Thinking about my mom today, her birthday.

Today is my mother's birthday. If she were alive, she'd be 66 years old. And she'd hate every minute of it. I've been thinking of  my mother often over the last few months. Missing her lately, more than I have in the entire almost 8 years she's been gone. I don't know why now. It doesn't even matter. I just miss her and I feel like a part of me is hollow.

My mother... growing up she always fixed a meal and we gathered around the dining room table to eat. Looking back now I always wondered when she found time to eat herself, making sure we kids ate, used table manners, asking us questions about our child lives- school, friends, the neighborhood gossip, about our chore lists she left us, our lessons... and later about school, our friends, our jobs... She always seemed interested in what we had to say. Maybe she worked that day. Maybe it was her day off-- which, of course, involved staying home and cleaning, cooking or doing laundry.

Chore lists. I swear to this day the reason I'm the list maker I am is because she was a list maker- lists of things to do when we got home from school, list of emergency phone numbers, grocery lists, chore lists... the woman was a list maker for us all, dad included. I can picture her perfect cursive on the page, some cutesy note paper, numbered items down the page. Oh, nothing extravagant or hard. We were hardly house servants but as children that list felt so long. But usually it was things like "set table", "empty dishwasher", pick up all of your personal belongings downstairs and put them away in your room". Those lists kept us kids out of trouble in the 45 minutes we spend alone after school. It taught us organization. It gave us direction. All skills that I carried with me into adulthood, which is mostly certainly a gift from my mother.

Mom wasn't necessarily what one might called an educated woman, an intellectual but she was so smart. She read everything, it seemed. I can't remember a time when she wasn't in the middle of reading a book and there was always a collection of magazines arriving at our house that she read. My earliest childhood memory is of her taking me to the library and indulging my need to get piles of books, until I was old enough to go myself. And my mom had the talent of making her children, me, feel special. And that is better than any secondary education one could ever have.

Growing up in the 1970s and 1980s, while isn't that long ago, was still my childhood. We lived in a big, old, drafty house, during the Carter administration, with high inflation. You know, we were probably poor but we kids never wanted for anything. We had new school clothes and shoes each fall. We had presents for our birthdays and Christmases. We had well rounded meals. I had a new Easter dress each year. We always went on field trips for school. Now I know how much both of my parents sacrificed during those years so my brother and I didn't have to. My parents never had a new car, mom didn't have a new Easter dress or take a vacation. Kids growing up never see what their parents didn't have so they could have- and that was my mother.

For a long time I was mad at her for dying. Who was going to be my mom? How was I going to be a good mom without her to be my role model? Who would fix potato soup with the special dumplings? Who would tell me everything was going to be okay when I couldn't sleep in the middle of the night and I thought the world was ending? How dare she leave me alone? And you know what-- she would be okay with the fact that I was mad at her. Because she would understand it. Because she was my mom.

My mother and I are exceedingly different. I struggle with that because I want to be like her. I want to carry her forward but, alas, I am not her. I love her so much that I want to honor her by being more like her. But what would truly honor my mother is for me to be myself. She never asked me to be anything but myself.

I miss mom's laugh. She was always one to smile or chuckle but to make my mother laugh, a deep belly laugh full of mirth that caused tears to roll down her cheeks- to hear my mom laugh was an amazing feeling. It was good to make her so happy.

She was the keeper of the traditions and the keeper of secrets. She knew all the stories and had the mom magic. She cooked meals for big family gatherings and was usually to tired to eat it. She loved Kenny Rogers. She imparted the importance of writing thank you notes. She liked pretty things. She liked to wear hats. She went to church on Sundays.  Her favorite color was red. She smelled like Wind Song perfume. She liked ice cream. She hated to do laundry. She always planted flowers in the yard in the summer. She never missed a school play or choir concert or awards program.

I don't have her patience or her cooking skills. I don't listen like she did. I don't have her artistic ability or her beautiful voice. I don't have the ability to soothe or comfort those in need. That was my mother.

I wonder about the memories my son has of her. And her 3 youngest grand-kids were never lucky enough to meet their grandmother, my mom. I wonder who will keep her memory alive when I'm gone. You know the day she died was a beautiful day, sunny and oddly warm for September. She died and the world didn't stop turning. People didn't cry in the streets and traffic kept going. No choir of angels sang, the heavens didn't part, God didn't tell me he was sorry for taking my mom. Death is part of life and while me, my family, we were shaken, hurt, devastated... well, life went on. And for now, I'm one who is a keeper of the memories of my mother as life goes on.

Happy Birthday, mom. I love you.

xo,
your daughter

Today would be her birthday

Today would be my mom's birthday if she were still alive. She'd be 64.

