Tuesday, February 26, 2008 at 12:12am
A timely dose of the best medicine
Column: Life at First Sight
This year, my mother gets a "real" birthday. Leap Year baby that she was, she often had to make do with birthday wishes a day early, or a day late.
But this year, she seems to be the one sending out the messages, and with timely style, too.
In my last column, I described finding two dreamy-looking photos of her taken not long before she died, presumably by my always insistently photographing father. I did a double-take on first glance, because in those photos, she really does seem to be peering back at you from the mist of some world beyond this one.
Close by in the box of my parents' belongings where I discovered these photos were four small pages of stationery, which my mother's distinctive handwriting had filled on all eight sides. Just a few lines in, and I knew what this forgotten missive was — a collection of snapshot-style vignettes as she recalled them from the years when my parents and my then pre-schooler sister lived in post-war France and Germany.
"I decided then that you'd probably grow up to be a tactful, diplomatic person," she describes of the time when, on her very first airplane flight (from London to Bordeaux, France), my sister, then 4, made polite conversation with the two travelers seated face-to-face across from her and my mother. My mother describes them as "dressed in the full regalia of those who live in Arab countries."
If my mother only knew just how prophetic this would turn out to be. My sister grew up to work in Washington for three congressmen and a U.S. senator, and had many, many opportunities to practice both tact and diplomacy.
Next in her recollections comes a series of events from "Tu et You," my parents' nickname for the exceptionally rustic farmhouse where they were billeted when my father was first serving in France. "The toilet was directly off - almost still within - the kitchen," my mother writes. "The septic tank, it turns out, was directly under the toilet," as she had occasion to discover when said toilet malfunctioned and the horse-drawn "Vidange Rapide" ("quick drain") cart came to the rescue. The operator, she records, consumed a sandwich during the repair, all while periodically jiggling the leaky hose he was wielding. His verdict: "Too much tissue." Apparently none was the preferred quantity.
Each weekday, from the time my sister turned 5, two military police would arrive at the house shortly before dawn to escort her to school via military staff car, a ride of an hour each way. I cannot imagine what this meant for my mother's peace of mind each day, and it explains a lot about why my sister is probably one of the most flexible, unflappable travelers I know.
On some of those schooldays, my mother and a very-pregnant neighbor, also a military spouse, would head off to the nearby market town to do laundry. My mother handled the French-speaking, at which she was quite adept, and the neighbor provided the transportation. My mother was tasked with planning their route, which she did very carefully, as the neighbor's Studebaker had no reverse gear.
On one of those days, Henri the gardener decided to "repair" the coal stove and inadvertently dislodged the stove pipe, which collapsed and blanketed everything in sight, including Henri, in soot. My mother notes that he did not stick around to help clean it up.
On New Year's Eve at the luxurious Grand Hotel in Bordeaux, the elegant doors to the rooms for "hommes" (men) and "femmes" (women) opened into the same restroom. "And the very fancy chicken entrée still had most of its insides," my mother notes. As she did on most occasions, she would come home afterward and sit on my sister's bed and share a host of details about the evening, including descriptions of the most fashionably dressed women.
Then, it was on to Frankfurt for the first of several tours my family would spend in Germany, one of which would eventually include me. Many military families had a maid, in part because so many postwar Germans needed the work. Ria, the first, asserted her influence with furniture: "Every weekend, your father would rearrange the gigantic German furniture, including piano, and every Monday, Ria would put it all back. "Nein, nein - dies ist besser."
Harriette favored "snail and Crisco sandwiches," and Olga, who had been a Russian prisoner of war (and suffered who knows what atrocities) hadn't seen a flush toilet before and thought it a fine device for cleaning vegetables, my mother was horrified to discover one day.
My discovery of this little collection of memories was perfectly timed for sending on to my sister, as she'd just passed triumphantly through cancer-related surgery that had delivered even better news than she'd let herself expect. I knew how very much she misses our mother at times like these — and my mother, true to form, came through.
Who knows where she'd tucked these little pages after she'd written them — probably not long before she died? She knew her days were numbered, and she was very systematic about organizing her things. Yet somehow this letter written specifically with my sister in mind didn't find its way into the mail until a time when it would bring particular comfort.
Now, my father, who tended to be the family storyteller, regaled us with stories like these for years, and no matter how many times we heard them, they would send tears of mirth rolling down our cheeks.
My mother's dry summaries, with their wry British wit, certainly did too. Yet there is something that also speaks volumes between their terse lines. My father, more often than not, came home to hear about these experiences, while my mother, with a battle front whose local dialect kept changing, actually lived them.
Humor was obviously a very big part of how she managed that. And while she may have had to dig deep, some days, to find that humor, the effort itself is still a kind of healing balm, even all these years later.
I was reminded of how Baha'u'llah's son, 'Abdul-Baha, would often gather together those followers who'd been imprisoned with his father because of their belief in the Baha'i Faith and have them recount the most ludicrous events of the day they could think of until everyone had a good laugh. There were undoubtedly days when they, too, had to really search to find some laughable part of the human experience in those grueling days. But because they were willing to try, they always could.
— — —
Phyllis Edgerly Ring, mother of two, is a writer and editor. Her current book project addresses how adults can recognize and nurture children's spiritual nature. She is a former program director at Green Acre Baha'i School in Eliot, Maine, and has been a member of the Baha'i Faith for more than 30 years. Email her at {email columns@bahai.us}columns@bahai.us{/email}. See the website of the Baha'is of the United States for more information. © Copyright 2008 by Phyllis Edgerly Ring.
