A Mother's Touch

I’ve been lost in the past lately, missing my parents and feeling nostalgic about my childhood. It seemed chaotic at times. Mom and dad argued so much, I remember being deeply affected by the arguments and the seeming instability of our family life. It wasn’t until I was an adult and watched them interact as old people that I realized the arguments had grown into nothing more than their customary way of communicating. I always thought they didn’t like each other very much, when in reality they loved each other. As I write this and compare my childhood to my mother’s, my life was far from chaotic. It was a walk in the park compared to hers.

Mom was one of five children born into an extremely poor family, three girls and two boys. The second girl died of pneumonia at age 5. Grampa always felt guilty about her death because she had been outside with him in the cold weather and never recovered. Grampa was also an alcoholic, shunned by his own family due to the fact that his mother was a member of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union. Mom’s earliest memories of her father’s family were unpleasant. Apparently they considered themselves an enlightened group but could find no room in their hearts for those who strayed beyond their narrow and rigid view of righteousness.

During the Depression, my grandmother took in other people’s laundry to help support the family. For this she was labeled a “dirty old wash woman.” Because they lived in such poverty, the remaining children were scattered to the four winds, sent to live with relatives. Mom earned her keep at an uncle’s house, babysitting his children at a home where she was subject to any number of abuses. Eventually the family reunited and lived together in tenement housing. Twice they lost their home to fire, and later relocated from Connecticut to New Jersey.

When my mother was 18 years old, grandmother met an untimely death from a ruptured appendix. She was only 52, the age I am now. The family could not afford hospitals or proper medical care. A doctor visited but dismissed grandmother’s symptoms as nothing more than the typical complaints of a middle-aged woman. She didn’t stand a chance.

Left with an alcoholic father, two wild brothers, and a cold, distant sister, mom was lost without her mother. She described grandmother as a sweet, loving, affectionate woman, always quick to give a kiss and a hug or to stroke your hair and comfort you. Yet I often pointed out that grandmother lived on, because those qualities were passed on to her daughter.

Mom was my best friend, my biggest fan. She too was a sweet, loving, affectionate woman. I recall sitting at the kitchen table and whenever mom passed by she always reached out to me, touched my hair, ran her fingers along my shoulder, kissed the top of my head. In the evening she would sit on the couch and invite me to lay my head in her lap, where she would stroke my hair and listen to whatever petty grievance I might have to share from that particular day. She always had time for us, always had advice for us, and always defended us no matter what. She cherished bedtime with her children, tucking us in at night and giving a kiss before the lights went out. It was a final chance to say, “I’m sorry” or to put to rest whatever problems had plagued us during the day.

Even as an adult, when I returned home to spend the night on Christmas Eve or other special occasions, mom would come into the spare bedroom at night and tuck me in, giving a kiss and a stroke of the hair before retiring to her own room. As a grown woman in my twenties and thirties, it still made me feel safe and loved. I never left my parents' house without sharing a hug and a kiss, even though I lived only five miles away and was sure to see them again in a few days’ time.

Mom never turned her back on her errant family. Grampa came to live with us before he died. A quiet man, he really was good to all of us and didn’t drink much by then. Both of mom’s brothers also became alcoholics. One was killed at age 47, beaten to death in New Orleans. Most likely he was drunk. Yet my brother Ted was named after him, and to the end mom loved her brother dearly. Then her youngest brother died at age 53 of cirrhosis. He also lived with us for nearly a year before he died. Yes, he was often drunk. He was also a kind-hearted soul.

Embarrassed by her own family, mom’s sister chose the high road. She actually admired her father’s family, the ones who repeatedly turned their backs on them. They were educated, well-to-do, important, and that was the life she wanted. Over the years, she was always bothered by the fact that her nieces and nephews were more attached to the alcoholics than to her. It was really an easy choice for me. My grampa and my uncles were completely flawed, imperfect human beings but their love was palpable. Unfortunately, I could never say that about my aunt.

Today I was scanning photos from my childhood, including many pictures of my mother. Mom never liked to have her picture taken, especially as she grew older. In most of those photos I now see a hint of sadness that lurked in her eyes. It was probably always there, maybe I never noticed because all I could see in her eyes was love.

I inherited much from my mother, including the touch of sadness that I often find stalking me at the most inopportune times. Mom also left me with a full measure of affection to share. Since I never had children, I can only hope my husband, my friends, and my dogs are as grateful for that affection as I was.