About My Mother

by Peggy Rowe

  My mother was transfixed, immersed in her own little corner of culture heaven with an unfamiliar look of rapture. She was a world away from the Orioles fan who screamed at the umps and cavorted around the living room. The girl who had come to Baltimore from the country more than twenty years ago with a head full of dreams and a suitcase full of homemade dresses was sitting in the orchestra section of the historic, world-renown Lyric Opera House. It didn’t get much better than that. She pulled the sequined shawl around her shoulders, threw her head back, and sniffed.

  Dad was a different story altogether. Even in the dim light, I could see the pink creeping up his neck and onto his face. He stared down at his large, calloused hands until I wanted to hug him, but our family didn’t indulge in such sentimentality. My parents showed their love for me a hundred times a day, but we didn’t make a practice of hugging and kissing and saying, “I love you.”

  At home that evening, we had birthday cake and ice cream, and I received my real gifts—a framed photograph of my beloved Jet and a crocheted saddle blanket. The cake was devil’s food, my father’s favorite. He had earned every bite.

  Topper loved his new home. He’d taken to horse manure with the same passion he’d shown for the neighbors’ garbage on Leslie Avenue. The gourmet delicacy in his own backyard was as delightful for rolling in as it was for snacking. He didn’t show the same enthusiasm for the basement washtubs, though.

  My longtime companion lived to a ripe old age and was laid to rest in a shallow grave on the hillside with a view of his favorite place: the manure pile.

  Moving On

  It was well past dinnertime when my mother flitted through the kitchen door and headed for the refrigerator.

  “Good, you’re not in the barn. Are you busy?”

  I closed my World History book (grateful for the distraction) and braced myself for the daily third degree: How were your classes today? Do you like your professors? Do you have a lot of homework? Have you made some friends? What will you be wearing tomorrow?

  It was more than curiosity about my new college life. She was a stage mother living vicariously through her daughter. She had even tried to accompany me to campus for freshman registration, just as she had taken me by the hand to first grade. In the end, she showed me how to write a check for my textbooks and sent me off on my new adventure alone. I knew that I was living her dream of a college education, but it felt like intrusion.

  The year my sister graduated from college and settled down in her husband’s home state of Virginia, I was a freshman at what was then known as Towson State Teachers College. It was just six miles from home, but light years away from my world—one where diversity had meant living alongside Catholics and Baptists. My new world included people of color, other faiths and ethnicities, gays and lesbians, and veterans.

  My friends were other dayhops like me who ate brown bag lunches in the student center between classes. We weren’t the cool coeds who went out for the cheerleading squad and dated jocks. There wasn’t a homecoming queen or star athlete among us. Most of us had part-time jobs after class.

  The career counselor in high school had suggested majoring in animal husbandry at the University of Maryland. “Your interest in animals and the out-of-doors is off the charts, Peggy!” he had said.

  Seeing my mother’s reaction, you’d have thought he had suggested a career as stripper on Baltimore’s notorious “Block.”

  “Animal husbandry? What in the world would a young lady do with a degree in animal husbandry?” she asked.

  “I’d work with animals. There are a lot of jobs out there. I’m good with animals.”

  “Nonsense! Animals are a hobby. Be a schoolteacher. You’re a good Sunday School teacher and riding instructor. Children love you!”

  I wasn’t used to compliments from my mother. I was pretty sure I’d been a disappointment so far. I wasn’t beautiful or brilliant or gifted, and I certainly hadn’t distinguished myself or brought acclaim to the family.

  In truth, it wasn’t a surprise that my mother wanted me to be a teacher. She had mentioned it often. One time in particular stood out, when I was about nine years old. It was at Grandma Daisy’s in Virginia, in the upstairs bedroom Mom had shared with her four younger sisters growing up. We were watching the sunset from the front window when, out of the blue, she recited a line from an essay she had written in her high-school English class all those years ago.

