About My Mother

by Peggy Rowe

  We laughed out loud, knowing that she had spoken God’s truth.

  In 1960, wedding nights were supposed to be a time for firsts. Ours was no different. It happened on the Pennsylvania Turnpike when the bridegroom, who drove like an old man, got his first speeding ticket—ever.

  I couldn’t wait to tell my mother.

  Up in Smoke: Marriage and the Family

  John and I were still adjusting to married life when the call came from my mother.

  “Are you ready for company yet? Your father and I want to visit. How about Sunday after church? We could come for lunch.”

  I couldn’t speak.

  After two months of marriage, I was still figuring it out in the kitchen. John was easy to please and amazingly tolerant of my culinary failures. I had a chipped tooth to show for my first attempt at cookies. Even the birds had turned up their beaks at my offerings. Fortunately, we were young and healthy with a high tolerance for poor cooking.

  Keeping house was a breeze. A little mopping, a little dusting, a weekly trip to the laundromat.

  “There’s nothing to it,” I told John. “I don’t know why my mother makes such a fuss.”

  The pre-Civil War stone mansion was the perfect setting for a Gothic romance novel—or for a couple of newlyweds. Large casement windows in the living room of our second-floor apartment opened onto a sprawling front lawn with enormous beech trees. Ornate fireplaces adorned the living room, dining room, and bedroom. In the rear was Ellicott City’s version of the Hundred Acre Wood in Winnie-the-Pooh, ours to explore on weekends. Except for an aging landlord downstairs, there was total privacy. And it was all ours, including the use of a downstairs telephone and utilities, for a breathtaking $90 a month—barely doable on a starting teacher’s salary of little more than $4,000 in 1960. John had insisted on putting my salary into a savings account.

  “We should get used to living on one salary. We won’t always have two,” he reasoned, ever practical in financial matters.

  We didn’t miss a television or radio. We were oblivious to the twenty steps leading up to our apartment, the creaking wooden floors, and a serious lack of water pressure. We discovered early on that the solution to cold, cavernous rooms was snuggling. In two months of married life, our only visitors had been the bats and pigeons that dropped in through the fireplace chimneys. They gave my husband an opportunity to play hero at least once a week as he dispatched them through an open window with a tennis racket.

  “Oh. Oh, good,” I said, trying not to sound horrified at the prospect of my mother judging my homemaking skills, or lack thereof. “I-I was going to invite you. I’ve just been so busy getting my classroom up and running.”

  I was teaching third grade in the school where I had done my student teaching and still feeling my way.

  “So, Sunday after church?” Mom asked. “I’m anxious to see those new pots and pans in action.”

  “Sure . . . uh, this Sunday?”

  I pictured the unopened boxes in the corner of the living room.

  “Is two o’clock all right? Your father and I have a meeting after church. Sandwiches will be fine. I’ll bring a cake.”

  “The nerve!” I said to John. “Like all I know how to make is a sandwich! I’m surprised she didn’t tell me what kind!”

  “Technically speaking, hamburgers and hotdogs are sandwiches,” he said. “You’ve pretty much perfected those.”

  “That settles it! How difficult can a pot roast be, anyway? I’ve seen hundreds of them on our table at home.”

  John chuckled softly.

  It was the end of January, and I convinced John to build our first fire for the occasion.

  “We’ll have dessert in front of the living room fireplace. My mother will be so impressed!”

  While John set off to the woods for kindling and logs, I washed my new roasting pan and arranged a colorful halo of carrots, onions, and potatoes around the beef. Sandwiches, indeed!

  At 1:15 P.M., John lit the match that would announce our presence to all of Ellicott City, Maryland. I finished setting the table with our sparkling china and silverware, then joined him in the living room.

  “Oh, isn’t this nice!” I exclaimed as warm flames danced in the mirror on the wall opposite the fireplace. “Entertaining is fun! I don’t know why I was worried.”

  We were hugging when sirens sent us running to the front window.

  “Fire engines are coming up College Avenue,” John said. “It must be close!”

