April 7th is my mom’s birthday. Just before Easter Sunday
1933, she arrived in the middle of the Great Depression and was called Patsy
Ruth by those who loved her most. Unlike me, Patricia Ruth Carr was a quiet,
reflective girl that loved both reading and school. I always envisioned her to
be a teacher’s pet – an exemplary student who could sit endlessly still and
patiently raise her hand while waiting to be called on. Such an impossibility
for me. School was nothing but fidgets, squirms and unbridled energy. In my
opinion, it was the greatest social event ever invented and I could never
understand how whispering with friends and passing notes could inevitably lead
to standing in a corner. My mom would never have stood in a corner. Ever. Truth
be told, I always wanted to be a good student, but my daydreams always seem to
get in my way. They were infinitely more interesting than anything written on a
chalk board, so my imagination soared out the same window through which I
stared.
My mom was a small, slight girl with long, black hair which I envied. Worn in braids to her waist, Patsy Ruth had poker-straight hair. Nightly, her mother braided her hair into two plaits so that in the morning when combed out she would have some wave to her hair. Sadly for her, and me, the curls she always longed for ended up on my head. And I felt cursed. It was the 1970’s and everyone wore their hair long and straight parted right down the middle of their head. I was determined to uncoil my hair, so each and every night instead of plaits, I slept on huge, pink rollers the size of tin cans trying to relax my waves. To this day the frizz remains and torments me. How funny that we each wished for what the other had, so throughout our lives she paid for perms and I hid my locks under a hat on rainy days.
Genetically, I probably received half of her genes, but have often wondered how we could have been so opposite.
My mom was afraid of moths. Deathly afraid. Just holding a door open at night for ONE split second longer than needed would send her into a frenzied lunacy as she imagined moths flying into the house. Stephen King could write an entire novel based on those crazy scenes. And second only to her fear of moths was the dentist. I vividly remember how she would grip the arms of the dental chair and he had only just turned on that bright and glaring dental light. I wished I could have been brave for her as oddly, I fear nothing. And as weird as it seems, getting my teeth cleaned is one of my favorite things in the whole wide world.
Now other than those rare moments of apocalyptic fear of moths and dentists, Patsy Ruth was a very serene and reticent soul. Her four highly energetic offspring could be bouncing off the walls around her, yet she remained unflappable and rarely raised her voice. She loved to read books, drink coffee and smoke and somehow had the ability to just drift away from it all in a chair in the corner of our family room. This was her euphoria.
Mine was the beach!
Everything about the beach makes me jubilant. The sun, sand and sound of the ocean brings a peaceful calm to my spirit that can’t be found anywhere else in my life. The keow of the seagulls and breaking of waves at the shoreline has the ability to slow my hyper pace to normalcy. But it had the opposite effect on my mom and for this reason I rarely saw her on the beach during our vacations. She claimed she detested the feeling of sand on her feet and wanted to avoid the scorching sun. But, perhaps it was just a ploy so she could obtain some peace and quiet away from her hectic life. Regardless, she seemed tickled pink being alone in the beach house with her books, coffee and smokes.
I try hard to find the similarities between us.
My mother had large feet and bosoms while everything about me is small. She was proper and I was wild. A staunch Democrat, my mom cheered when my favorite Republican president, Reagan, died. I never saw her throw a ball, run, or do anything remotely athletic and yet, I was a tomboy. She had beautiful long, thin legs and I acquired my grandmother’s thick cankles. I was a modern, hip gal and she was square. But as time went on, something I thought impossible began to happen. I’d heard of it but never ever, not for one polar opposite, split second believed could happen. I was beginning to sound like her, and say things she would say, and do things she would do. And there it was. I was becoming my mother! One day her words just stumbled out of my mouth and I suddenly realized that she was no longer just the voice in my head. As we both grew older, our differences dwindled and my love for her overshadowed the last remnants of conflict.
She was artistic and creative and once daringly covered her kitchen cabinets with contact paper printed in cherries. And when the (expensive) Danish modern sofa lost the war to my brothers and me, she simply painted over the stain left from the can of Hershey syrup we spilled with blue wall paint. S & H green stamps were licked, coupons were snipped and water was added to the shampoo bottles. She was of the depression era and frugal. A stylish fashionista, she taught herself to sew and created many beautiful outfits for me and my children. On Sunday afternoons, her kitchen was filled with the smell of luscious bread baking aromas… Italian, French, Sour Dough, round, long… she could make them all. This is what I loved about her.
And she loved us.
She wasn’t demonstrative with her affection, but we knew how she felt about us. She and my dad were married 51 years-- together through thick and thin, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse-- until death they did part. They gave my brothers and me the gift of a great life and a happy home. In return, we gave them the loves of their life and pride and joys-- their 9 grandchildren. Sweet Pea, Scooter Dooter, Tank, Bubba, Princess, Darling, Fred, aka Shine, Oy and Mary Sunshine.
I think of my mom often and miss her so much. I believe she would smile seeing how I’ve evolved and grown as person while tackling many of the things she loved. I’m no longer a tomboy and really don’t enjoy the beach and scorching sun as I did long ago. Occasionally I’ll throw rollers in my hair for a little curl, and I even attempted several decorating challenges way beyond my means and ability that turned out quite well. Mental notes were taken over the years on how to spoil grandchildren and one day I might attempt to bake some bread. But I will never, EVER vote Democrat! Sorry mom.
