My paternal grandmother, Emma, was born January 1st. Emma married at 17. My father was her first child, she went on give birth 13 times, with one set of twins. Yes, that's 15 children! She encouraged my interest in writing wholeheartedly, and every year she bought me a leather journal for my birthday. Emma lived to be 96, sharp as a tack her whole life.
My French maternal grandmother, Adele, was born on January 18th. She could cook the bottom of a shoe, and make it taste like filet mignon. I picture her at the stove, or playing solitaire with a cigarette nearby at all times. She let me know, in no uncertain terms, that my dream of becoming a writer was nothing but a pipedream, I needed a real job, and of course, a husband!
My mother, Rita, was born on January 22nd, and maybe it's some astrological thing, but she agreed with her mother. She insisted that I take courses in office management, and that I learn how to operate business machines. Anybody remember the old business machines? I do. What a waste of time!
My step-mother Wanda's birthday was January 26th. She moved to California from the backwoods of Tennessee, and she was only fourteen when I was born. She was 17 years younger than my father. Her religion was housework. Laundry, scouring, sweeping, mopping, chasing dust bunnies, this was the way to salvation. Some kind of Baptist upbringing, I guess. She judged other women by the cleanliness of their house, and the manners of their children. In her mind, any time I spent at the computer writing should have been spent tending to scrubbing my toilet with a toothbrush, or making sure my children were clean behind their ears, and that their fingernails were trimmed right down to the quick.
The first time I met Doris, my future mother-in-law, she was playing the piano and belting out, "Caberet". Her birthday was January 12th, and she was tall and glamorous. The rat pack intrigued her, and so did highballs. She would leave the house at the drop of a hat to go dancing, or to see a movie. Wilted lettuce leaves stuck to the bottom shelf of her refrigerator and she could have cared less. Doris knew how to have a good time, and I'm sure that she's having one right now!
They're all gone. And I miss every single one of them. They were all so very different, and each had a hand in forging me into the woman I am today.
Happy Mother's Day!
