Mothers Day

This story was originally written on Mothers Day 2010




I remember one sunny Spring day when I was in second grade, so I was about seven. We had just moved to an oddly shaped old house in Princeton down near Carnegie Lake, and the three of us (my brother Ham, mom and me) occupied the top floor apartment. Ham and I shared the bedroom, and my mother slept out in the living room on a Castro Convertible - conveniently near the television. Other than that, there was a sort of hallway-dining room and a very small kitchen in the back. For the life of me I can't remember where the bathroom was. But it must have been next to the kitchen. However, this was the second apartment in a row that we brushed our teeth in the kitchen sink.
That day I woke up and was feeling tremendously unhappy, I don't know why. It was a gorgeous day, and the sun was streaming dusty rays of light through the old fashioned lace curtains. I knew that school would be full of opportunities for mischief and adventure, but somehow I was just filled with melancholy. Under my pillow was a copy of Revolver that I was wearing out on the cheap stereo we inherited from somebody. I never wanted the Beatles to be too far away. I turned on my little AM radio to see if Harry Harrison at WABC could straighten things out, but not even Donny Osmond's infectious wailing of 'One bad apple don't spoil the whole bunch girl' could raise me from my funk. I had the blues.
When my mother came into my room to see why I wasn't wolfing down Cap'n Crunch like my brother, and saw that I was still in bed, she gave me a funny look - a look only a mother can give. On a million other occasions she might have said 'I don't want any excuses, now move it!' But on that day her mother's intuition told her that I was non-specifically unhappy, and something inside her identified with the feeling. She said, 'What's the matter Pumpkin?' and I started to cry hot tears. I told her I felt strange and I didn't want to go to school that day, and she wiped my uneven mop of hair away from my wet eyes and cheeks and said 'OK'.
Yes, a part of me was thrilled that my ploy had worked (an experienced schemer even at that tender age) but inside I knew it wasn't all part of any plan on my part. I was deeply unhappy in a way that my seven year old head couldn't hope to understand and this story can't contain. Years later I would understand it, and a lot more. Anger, resentment, melancholy, the blues...whatever you want to call it - they are all silent killers. But that would all come later.
On that day I just wanted a break. I didn't want to have any responsibility, and most of all I wanted some sympathy. To my surprise she also played hooky from work, and we had a wonderful stolen day together, that included a late breakfast of pancakes with loads of butter, maple syrup and cinnamon on top. Then we sort of 'futzed around' (as she would say) for a few hours, and I remember that she was listening to Bob Dylan's Nashville Skyline album a lot at that time. I showed her a new art idea that I got from class that involved wax (we had candles on hand in those days), wax paper and an iron. I made one in the shape of a butterfly and told her it was 'psychedelic pop butterfly' and she laughed.
There were fields behind that house, and after lunch we went out and ran around in them. I'm sure I had a ball (I always had some sort of ball) and she would pretend to enjoy playing catch with me for a while before taking a cigarette break. The sun was high in the sky and we wore thick sweaters that were covered in dead grass. My mother also had a well worn jean jacket on that I secretly coveted, and would try on when she wasn't home. We fell into the wild knee high grass and she pushed me up into the air holding my hands like the airplane game I loved as a baby. I was getting too big for this and I fell on her and we rolled around laughing...I suddenly felt better, and totally carefree - a feeling I usually couldn't afford. But that day I looked at my mother's smiling face and I knew that she loved me. No matter what else, I knew that to be true.
On the way back home we were both singing a popular jingle of the day 'You've got a lot to live, and Pepsi's got a lot to give...' My mother was twenty eight, she was still young and beautiful and I was so proud of her.