  When the blaring sirens and flashing lights turned into our driveway, we spun toward the fireplace. All was well.

  Banging on the front door sent us flying down the stairs, expecting to see our landlord on fire in his library. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d fallen asleep with a beer in one hand and a burning cigarette dangling from the other. He was standing in the spacious foyer in a rumpled robe looking bewildered.

  “What the hell? Are you cooking again, young lady?”

  “Your chimney’s on fire, sir,” the fireman announced calmly. And then he made the understatement of the century. “I’m afraid you’re gonna have a bit of a mess.”

  In no time, men with hoses scrambled onto the roof as years of creosote buildup burned in the flu of our living room fireplace, sending flames skyward.

  Water cascaded down the chimney and into our living room, splashing wet ashes into the air.

  We were frantically fanning smoke through the windows and trying to catch water in buckets when my parents appeared at our apartment door.

  “Are you all right?” Dad asked John, whose entire face looked like Ash Wednesday.

  “Do I smell dinner?” my mother asked, waving her hand in front of her face.

  While the men dealt with the mess in the living room, Mom and I adjourned to the kitchen for the second disaster of the day. Lifting the lid to the roasting pan revealed the same arrangement I’d left an hour earlier—reddish meat, firm potatoes and onions, and carrots standing at attention.

  “But, where’s the rich brown gravy? It’s been in here over an hour. Maybe the oven’s broken, although it feels hot.” I didn’t mention that I was using it for the first time, or that it had taken both of us to figure out how it worked.

  “A pot roast this size takes several hours! Don’t you remember how I always put it in the oven before we left for Sunday School and church?”

  I had never been aware of anything in the kitchen, and she knew it. So, there it was. I was officially a failure in the kitchen.

  My mother lowered her voice and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “Get us some sharp knives and the cutting board and that big cook pot Elvira gave you at the shower. We’ll make a pot of beef stew in no time; it’s your father’s favorite.”

  With slumping shoulders, I headed out of the kitchen while she called softly, “You picked a good cut of beef, honey. It’ll be nice and tender.”

  Mom giving orders and saving the day, the story of my life.

  By the time we sat down to dinner, the smoke had cleared, the mess in the living room had been cleaned away (except for the black ashes clinging stubbornly to the high ceiling), and our coughing had subsided. With the windows closed and the temperature rising, Dad paid me the ultimate compliment.

  “This is delicious, hon! I’ll have some more. It’s as good as your mother’s.”

  “Well, actually,” I began, but Mom interrupted me, nodding vigorously.

  “I told her that good stew is all about choosing the right cut of beef. She picked a good one.” John winked at me.

  I knew my mother. She’d be on the phone bragging about her daughter’s delicious meal as soon as they got home. Of course, fire and smoke and ashes wouldn’t make it into her story.

  Thanks to that cold winter, I came to motherhood the following year, in 1962, with all the experience two horses, two dogs, and a cat could provide. My mother insisted on coming across town to stay with us for a week after the birth.

  “Changing a diaper is tricki
er than pitching manure, you know.”

  “It really isn’t necessary, Mom. Have you seen this?” I pointed to the nursery wall and my framed Red Cross Baby Care Certificate. “Remember that class I took last Saturday?”

  “Oh, yes. Seven whole hours.”

  I know sarcasm when I hear it, so I put on my mother-of the-year face.

  “I changed a baby’s diaper and bathed him.” I didn’t mention that it was a doll baby.

  She had made up her mind so, in the end, I humored her, knowing that she couldn’t wait to get her hands on her soon-to-be-born grandchild. And because I had left out the part about the doll slipping through my soapy fingers and bouncing on the floor like a rubber ball.

  As it turned out, giving birth wasn’t quite as easy as Princess had made it look in the barn. Perched on a mound of yellow straw, she had purred throughout the ordeal, pausing to lap a saucer of milk between kittens three and four. But then her babies weren’t nine-and-a-half pounds!

  After four difficult days, I was grateful for help. Mom took charge as we left the hospital.

