There was little time for me to think about Mother’s Day this past weekend. I flew to Northern California on Friday afternoon, reluctantly boarding the airplane with the beginnings of a head cold, waiting nearly three hours for my delayed flight in the crowded and noisy Terminal One at San Diego International, and, after picking up the rental car, sinking into a hotel bed exhausted, wondering how I’d lead the all-day writing workshop with faculty, students and alumni of the Stanford Medical School the following day.
I didn’t feel any better when morning came, but thanks to a great group of writers, a little decongestant and cough suppressant, the workshop went off as planned. That evening, I drove over the Santa Cruz Mountains to Aptos for a short visit with two dear friends. They had anticipated my fatigue. I was greeted with the warmth of a fireplace, appetizers and a light supper, then shown to the guest room, where cough drops and a vaporizer had already been set up for my ailing self. Honestly, I felt mothered—taken care of and loved.
By the time I returned home yesterday afternoon—again, on a delayed flight—I wasn’t even thinking of Mother’s Day, but cards and flowers from my daughters and husband were there to greet me—along with some cough syrup, aspirin, and a vaporizer filled and ready to go, something my husband had retrieved from the garage and set up in the bedroom. “We’ll celebrate tomorrow,” he said, as I slipped beneath the covers and inhaled the familiar set of Vicks Vapor Rub. Memories overtook me. My mother’s hand on my fevered brow when, as a child, I suffered through colds, flu, fevers and assorted other childhood illnesses. Vick’s was always part of the care, part of the healing, and something my daughters came to know during the worrisome nights when their anxious mother laid awake listening to the sound of their coughs, and rising two or three times in the night to place my hand on their foreheads just as my mother had done with me. It’s a ritual of motherly caring that they now practice with their own children when they are ill.
Mother’s Day has passed, and yet, the scent of Vick’s has me remembering so many little things about the way my mother cared for me and in turn, my first years as an anxious, worried parent living thousands of miles away from my mother and father. There are stories in each of those memories, some funny, some tender, and others tinged with sorrow or regret. Each offers many writing possibilities. Here are some suggestions from my 2014 Mother’s Day post:
. Think about your mother (or anyone who was like a mother to you) and the role she has played in your life. What are some of your most important memories of your mother? What qualities or anecdotes best describe your mother? How can you bring your mother’s character to life on the page?
. How we feel about our mothers—and ourselves as mothers–—is complex. Remember the poem, “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,” by Wallace Stevens? In each stanza, the reader is offered something like a snapshot, all different but always, the word, “blackbird,” appearing in each.
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime…
One writing suggestion is to try imitating Stevens’ structure and write thirteen ways of looking at a mother (or motherhood) and see what happens.
. Of course, mothers also give us advice, lots of it; some that we appreciate; some we don’t want to hear. In a delightful essay entitled, “Advice from My Grandmother,” Alice Hoffman creates an unmistakable portrait of her grandmother, Lillie Lutkin, by offering the reader all the advice given to her by her:
Cook badly. Even if you’re already a bad cook, make it worse. Trust me, it’s easy. Throw in anything you want. Too much salt, too much pepper. Feed him and see what he says. A complaint means he’s thinking about himself, and always will. A compliment means he’ll never make a living. But a man who says, “Let’s go to a restaurant,” now he’s a real man. Order expensive and see what he’s got to say then. (In Family: American Writers Remember Their Own, 1996).
. We learn from our mothers lessons of love and life, many of them not appreciated until we’re much older. What a mother teaches us can become material for a character portrait as Julia Kasdorf creates in the poem, “What I Learned from my Mother.”
I learned from my mother how to love
the living, to have plenty of vases on hand
in case you have to rush to the hospital
with peonies cut from the lawn, black ants
still stuck to the buds. I learned to save jars
large enough to hold fruit salad for a whole
grieving household, to cube home-canned pears
and peaches, to slice through maroon grape skins
and flick out the sexual seeds with a knife point…
(From: Sleeping Preacher, University of Pittsburgh Press, 1992)
Today and this week, write about mothers, yours, your mother’s or anyone who has played the role of mother in your life. Write from whatever idea or memory comes to mind. Remember your mother in as many ways as you can.
Mother’s Day may be over, but how we think of and communicate our appreciation and love for our mothers and grandmothers is, I hope, not limited to one day of greeting cards. Remember mothers and motherhood—and the stories you have of yours.
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