~ Happy Birthday, Mom… I miss you so much and hope you are well. And can you do me a solid? Please tell The Gipper I said hello and send me an Iris soon! Love you so much ~ Your Chrissie
My mom was a small, slight girl with long, black hair which I envied. Worn in braids to her waist, Patsy Ruth had poker-straight hair. Nightly, her mother braided her hair into two plaits so that in the morning when combed out she would have some wave to her hair. Sadly for her, and me, the curls she always longed for ended up on my head. And I felt cursed. It was the 1970’s and everyone wore their hair long and straight parted right down the middle of their head. I was determined to uncoil my hair, so each and every night instead of plaits, I slept on huge, pink rollers the size of tin cans trying to relax my waves. To this day the frizz remains and torments me. How funny that we each wished for what the other had, so throughout our lives she paid for perms and I hid my locks under a hat on rainy days.
Genetically, I probably received half of her genes, but have often wondered how we could have been so opposite.
My mom was afraid of moths. Deathly afraid. Just holding a door open at night for ONE split second longer than needed would send her into a frenzied lunacy as she imagined moths flying into the house. Stephen King could write an entire novel based on those crazy scenes. And second only to her fear of moths was the dentist. I vividly remember how she would grip the arms of the dental chair and he had only just turned on that bright and glaring dental light. I wished I could have been brave for her as oddly, I fear nothing. And as weird as it seems, getting my teeth cleaned is one of my favorite things in the whole wide world.
Now other than those rare moments of apocalyptic fear of moths and dentists, Patsy Ruth was a very serene and reticent soul. Her four highly energetic offspring could be bouncing off the walls around her, yet she remained unflappable and rarely raised her voice. She loved to read books, drink coffee and smoke and somehow had the ability to just drift away from it all in a chair in the corner of our family room. This was her euphoria.
Mine was the beach!
Everything about the beach makes me jubilant. The sun, sand and sound of the ocean brings a peaceful calm to my spirit that can’t be found anywhere else in my life. The keow of the seagulls and breaking of waves at the shoreline has the ability to slow my hyper pace to normalcy. But it had the opposite effect on my mom and for this reason I rarely saw her on the beach during our vacations. She claimed she detested the feeling of sand on her feet and wanted to avoid the scorching sun. But, perhaps it was just a ploy so she could obtain some peace and quiet away from her hectic life. Regardless, she seemed tickled pink being alone in the beach house with her books, coffee and smokes.
I try hard to find the similarities between us.
My mother had large feet and bosoms while everything about me is small. She was proper and I was wild. A staunch Democrat, my mom cheered when my favorite Republican president, Reagan, died. I never saw her throw a ball, run, or do anything remotely athletic and yet, I was a tomboy. She had beautiful long, thin legs and I acquired my grandmother’s thick cankles. I was a modern, hip gal and she was square. But as time went on, something I thought impossible began to happen. I’d heard of it but never ever, not for one polar opposite, split second believed could happen. I was beginning to sound like her, and say things she would say, and do things she would do. And there it was. I was becoming my mother! One day her words just stumbled out of my mouth and I suddenly realized that she was no longer just the voice in my head. As we both grew older, our differences dwindled and my love for her overshadowed the last remnants of conflict.
She was artistic and creative and once daringly covered her kitchen cabinets with contact paper printed in cherries. And when the (expensive) Danish modern sofa lost the war to my brothers and me, she simply painted over the stain left from the can of Hershey syrup we spilled with blue wall paint. S & H green stamps were licked, coupons were snipped and water was added to the shampoo bottles. She was of the depression era and frugal. A stylish fashionista, she taught herself to sew and created many beautiful outfits for me and my children. On Sunday afternoons, her kitchen was filled with the smell of luscious bread baking aromas… Italian, French, Sour Dough, round, long… she could make them all. This is what I loved about her.
And she loved us.
She wasn’t demonstrative with her affection, but we knew how she felt about us. She and my dad were married 51 years-- together through thick and thin, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse-- until death they did part. They gave my brothers and me the gift of a great life and a happy home. In return, we gave them the loves of their life and pride and joys-- their 9 grandchildren. Sweet Pea, Scooter Dooter, Tank, Bubba, Princess, Darling, Fred, aka Shine, Oy and Mary Sunshine.
I think of my mom often and miss her so much. I believe she would smile seeing how I’ve evolved and grown as person while tackling many of the things she loved. I’m no longer a tomboy and really don’t enjoy the beach and scorching sun as I did long ago. Occasionally I’ll throw rollers in my hair for a little curl, and I even attempted several decorating challenges way beyond my means and ability that turned out quite well. Mental notes were taken over the years on how to spoil grandchildren and one day I might attempt to bake some bread. But I will never, EVER vote Democrat! Sorry mom.
~ Happy Birthday, Mom… I miss you so much and hope you are well. And can you do me a solid? Please tell The Gipper I said hello and send me an Iris soon! Love you so much ~ Your Chrissie
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