  “I’ll take the baby.”

  “I’m sorry,” the nurse told her. “We have strict orders to place baby in mother’s arms in the back seat of the car.” I couldn’t see Mom’s face, but I knew where her eyebrows were.

  It was long before infant safety seats and holding my baby, Mike, in our car that day was like sliding onto Chico’s furry back all those years ago. We were the only two creatures on earth, and for a while, I even forgot the pain of episiotomy and the raw soreness from nursing.

  At home, I sat on a soft rubber ring feeding my ravenous baby boy while delicious aromas wafted from the kitchen. With my mother at the helm, our apartment took on the appearance of a decorator’s showcase, with wedding gifts finally unpacked and tastefully displayed. Sometimes when she thought I was resting, I would peek into the nursery to see Mom rocking her sleeping grandson.

  “I think Mom’s as pleased with our baby as we are,” I told John when we were alone.

  “She’s just relieved you didn’t name him Trigger.” John’s sense of humor was coming along nicely.

  Our engagement had brought an end to any negative comments about John, and, as was her nature, my mother had moved on to only positive thoughts.

  “It’s best that I had daughters,” she told me one day. “I’d rather deal with sons-in-law than daughters-in-law.”

  She was probably right.

  Mike was Mom’s third grandson, so she was a pro. I didn’t correct her when she failed to use the Red Cross preferred method for holding our baby during his bath. But when she snapped a pair of rubber pants over his cloth diaper, I had to speak up.

  “The Red Cross nurse told us never to use rubber pants on our newborn. They can cause diaper rash.” It wasn’t often I got to tell my mother what to do. Frankly, I was surprised she wasn’t aware of that. She smiled patiently and removed the hazardous garment.

  Changing our baby’s diaper now meant changing his outfit, as well as the crib sheet, blanket, and clothes I wore while nursing him. Twenty-four hours later, the apartment smelled like a cheap nursing home. The following day, as John headed for the laundromat again, my mother snapped the rubber pants back on—and I kept my mouth shut.

  When it was time for her to leave, I put on a brave face.

  “You’ll be fine,” she assured me. “Oh, you’ll make plenty of mistakes, all right, but look on the bright side. Your animals all survived, didn’t they? And you know my number.”

  Life was good, with one exception—my parents were selling off some land, the part with the stable and pasture. After my yearlong teaching career, John and I were down to one salary, and the horses that I had little time for were a drain on our budget. Bill’s words rang in my ears: “Most people can’t be trusted to care for animals. No matter how good their intentions, they’ll let the animal down in the end.”

  With a heavy heart and my dream of a farm far off in the future, I visited the Humane Society. I saw a healthy herd of horses on hundreds of acres, with doting caretakers. The manager, Bill’s friend, promised to give my horses a good home, using them only for children’s riding lessons on Saturdays. And the best part: “You can reclaim them whenever you’re ready,” she told me.

  With Bill’s blessing, we delivered my horses to their new home. As we were leaving, I thought about my old grapevine pony and how I hadn’t given him a second thought after discovering the real thing. Was I now moving on from my horses to the real thing—a family? Would I forget about them? I hoped not.

  Any guilt I felt over abandonment vanished when I visited through the years and saw a contented herd. I had mixed emotions when Jet preferred his four-legged friends to me. Shaker lived to the age of thirty, but I still looked forward to reclaiming Jet one day.

  Three years after our marriage came the bold move.

  “Are you sure about this?” John asked over and over. “Do you really want to buy the house right next door to your mother? She’ll be telling you what to do and how to do it—every day.”

  “I know. But the house is sturdy and affordable. There’s land, a stream for our children to play in, and woods to explore.”

  “Hmm . . . and room for a stable and pasture someday.” John wasn’t born yesterday.

  “Remember the last time your parents visited us? ‘The inspector general is coming,’ you said. You cleaned for a week and broke out in hives as they walked through the door.”

  “But they both work and have an active social life. They’ll be too busy to bother us. They love their grandson. And those hives could have been diet-related.”