  “In the evening, the setting sun paints a shimmering path across the quiet waters of the Great Wicomico River. My teacher told me, ‘You have a flare for writing, Thelma!’ ” Then, with a faraway look, she said, “Someday you girls will go to college and become schoolteachers. Your grandmother taught school before she was married, you know.”

  I had no doubt that my mother could have been in charge of the whole world if she’d gone to college. But, despite the fact that she had read every book in the Fleeton Library at least twice and graduated from high school in the top of her class, college had been out of the question.

  There was a practical reason for my being at Towson. A statewide teacher shortage in the late 1950s and ’60s resulted in free tuition in exchange for a two-year teaching commitment in Maryland. Even with my part-time jobs and the occasional cash prize at horse shows, my parents could not afford horses and tuition. In the end, I was content living at home with my parents and animals and commuting to college.

  But the third degree didn’t come on this particular evening. Instead, Mom plunked a pile of fresh vegetables on the counter.

  “You can make the salad. I’m running behind.”

  I drew in my breath. She was actually inviting me into her inner sanctum, the enchanted triangle between the stove, sink, and refrigerator where she plied her gastronomic magic. For me, it was the Bermuda Triangle, where my most recent disaster had involved a Blue Willow platter on a hot burner. I could still hear the sickening crack and see the blue and white chards poking through the sizzling sausages and eggs. It was the result of Mom’s backfired attempt to show our visiting Virginia relatives my domestic side—Peggy, in an apron, at the stove.

  But that was weeks ago, and, for my mother, life was about moving forward. Each day was a fresh start, with past misdeeds forgotten. There was no time in her world for recrimination.

  Like an Olympian passing the torch, she handed me the knife. “Don’t cut yourself.”

  This was a first and should have been accompanied by music from a Wagnerian opera. My mother’s mantra had always been, “If you want a job done right, do it yourself!” I thought about the ratcatcher blouse I’d made in my high school home economics class to wear in horse shows.

  “You did a nice job on this collar!” Mom said when I brought it home. “I’m impressed.” The following day, she took out both sleeves and sewed them back in correctly. I found no need to mention that my teacher had done the collar for me.

  My mother poured a large bowl of leftover beef stew into a pot and adjusted the burner. I glanced up from my chopping to see her at the kitchen sink tying an apron around her slim waist, her lips moving in silent conversation. Something was up. Several months ago, I’d have guessed it was baseball, but the season had ended. For some reason, I felt a twinge of pity.

  “Guess what? There are two women in my phys ed class who are older than you! You could still go to college if you wanted and be a schoolteacher yourself.”

  She laughed. “Are you kidding? I don’t have the patience to be a teacher.” She looked down at the chopped vegetables and frowned. “Those cucumber chunks and carrots are big enough to choke a horse. They need to be much smaller.”

  My father was the official prayer in our family, and no one ate until the Lord had been properly thanked.

  “Dear heavenly Father . . .”

  The aroma of beef and onions and potatoes and carrots and succulent brown gravy made me dizzy with anticipation. Dad’s prayers were reverent and relevant, heartfelt with no awkward pauses. When he filled in for our preache
r at church, he wrote his own sermons, then Mom critiqued them. She sat in the front pew on those Sundays, her head held high.

  “We ask these things in thy holy name.”

  He had no sooner said amen when my mother blurted, “I got a job today at Hutzler’s department store!”

  Mystery solved. Dad’s broad smile mirrored hers as he shook catsup into his bowl of beef stew.

  In typical self-absorbed fashion, I saw this as my big break. My mother was finally too busy to obsess on my activities, my grooming, my grades, my friends . . . not that she hadn’t been helpful.

  Earlier in the semester, I had developed a persistent case of conjunctivitis. I could barely open my eyes and fell behind in my American literature class. For hours, my mother lay beside me on the bed reading aloud. An avid reader, she devoured her Book of the Month Club selections and was a regular at the neighborhood bookmobile. Not ordinarily drawn to fantasy, she read the sentimental prose of Rip Van Winkle and The Legend of Sleepy Hollow with emotion and enthusiasm, and we laughed aloud together—just as we had enjoyed Misty of Chincoteague and Black Beauty years earlier. She had been right about animal husbandry, of course. I was happy at home with the people who loved me most in the world.

