I’ve been thinking for a long time that I wanted to send my mother a thank you for the things she did right in parenting me. I’ve been compiling this list for a couple years. I both wanted to send it and dreaded sending it because I never know how my mom will react. It could be bad. I finally wrote it. I shared it with Ronnie and my therapist. I waited and waited a bit more.
This wasn't about forgiveness. Far from it. It was simply acknowledging something, even if only 1 out of 1000, done right. I wasn't dismissing, ignoring, or forgetting any of the harm done. But, there were brief moments of good even though my mother has done nothing in the last 50 years to make amends in any way.
I asked myself if I was ready to send it. I answered yes. I asked myself what I wanted from sending it. I responded that I wanted nothing. Sending it would meet my need to share it with her. I didn’t need nor want anything from her in response. I just needed to say it to be good with myself. It mattered to me. It didn’t have to matter to her.
Finally, on the way to work one day, I mailed it. There were no big feelings. Thunder didn’t sound. Lightning didn’t strike. I just put it in the mail box at the post office and went to work. After a couple days, I started nervously waiting for my mom’s response to my words knowing that she is not always in her kind mind:
Dear Mother:
Over the last 50 years, I have made much of how you didn’t meet my needs as a parent. As I enter my third trimester of life, I want to tell you what I have appreciated all these years that you did right.
First and foremost, you taught me to play and to follow my creative flights of fancy. I’ve noticed that many adults don’t know how to play. Not only did you but you also passed it on to me. You encouraged me to make up stories. When I was small, you didn’t dissuade me from telling you about the little man named “Jingle Bells” who drove his miniature helicopter from his home with his family in the crystal cut living room lamp to work in the kitchen chandelier. I was so young didn’t know Jingle Bells wasn’t a name.
There were several ways you fostered creativity. We always had lots of paper, pencils, pens, crayons, Mr. Sketch, scissors, paste and glue, and let us not forget lots of tape. My brother must have used miles of tape to fix the unfixable. We always had art supplies.
I will always remember fondly running at the marina when it was first built at twilight and humming the Pink Panther tune. Laughing and playing. Darting from one street light to another trying to hide as if I was a spy. You laughed, played, and danced. You taught me that it was okay to laugh at ourselves and thoroughly enjoy it.
There was another time later when we were riding the monorail in Seattle and decided an interesting woman stranger was a Russian spy. I don’t know if you remember. On the monorail, we decided she had injected my neck with poison and only she had the antidote. We hurried off the monorail to wait for her to get off. I yelled, “There she is!” And pointed. You said, “A fine spy you turned out to be.” We followed the poor woman up the escalators in Frederick & Nelson’s until we got near the eighth floor and called it off as she was looking increasingly suspicious. I feel bad about that but it’s long gone.
Playing and humor has always given me great joy and allowed me to share it with others. I am very grateful. Thank you.
You made me clothes. You did such a great job that no one at school ever knew my clothes were hand made. Rather, I was so proud of them. No one could believe you made them. I remember you starting on a dress in the evening and asking if I could wear it to school tomorrow. You worked through the night to finish it so I could wear it the next day. I was proud. I felt cared for.
You encouraged my writing. I remember in sixth grade I was reading Mickey Spillane. We were talking to someone, maybe Mary, about writing a dirty book. I said I could write a dirty book. You didn’t believe me. So, I wrote a story about a sultry woman in a neglige seducing a man. It was pretty stereotypical but I made my point. Writing has always sustained me in my life.
I’ve done comedy. I write stories. I give them to others as if giving a flower. I’ve used my skill to succeed at work. Thank you.
You taught me helpful things about parenting. Never take a child somewhere without something to do. You can do a lot with just a pen and paper. It not only helped me in my own parenting. I have also entertained countless kids at restaurants and waiting rooms bringing smiles to both our faces.
You taught me to iron with speed and precision. I’m not sure how anyone learns that skill anymore. But, it has given me a good bartering skill.
You encouraged my playing outside, building and rebuilding my treehouse, riding my bicycle hither and yon, traipsing through woods. I always had a bike. I appreciate it.
You let me wear a cowboy hat, dress up in my dad’s air force uniform, and wear ties, hats, and leer in the living room mirror. That leering in the mirror helped me hone “my look.” Thanks.
You made sure I had wood, hammers, and nails for my outside building projects including the treehouse.
The playing outside also included you letting my brother and I sleep outside in an endless variety of configurations. Probably sleeping in the treehouse was the best. For years at school, Cathy Cavette carried on about how I woke her up in the middle of the night “just to look at the moon!” Apparently, I knew a good thing but she didn’t. I still sleep outside in the summer. Thank you.
You named me Joceile. I went through a spot at 19 when I didn’t appreciate the name. Other than that, I have been proud of my name and enjoyed a certain notoriety because of it. Thanks.
You let me have a robust relationship with my grandparents.
You took us to lakes all summer to play in water and sun. An activity I came to appreciate more and more.
We had books. There were always plenty of books to explore the world with.
We drove around endlessly especially around Pt. Defiance Five Mile Drive playing with the Cadillac convertible down sitting on the back pretending we were in a parade doing the princess wave. We drove down back roads poking around and discovering the unexpected. You told stories about Grandpa taking a “short cut” and coming to a bridge that was washed out. “Not just washed out, but washed out 20 years ago!”
You taught me how to enjoy cemeteries and not be afraid. Some of my best walks are in cemeteries.