But this year, she seems to be the one sending out the messages, and with timely style, too.
In my last column, I described finding two dreamy-looking photos of her taken not long before she died, presumably by my always insistently photographing father. I did a double-take on first glance, because in those photos, she really does seem to be peering back at you from the mist of some world beyond this one.
Close by in the box of my parents' belongings where I discovered these photos were four small pages of stationery, which my mother's distinctive handwriting had filled on all eight sides. Just a few lines in, and I knew what this forgotten missive was — a collection of snapshot-style vignettes as she recalled them from the years when my parents and my then pre-schooler sister lived in post-war France and Germany.
"I decided then that you'd probably grow up to be a tactful, diplomatic person," she describes of the time when, on her very first airplane flight (from London to Bordeaux, France), my sister, then 4, made polite conversation with the two travelers seated face-to-face across from her and my mother. My mother describes them as "dressed in the full regalia of those who live in Arab countries."
If my mother only knew just how prophetic this would turn out to be. My sister grew up to work in Washington for three congressmen and a U.S. senator, and had many, many opportunities to practice both tact and diplomacy.
Next in her recollections comes a series of events from "Tu et You," my parents' nickname for the exceptionally rustic farmhouse where they were billeted when my father was first serving in France. "The toilet was directly off - almost still within - the kitchen," my mother writes. "The septic tank, it turns out, was directly under the toilet," as she had occasion to discover when said toilet malfunctioned and the horse-drawn "Vidange Rapide" ("quick drain") cart came to the rescue. The operator, she records, consumed a sandwich during the repair, all while periodically jiggling the leaky hose he was wielding. His verdict: "Too much tissue." Apparently none was the preferred quantity.
Each weekday, from the time my sister turned 5, two military police would arrive at the house shortly before dawn to escort her to school via military staff car, a ride of an hour each way. I cannot imagine what this meant for my mother's peace of mind each day, and it explains a lot about why my sister is probably one of the most flexible, unflappable travelers I know.
On some of those schooldays, my mother and a very-pregnant neighbor, also a military spouse, would head off to the nearby market town to do laundry. My mother handled the French-speaking, at which she was quite adept, and the neighbor provided the transportation. My mother was tasked with planning their route, which she did very carefully, as the neighbor's Studebaker had no reverse gear.
On one of those days, Henri the gardener decided to "repair" the coal stove and inadvertently dislodged the stove pipe, which collapsed and blanketed everything in sight, including Henri, in soot. My mother notes that he did not stick around to help clean it up.
On New Year's Eve at the luxurious Grand Hotel in Bordeaux, the elegant doors to the rooms for "hommes" (men) and "femmes" (women) opened into the same restroom. "And the very fancy chicken entrée still had most of its insides," my mother notes. As she did on most occasions, she would come home afterward and sit on my sister's bed and share a host of details about the evening, including descriptions of the most fashionably dressed women.
Then, it was on to Frankfurt for the first of several tours my family would spend in Germany, one of which would eventually include me. Many military families had a maid, in part because so many postwar Germans needed the work. Ria, the first, asserted her influence with furniture: "Every weekend, your father would rearrange the gigantic German furniture, including piano, and every Monday, Ria would put it all back. "Nein, nein - dies ist besser."
Harriette favored "snail and Crisco sandwiches," and Olga, who had been a Russian prisoner of war (and suffered who knows what atrocities) hadn't seen a flush toilet before and thought it a fine device for cleaning vegetables, my mother was horrified to discover one day.
My discovery of this little collection of memories was perfectly timed for sending on to my sister, as she'd just passed triumphantly through cancer-related surgery that had delivered even better news than she'd let herself expect. I knew how very much she misses our mother at times like these — and my mother, true to form, came through.
Who knows where she'd tucked these little pages after she'd written them — probably not long before she died? She knew her days were numbered, and she was very systematic about organizing her things. Yet somehow this letter written specifically with my sister in mind didn't find its way into the mail until a time when it would bring particular comfort.
Now, my father, who tended to be the family storyteller, regaled us with stories like these for years, and no matter how many times we heard them, they would send tears of mirth rolling down our cheeks.
My mother's dry summaries, with their wry British wit, certainly did too. Yet there is something that also speaks volumes between their terse lines. My father, more often than not, came home to hear about these experiences, while my mother, with a battle front whose local dialect kept changing, actually lived them.
Humor was obviously a very big part of how she managed that. And while she may have had to dig deep, some days, to find that humor, the effort itself is still a kind of healing balm, even all these years later.
I was reminded of how Baha'u'llah's son, 'Abdul-Baha, would often gather together those followers who'd been imprisoned with his father because of their belief in the Baha'i Faith and have them recount the most ludicrous events of the day they could think of until everyone had a good laugh. There were undoubtedly days when they, too, had to really search to find some laughable part of the human experience in those grueling days. But because they were willing to try, they always could.
— — —
Phyllis Edgerly Ring, mother of two, is a writer and editor. Her current book project addresses how adults can recognize and nurture children's spiritual nature. She is a former program director at Green Acre Baha'i School in Eliot, Maine, and has been a member of the Baha'i Faith for more than 30 years. Email her at {email columns@bahai.us}columns@bahai.us{/email}. See the website of the Baha'is of the United States for more information. © Copyright 2008 by Phyllis Edgerly Ring.