  And now, my mother was going to be fully occupied in a job of her own. What a wonderful life it was!

  Hutzler’s was a prestigious, upscale department store that had enjoyed a reputation of some prominence in Baltimore for a hundred years. Naturally, they would be impressed by my mother’s authoritative, yet pleasant, demeanor. The fact that she had managed an office and dealt with the public was probably the clincher. And it didn’t hurt that she was dressed more stylishly than her interviewers.

  Mom was well-acquainted with current fashion and exclusive labels. She’d made it a practice to check out high-end shops before making purchases at more affordable stores or constructing a “knock-off” at home. Compliments on her chic outfits were as commonplace as A grades had been on my sister’s report cards.

  The world of retail fit my mother like her own custom-made garments. She left the house each day carrying a tote bag with her lunch and, during baseball season, her transistor radio. She had made friends with a seamstress in the backroom who joined her on these occasions.

  Mom was bursting with excitement the evening she told Dad and me about the marketing idea she had taken to her supervisor.

  “Our department displays dresses on mannequin torsos. Customers are always asking my advice on accessorizing, so I suggested displaying entire ensembles on full mannequins. You know: hat, purse, shoes, gloves, jewelry. Dresses would be more appealing, and what better way to advertise accessories?”

  Her suggestion was implemented, and the results were an unqualified success. She took a personal pride in those stylish, inanimate figures looming throughout her department.

  Before long my mother began assessing her current position and her prospects for promotion. She was as capable as her supervisors and had given them advice on more than one occasion. She made an appointment with personnel and was told, “We’re pleased with your performance, Mrs. Knobel, and your job is secure. But Hutzler’s policy is that, without a college degree, advancement isn’t possible.”

  That settled it! It was time to find a career that rewarded ambition and hard work. On her final day of work, her seamstress friend took her aside. “Here’s something for you, Thelma,” she whispered, putting a stack of silky Hutzler’s labels into Mom’s tote bag. “We’re using a new design and discarding these. I bet you can find a good use for them.”

  Soon after her departure from Hutzler’s, Mom enrolled in a real estate course and found the career that was meant for her. Before long she was immersed in a world of listings, contracts, open houses, and settlements. My mother thrived on the office scene with its inevitable competition and interesting people. She left for work wearing tailored homemade suits with prestigious Hutzler’s labels. Dad, always eager to follow her social lead, enjoyed get-togethers with their new friends. There were even afternoon baseball games at Memorial Stadium with colleagues who shared her passion and loved her enthusiasm. Go figure! Mom had her own dinnertime stories now, and we looked forward to them.

  When she was called to list a house that was hopelessly cluttered or poorly decorated, there was no mincing of words.

  “You’ll never sell it in this condition!” she would tell the owner. “The odor of dogs and cats knocked me over when I came through the front door.” Her penchant for honesty and openness proved an asset. Well, most of the time.

  “You found the perfect place for some friends of ours and sold their house in two weeks,” one young couple told her when she listed their property. “We want you to do the same for us.”

  A tour of their house was disappointing, and, at the end, agent Thelma handed them a to-do list.

  “You need to invest in these improvements before putting your house on the market. It will be more appealing and increase the value.”

  They thanked her for her honesty and promised to call when they were ready.

  Months later they kept their promise. With listing forms and high hopes, Mom entered the house.

  “I hardly recognize it!” she said, looking around and mentally calculating its increased value and her commission.

  “We did everything you suggested, Mrs. Knobel,” the husband told her, proudly showing off the refurbished house.

  “In fact,” the wife said, looking apologetic, “we like it so much, we’ve decided to stay. It’s exactly what we were looking for.”