You taught me how to go through second hand clothing in Goodwill and pick out the best clothes and get what I wanted. This is a skill many people don’t have.
You bought us Lego and matchbook cars. I still love Lego. There is an adult Lego fan base. I am one of them. To this day, my favorite Legos are on my desk at work.
I had plenty of dolls and stuffed animals. I still have my Winnie the Pooh and Santa Claus that Grandma Teresa made.
I’ve learned there is a lot to appreciate in life. I’ve also learned there’s value in telling another person what I appreciate about them. This is my gift to you on your birthday. I’ve also learned not to wait. So, it’s arriving earlier than May 7th this year.
Sending my love.
Joceile
* * *
Three days later, the first card arrived. As per our arrangement, Ronnie opened and reviewed the card before approving it for me to read. We established this routine in the beginning of our relationship because my mom would send things out of the blue that were either mean to me or upsetting. We decided we wanted to choose how, when, and if my mother’s messages got to me. Oddly, the card was a Christmas card sent to my mother from her mother, my Grandma Teresa, in 1962. I was five.
The card said that Grandma Teresa and I had gone shopping and walked around a lot. She said I was perfectly happy and we split a milk shake. Then, apparently I said I wanted to go to home, that I was more company than some grown-ups, and she loved it. It was dated December 16, 1962 exactly six years to the day that my grandma died in Olympia. A card from a distant past that I have no memory of. My mother has all my Grandma Teresa’s stuff as well as the letters and cards her mother sent her.
My mother added a brief note saying how much she appreciated the “lovely long letter.” She added she would write more as soon as “I can try to write so you can read it.” My mother writes like a monk. It looks beautiful but often takes several readings to figure out all the words. She said she had a nice walk in the cemetery near her where my grandpa is buried and placed camellias on his grave.
Two days after that, the letter came. Ronnie opened it, reviewed several items, and read the six page letter. Ronnie has barely spent any time with my mother since the 80s. She only knows her well enough to know she can be creepy and disturbing. Reading the letter, Ronnie felt both alarmed at my mother’s craziness and sad for her absolute loneliness. She thought I should wait to read the letter until closer to my next counseling appointment and definitely not before going to bed.
I was happy to wait until the end of the workweek. When Saturday came, I decided I would look at the items and read the letter. The items consisted of: a stack of blank blue doily cards with white trim; four blank pinkish cut out heart shape pieces of paper—maybe for notes; an ad for a “Thick, Cushiony Ironing Board Cover” cut from a circular with the 1-800 number glued to it; and a 4x6 inch pink index card with hand printed laundry instructions for removing blood and ballpoint ink, washing wool with hair conditioner, and appropriate use of Woolite.
My mother loves pink. Most of her papers and cards are some variations of pink including the six page letter. I started reading the letter waiting for something crazy or disturbing. I found my mom’s regular craziness but contained in it was appreciation for what I had sent her. She had reflections about talking to God and her dead parents and her appreciation for Christian Science. She’s been reading Mary Baker Eddy’s book since I had a brush with Christian Science in high school.
She said her mother is with her. She shared incidents of when her deceased parents had intervened in her current life. When the neighbor across the street needed help, her dead mother stopped the old mechanical, mantel clock so mom would know. She added that when the neighbor became too much trouble she told her mom, “Honey, if you stop that clock again—I will never start it so you can hear the chimes—ever again!” According to her, Grandma Teresa now leaves the clock alone.
I read the letter carefully figuring out the problematic handwriting as I went. But, there was nothing mean about me or anyone I love. There was no outraged complaints about leftist politics or the end of the world. The were no commands for me to do anything.
I told a somewhat surprised Ronnie who came back from walking the dog, “My mom met my gold standard.”
“I didn’t know there was a gold standard. What is it?”
“She didn’t say anything mean to me. She didn’t tell me I had to do anything.”
“I didn’t know that was the bar.”
“Yes. She’s crazy. She talks to dead people. That’s not new for her. You know her great grandmother Stockdale was a well known psychic in Centralia? She comes by this stuff honestly.”
Ronnie sighed, “I guess I haven’t read more than just a card from her in a long time.”
“It doesn’t mean I want to get closer to her. I’m sorry she’s lonely.” My mom talked about losing all her friends, being anti-social except with store clerks, and not driving after 11 a.m. due to her road rage. “But, she’s keeping her craziness to herself and didn’t carry on about alarming politics. I’d say I came out pretty good here.”
“Good to know,” Ronnie said.
I know there will be more coming through the mail. She talked about my granny’s ironing board—I have no idea what happened to it nor do I care. She talked about a zillion negatives she has from my Grandma Teresa’s picture taking days of Centralia, Olympia, and Yakima from the 50s and offered to have me take them to local historical societies. She talked about my grandpa’s six foot long mounted long horns he brought back from Texas in the 60s on the hood of his station wagon. She still has them. She’s welcome to them. But so far, I got off light.
She said she was sooo very thrilled to get my long “WONDERFUL” letter and said, “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!” She said she was proud of me. (She used the word “awesome” twice so I know that my mother’s contact with the world is current.) That’s really all I could have possibly hoped for and totally met my needs for this experience of thanking her for what she did right. Based on the circumstances, what more could I ask? She got a letter of appreciation that most parents never get and she said thank you several times. What more could I want?
You’re welcome, mom. Happy Birthday.
L’Chaim.
Joceile
4.13.19
[Picture of pink letter, paper heart, doily paper, ad, and pink index card.]
