I was walking in my neighborhood the other morning and out of nowhere thought, I miss the way my mom tells stories. Maybe it's her inflection or the way she narrows her eyes at you when she's about to tell the best part. It may be the way she can tell a story better than anyone, even the librarian I adored in second grade who licked her thumb lightly before turning the page. (At a later date we can go into my young wish to become a librarian when my friends wanted to become ballerina-astronauts or marine biologists after Free Willy came out on VHS).
I've been living in San Francisco for the past seven months after finishing college, so my mom and I haven't lived under the same roof for a while. There are little things that I miss about being together: the way she runs around looking for her keys for five minutes before leaving the house only to find them in the pocket of the purse that's on her shoulder; how every third person at the local grocery store knows and adores her; or how she manages to dye every white item in the house an odd piglet-pink color in the wash (a unique of teaching my sister and I to rely on ourselves and do our own laundry at an early age).
She called recently to recall how a battered women's shelter that she works with named her volunteer of the year unexpectedly. “I was running late because I was talking to Sara [a high school friend she reconnected with and has helped through a not so pleasant divorce} and my hair looked like a disaster. It was everywhere and I couldn't believe they wanted to give me an award when it looked like that. It was hilarious!" Her faux vanity was actually a way to keep from talking about all she'd given to the program, from free public relations help to furniture she gathered to create a warm atmosphere for women and children moving into the center's new housing.
If my mom's name were in the dictionary (she would be groaning at the cheese factor of this if she were reading along), it would read: Woman, wife, mother, writer, person from whom good things come. Lessons instilled: Be passionate about the things and people you care about. Be able to laugh at yourself (see “Thanksgiving stories by;" particularly incidents in which she placed the leftover turkey on the back porch only to have the dogs discover it the next spring; the time the blender met the mashed potatoes and didn't get along; and slipping and spilling cranberry sauce on sister-in-law's ceiling, requiring repainting). Descendant of the only person on the Mayflower to fall off and be rescued after heavy intoxication.
Now there's a story she loves to tell.
