contest.
Written by Kelli W.
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