  The strategy that had cost her two sales resulted in future referrals. As one of the top agents in her office, Mom eventually passed a million dollars in sales. This was a huge accomplishment in the 1950s and ’60s.

  While my mother was setting the real estate world ablaze, I was keeping my head above water at college. The dean’s list remained elusive, but Mom had been right about one thing: my supervising teachers called me a “natural” when it came to working with children.

  The time had come to tell her about my new interest on campus, although she had probably guessed when I began curling my hair and raiding her closet.

  Neither of us expected the storm that was on the horizon—one that came between us as nothing else had, not even baseball or horses or piano lessons.

  New Territory

  John was different from other boys I had met at college—boys who were away from home for the first time and giddy from an unfamiliar sense of freedom. There was none of that frivolity about John, who was an Army veteran taking advantage of the GI Bill. For him, college meant one thing: a career.

  We met in physical science class when I was in my sophomore year and had absolutely nothing in common. I was cheerful and optimistic, Pollyanna-like, while John had that Eeyore, impending-sense-of-doom personality. His parents were divorced, and there were eight children in all—five from his father and mother and three more from his father and stepmother. Their exploits made my family look like we had stepped off the set of Father Knows Best or Leave It to Beaver.

  There were no divorces in our family and few among our friends. I’d grown up believing that divorce was synonymous with shame and failure.

  John had been working since he was a boy and on his own since his teens. In order to make ends meet in college, he worked at the post office and drove a school bus part-time. All this brought me face to face with a reality I had not previously acknowledged: I lived a privileged life. Not only had my parents indulged my passion, they were devoted and dedicated to helping me realize my full potential, whatever that might be.

  I didn’t mention my horses to John.

  Preparing for class now involved more than completing assignments. Instead of pulling my hair back into a ponytail, I set it in soft curlers at night and wore it shoulder length. Finding attractive outfits was as simple as a trip to Mom’s closet. For the first time in my life, I was dressing for a boy, not like a boy, and I was almost as pleased with th
e results as my mother.

  Weeks passed, and when John didn’t ask me out, I told myself it was just as well. My mother would find him unsuitable. A serious, older, worldly veteran, he would appear dark and brooding to someone so cheerful and positive.

  And then one day out of the blue, I heard myself saying to her, “There’s a student at school whose family lives out of town. I feel sorry for him—the cafeteria food is so boring. At least that’s what everybody says. Could we invite him to lunch sometime?” I had tried to make him sound like a casual acquaintance, but as usual, my mother saw right through me.

  “You should wait for him to ask you on a date first!”

  “It’s not a date. He can’t afford to date.”

  I regretted my words immediately. I’d made him sound hopelessly poor and given my mother another teachable moment.

  “You can fall in love with a rich man just as easily as you can with a poor one. Don’t settle.”

  “But Dad was poor when you met him.”

  This was a mistake, as now I had to listen to her favorite story again, but telling it always seemed to put her in good spirits.

  “It was the Depression; everybody was poor. There was no money for a wedding, so your father and I had no choice but to elope to Elkton. We recited our vows in a stuffy little wedding chapel before perfect strangers. Our reception was at a hotdog stand on the way home. I want more for you!”

  “Mom, it’s a simple lunch.”

  In the end, she agreed. I obsessed over every detail of the “simple lunch.” Luckily, baseball season was over so John wouldn’t see the crazy lady bouncing off the walls and throwing underwear at the TV. Madness can be hereditary, after all. It would have to be a Sunday afternoon when Mom didn’t have one of her open houses for work, because cooking dinner myself could result in a very short relationship, if not food poisoning. Pot roast and homemade apple pie, followed by a walk along the rock garden path where a spectacular orange pumpkin lay in a tangle of autumn weeds. Then maybe a stroll through the orchard where limbs drooped from the weight of pungent, ripe apples and a visit to the stream bank where no male could resist skipping stones. Dad and I had passed many a happy hour along Stemmers Run doing just that. I loved his stories about smoking under the bridge at the age of eight and building a dam for swimming.