A hug in my hand

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author, Family, inspiration, Life, motherhood, relationships, wedding

My college experience included membership in a sorority which promised to “establish a perpetual bond of friendship” among its members. The promise turned out to be true.
Back then, my “Little Sister” gave me a pansy handkerchief (our sorority flower) which I carried at my wedding as the traditional “something blue.” Since then, it has traveled to college graduations along with Arlington National Cemetery to bury my parents.
Next week, my son will be married in Texas and I have scrupulously tried to follow the unspoken rules established for the mother of the groom: “Simply show up, shut up and wear beige.” It is a role which is the least important and the most invisible.
This is a destination wedding (with a limited guest list) so few friends will be with me to watch my son become a husband. Instead, my emotional support will lay folded inside my pocket, in the form of a pansy hanky. Along with drying tears, it will serve as a hug in my hand and a reminder of the friends who care.
Delta love and mine, Roxanne.

 

 

 

Renee Garrison is the award-winning author of “The Anchor Clankers.”

Remembering mom

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arlington national cemetery, cremation, Family, Home, jewelry, Mother, Mother's Day, motherhood, urn

May is the month we remember our mothers – whether they’re living or not.
My mother died in May, 2007. She rests with my father, at Arlington National Cemetery in Washington D.C. At the time of her death, many active duty military personnel needed burial, too, so our family waited three months for a “widow’s interment.”
That delay caused my sister and I to decide on cremation (simply because an urn is much easier to store in your guest room than a body in a casket.)

While selecting the container that would be buried at Arlington, I purchased a piece of urn jewelry – specifically, a necklace with a small compartment designed to hold the ashes of a loved one. According to the ads, “Cremation jewelry allows you to hold that special someone close to you.”
All I can say is that it seemed like a good idea at the time.

However, when the gold teardrop pendant arrived, it required a special tool to open the small compartment – something neither I, nor the undertaker, owned. Which is why I arrived at an elegant jewelry store clutching a tiny bag of my mother’s ashes in one hand and a gold necklace in the other.
The jeweler maintained his composure when I made my request. With a bit of flourish, he unfolded a black velvet cloth on the glass counter and produced something resembling a dental tool. After unscrewing the back of the pendant, he removed a wire twist-tie from the top of the baggie, poured a bit out and began tapping her inside.

“I’ve never been asked to do this before,” he admitted solemnly, as a bead of sweat formed on his forehead. I wanted to say something reassuring, but quite honestly, nothing came to mind. After all, I’d never done it either.

Unfortunately, there was a bit more of Mom than there was space inside the necklace. So as the jeweler screwed the back onto the pendant, I did what anyone does automatically – without thinking – when they are faced with dust at home: I blew it off the glass.

Instantly horrified, I watched the particles float to the carpet.

The giggle in my throat – the kind that usually starts in a church pew and erupts into uncontrollable fits of laughter – began.
I’m not sure how long we cackled and chortled, or if the jeweler stepped out for a drink as soon as I left………..
However, I am certain of this: My mother would appreciate even a part of her spending eternity in a jewelry store.

Happy Mother’s Day.

The power of place

Tags

Architecture, Community, environment, Memories, mood, motherhood

Driving through Hyde Park recently, I passed the Methodist Church where I once enrolled my 3-year-old daughter in “Mother’s Morning Out.” For a nominal fee, children played from 9 a.m. until noon, under the supervision of an elderly couple (probably my current age, but without benefit of hair color or moisturizer.)

My darling Katie cried for all three hours – no amount of cajoling from the couple could stem her tide of tears. After three unsuccessful attempts, they suggested I keep her at home. In disbelief, I stood outside the playroom one morning and listened to be sure their claims were true. Her whimper escalated to a wail and, when neither of us could bear it any longer, I rushed in to retrieve her.

Sitting in my car at the stop sign, I felt the same raw anguish in the pit of my stomach. It could have happened yesterday – the pain was so real. Oddly, my daughter is now 31 and contemplating a child of her own.

I am continually amazed by the power of place: so strong, it can transport you to another time. Sheer geography – bricks and mortar – can elicit memories so vivid they can bring you to a smile (or a sob) in an instant.

Have you ever experienced it (or should I contact a mental health professional immediately?)

Children

Tags

children, Family, motherhood, relationships, respect, self-esteem

“Time makes bolder,
children get older
I’m getting older, too.” ~ Fleetwood Mac

My friend’s voice cracked and tears spilled from her eyes as she recounted the last meeting with her 30-something daughter. “My therapist says my relationship with you is toxic. I can’t be around you.”

I’ve known this woman for more than 20 years. I’ve watched the sacrifices she made for her children and the life she devoted to them: countless hours spent chauffeuring them to lessons and events; cookies and cupcakes baked for school parties; athletic games suffered through, and all the tears she dried, due to life’s disappointments.

When I heard such a cruel statement come from the daughter she adored, my own gut ached. Somehow with all the love we gave, and all the lessons we tried to instill, we forgot to teach our children to respect us.

Simply because they now earn a paycheck (and are less dependent on ours,) many adult children believe they can speak to us differently, condescendingly…as they might speak to a dim-witted peer.

In our constant attempts to bolster their self-esteem, did we diminish their regard for us?

Generational expectations often differ because ideas about relationships change over time. Mothers understand that behavior which is appropriate between parents and small children will change as the children grow. But respect is non-negotiable.

If you’ve never been a parent, let me assure you that caring for children is not always a rewarding enterprise. To hold a little person in your hands and in your heart every minute of your life is one tough task.

We all have similar hopes for our children: good health, happiness, fulfilling work and financial stability. Perhaps we should add one more: Always treat us with respect.