My Mother's Gifts

I wrote this piece a while back. Back when I was still teaching second grade. I miss my mom. She touched my life in so many beautiful ways. She was more than a mother. She was a best
friend.

If I am a literate guy, and I am not saying that I am all that literate, I owe it to my mom. The other day I asked my second graders to bring in some writing that is special to them, something they can read over and over, something that they would take with them to the proverbial deserted island. They brought in an incredible array of pieces from their current chapter books to the very first books they could read on their own, from cards and letters written to them by special people in their lives, to Calvin and Hobbes and Tom and Jerry collections. We ended up calling these “precious pieces”. 

After listening to the children share their precious pieces, we generated a list of what makes writing powerful, what makes it memorable and precious. I brought in a few precious pieces of my own to share and they were all connected to my mom. 

First there was Green Eggs and Ham. I had to include the first book I could read on my own. Now, I wasn’t one of those kids who could read anything at age three. I wasn’t reading chapter books by the time I got to first grade. My mom taught me to read the year before I went to school. She stayed home that year with my baby brother and me. 

I’m sure my teachers had something to do with my eventual literacy development (no doubt, the phonics overkill part). I remember my sister Ruthie reading to me as well. But it was my mom who gave me the gift of literacy. She treated books as precious gifts from as far back as I can remember. I still have several books she insisted I read just before she died.

Green Eggs and Ham was my breakthrough book.  I can’t recall the exact events but it has to do with my mom reading to me in bed. I think I was sick. My little brother Danny was a baby so he was probably asleep or in his playpen. Come to think of it, we spent a lot of time together in that playpen so, if I was sick, Danny probably was too. Green Eggs and Ham. She'd probably read that book to me a hundred times. 

I am Sam...     Sam I am  

She probably read it to me a few times that morning, but I remember saying, “Hey! I can read this!” 

Would you eat them in the rain?  Would you eat them on a train? 

“I mean I can REALLY read this. I can read these words!” 

Would you eat them in a box? Would you eat them with a fox? 

It was in her warm bed. Just the two of us. Green Eggs and Ham. Good old Dr. Seuss. How could she have known? 

Would you eat them in a house? Would you eat them with a mouse? 

I brought in other precious pieces to share as well. Some of her letters. I never did read any of those aloud. I wouldn't have made it through the without losing it. 

 When I was about 10 or 11, my mom gave me Of Mice and Men. How could she have known what that would do for me? And after I read it, my folks let me stay up late and watch the old black and white movie classic, the one with Burgess Merideth and Lon Chaney Jr. My mom watched with me. It was on the late show. My first late show. It didn’t even start until 10:30. When it came to the end, I cried. Right? I mean how could you not cry? 

George takes the German luger, the one they used to kill Candy’s loveable but stinky old dog. He takes that luger, and after it's perfectly clear that Lenny is going to get caught for killing that pretty little woman. That Lenny would go to prison—which he would never be able to take without going absolutely crazy. George takes that luger, and gets Lenny talking about their dream. You know the dream. They’d get themselves a ranch and raise rabbits and Lenny could pet the rabbits any old time he wanted to. George takes the luger, and gets Lenny to look out into the distance where he can actually see their ranch. And then he shoots Lenny when Lenny is waxing on about their dream. He shoots Lenny when he is at his happiest. And he shoots his best friend because he loves him, because he wants to protect him. How could you not cry, right? It was a gift, that book, that film, those tears. 

I still read that book from time to time. I still cry. I still give it to people I know who have not read it yet. Years later, when I was in college, my beloved professor, Jerry Harste, said, “If you can’t cry then you can’t read.” And I remember thinking, my mom taught me that a long time ago. It was Steinbeck. It was Of Mice and Men. It was clever and crafty George. It was lovable but dangerous old Lenny. Lenny, who needed to be saved from himself. It was George, brave enough to save him. But you know it was more than that. It was Green Eggs and Ham, and Danny and the Dinosaur, and The Hardy Boys, and Boy’s Life Magazine. It was Tom, and Huck, and Scout, and Atticus. My mom gave me all of that. And so much more. 

My mom was a woman of letters. While she was also a person of the internet age—she did email regularly, she knew the value of a handwritten letter. She didn't send cards with sayings or poetry someone else had written. She did not send the kind of things you buy and put your name on, somehow indicating that you took the effort to find just the right words. She wrote the right words. When I was in college, just out of the house, she wrote to me regularly. She'd make my little brother write too. I missed him the most. He never would have written if she didn't make him. 

I kept her letters. They are time capsules of my adult life. They're snapshots of her life with my dad, her sadness when he died. Her loneliness, her fears, her joy at finding new love. Otto’s kindness, and then big, tender Jim. They are her travels, her friends, her romance and disappointments. Hers are among the few real letters I ever received. And they mean more to me than any other personal possession. 

They are not cc’d to anyone, or listserved, or groupmailed. They are pen-in-hand, random paper, and licked envelopes. They are stamps and a post office. They are latenight and earlymorning; they are quiet homes with sleepy mates, after dinner and before breakfast. They are insomnia, and tears, and laughs. They are rambling, and shuffling, and loving, and funny, and intimate. They are silly and descriptive. They are kind, and reflective, and desperate. They reflect the seasons, the wildlife, and the seasons of life. 

My handwriting is so bad now – but I know you like written letters so I will try. 

I am sitting alone listening to Mozart’s C Major Concerto… 

He and I would remember the Huichol Indians who sat near the lake with their babies painting pieces of amatyl (bark) with colors like Mexican pink, blue and yellow… 

I am 82 – 3 of my children will soon be 60. My baby is 46. 

I wish Jack could have known your boys. What a happiness he missed! 

This is something I read and loved – “Forgive quickly, kiss slowly, laugh uncontrollably and never regret something that makes you smile.” 

I finished the book you gave me – there was a part I underlined. I will copy it when I get it back… 

I loved being the mom to so many different and wonderful children. That was my life. When I was a mom of a big family, I never seemed to have the time to think about making memories for my children. 

When I think back on what my mom gave me, the in between times that mean the most. It isn’t the birthday presents or family vacations or other big-ticket items that many people probably think of as constituting important family memories. The soft things are the most important; the late night conversations, the books and book talks, the letters, the questions about family, the requests for original tunes, the stories. It's the unconditional love that we expect from our mothers, that we may even take for granted. I think I am blessed more than most. My mom gave me something that only a few people can boast. 

She wasn't just a mother. She was a best friend.