  My husband leaned close, looking deep into my eyes. “Your mother, every day—right next door.”

  “Free babysitting!” I said.

  For my mother, who was a foot soldier in the battle against dust and clutter, visiting our house was a walk on the wild side.

  Seven-year-old Mike was reading a book to two-year-old Phil the summer morning Mom popped in on her way to the office. I was sitting at the coffee table in jeans and a baggy shirt helping four-year-old Scott with a jigsaw puzzle when she appeared through the porch window.

  “It’s the mothership,” said Scott, looking up from the puzzle.

  I sat up straight, smoothed my wrinkled shirt, and neatened my ponytail, wondering briefly if Scott was watching too much Lost in Space.

  To her credit, my mother never openly criticized my housekeeping skills. Her approach was a bit more subtle.

  “Hmmm. It must be nice to have all your housework done,” she said, taking in the chaos.

  While Phil looked at me and asked, “What’s housework, Mommy?” Mom nudged Caesar the cat out of the way and gave Missy her traditional greeting.

  “Nice doggie . . . now go away. Are you finished with this pile of blocks?” she asked.

  “That’s the Washington Monument, Nana,” said Scott.

  She walked around the national landmark, then lifted the skirt of her smart business suit (with the prestigious Hutzler’s label sewn inside the collar) and stepped over a Lincoln Log village.

  Then she gathered up several small toys from the floor and deposited them in the playroom/den, saying as if to herself, “There now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  I grimaced, as I always did when Mom caught me relaxing. This wasn’t the way she had raised her daughters, for sure. I couldn’t remember a time when our living room was cluttered with toys while my mother was sprawled on the floor with her girls. If she thought I was lazy, she never actually said as much.

  “What in the world do we have here?” she asked, throwing her hands in the air in mock surprise as she stared into the dining room.

  The boys rushed to show off their latest collection of birds’ nests, pinecones, and snakeskins.

  “It’s our science table!”

  “We took a field trip to the woods!”

  “We’re going to the marsh this afternoon for frogs’ eggs!” “We’re
going to grow tadpoles like last year!”

  “Hmmm, very nice. What is this?” she asked, picking up a round, prickly object.

  Mike took a book from the table.

  “It’s called a seedpod, Nana. See? Here’s a picture.”

  “It’s from the sweetgum tree way back in the field,” Scott chimed in.

  “Did you wash your hands? I guess you know what poison ivy looks like,” she said.

  “Uh-huh,” Scott said, putting his left foot up on the dining room chair and pointing to a red rash on his leg. “It looks like this. The white stuff is called calamine lotion.”

  “Oh dear, try not to scratch it!”

  My mother looked around her and sighed. “Well, it doesn’t look like you’re having company anytime soon. Which reminds me . . .” Finally, the real reason for her visit.

  “The Beckleys are coming for pinochle this evening at seven o’clock.”

  This was code for, “Have the children pick up the sticks and toys from the yard by 6:30 P.M.” She had an image to uphold, after all. Mom never had sons.

  Award-winning real estate agent Thelma Knobel told her grandsons goodbye and, as she left for the office, turned and smiled at me. “Goodbye, honey.” I told myself that it was her way of saying, “Maybe there’s more than one way to raise children.” I exhaled, grateful that she hadn’t gone into the kitchen where two box turtles named Shelly and Myrtle roamed the linoleum floor like cattle on the streets of Calcutta.

  We had worried needlessly about Mom’s intrusion into our lives. That’s not to say she didn’t call her grandchildren in from play to tuck in their shirts or wash their faces and hands from time to time—or to share a batch of oatmeal cookies warm from the oven.

  We all especially loved grandmother #2. What fun it was when she poked her head into our kitchen announcing, “Ain’t the beer cold!” It was the signature expression of her favorite Orioles broadcaster, Chuck Thompson. It meant that the Orioles had won a game. I loved when the children joined her as she paced the lawn during a stressful game, their arms outstretched as they made tiny circles on their palms.