My mom was a wonderful lady, and a good mom. She had a rough last few years before she died, but until that point, she lived a cheerful and fun life.

She loved to read and do needlepoint. She was a social worker and was so good at that- a great blend of empathy, reality and sympathy. She loved her family. She was an amazing cook. She always wore bright colors. She loved her convertible and dogs. She had a wonderful voice and could sing beautifully, even thought she didn't like to sing in public. She could play the piano. She was artistic and could paint, draw, sketch. She did all my weekly assignments in 7th grade art class (except for 1 that my dad did) and I wouldn't have passed without her.

I love my mom. I miss her.

happy birthday mom!

Your daughter Maggie

What the dead know

I have a great recipe of my late mother's for a sour cream coffee cake. I've waxed poetic about this coffee cake on multiple occasions over the last 5+years I've been blogging. This is some seriously good food.

I've made this cake several times over the years. I don't usually make it on just Christmas like my mother always did; I make just about any time I get a craving for it. It's an easy recipe to make and not super time consuming either so I don't struggle too much.

The worst part of making this is taking it out of the pan. I make it in an angel food cake pan. My mother's recipe suggests this pan or a Bundt. It also says that after about 15 minutes to slide a butter knife around the edge, and I do. And around the thingy in the center and I do that, too. And it says to flip it on a small drinking glass... I do not do that. I usually just flip it on a cooling rack and then turn it onto a fancy cake plate. I want it to drop perfectly onto the rack. I don't want it to break, crumble or crack. In all the times I've made this cake the last several years, it's come out PERFECTLY. Never have I messed it up. Ever. It's been picture perfect every time- like photograph it for a magazine perfect.

The last time I made it, I even commented to Daddy-O that I couldn't understand why my late mother always complained about hard it was to make. It's easy, I thought. I also said I couldn't understand why she always had it fall apart, more times than not, when mine always came out perfectly. He and I snickered about it, not in a mean way, and ate the picture looking cake I managed to always bake.

Until yesterday... damn it!

I made it for breakfast yesterday morning. I used the same ingredients that I always use. I'm not kidding on the 'same ingredients' thing either. I buy the same name brands all the time. I use the same bowls and measuring utensils. I measure every single item, every single time. I use the same mixer. I do the recipe steps in the same order. I use the same oven. I even use the same CAKE PLATE! I never deviate. I even have a special weird way of greasing the pan and I do it the same way. This is almost OCD/ ritualistic in the making of the sour cream coffee cake. I want to make it clear that I didn't buy different sour cream, or use old flour or eyeball an amount rather than measure or mix longer or shorter. I did it all the same as I always do.

Because I live in the Midwest, weather/ climate/ altitude doesn't really matter. And, to error on the side of over-explanation, I've made this all times of the day- morning, afternoon and evening. I've made it in all seasons: winter, summer, spring, fall. I've made it when it's been raining or snowing or hot or cold or humid. I've run the gambit and it's never, EVER been an issue.

So WTF happened today?

If I did it all the same way, with nothing amiss, then why did it crumble, split, crack and fall out in chunks? I'll tell you why:

My other!

She heard me brag on myself, and gently razz her memory about it, and then she sabotaged it.

Stop laughing! I'm serious! I didn't see a ghost or apparition or anything of the supernatural sort, but I think she 'heard' me say what I said about it being perfect and then decided to wreck it the next time I made it. Which she did. She never did like to be teased about her cooking...

Teach me to be all full of myself!!!

Hey, it's the only logical and plausible explanation of the wrecked sour cream coffee cake because until yesterday, I always made it perfectly. Every good streak comes to an end... but not usually by virtue of my dead mother!

Seriously!
Maggie

Three cheers to great women

There are many women who have had a great influence in my life, all for different reasons. And as I was thinking of them, I realized that 4 of these women are all April birthdays! I have other female (and male for that matter) influences but it's April so it seems apropos.

My bestie Curley is one such women. She is so positive about everything. She has a great outlook and when I can't find my "silver lining" attitude, I know she will do that for me. She's also realistic, which I appreciate. She knows when I need to whine and cry and be pathetic, and she knows when I need a kick in the seat of my pants. Not to mention the fact that she's hilariously funny. And kind. And sweet. And giving. And talented! She makes me want to be a better person.

There's my blogger buddy Bragger. She makes the list because though I haven't met her in person YET she is still an influence and a person I consider a friend. Her writing is creative and funny and typo free (unlike mine!). I love her outlook on life. I appreciate her no nonsense attitude. I admire her accomplishments in life because the path she's traveled hasn't always been an easy one. I find a kinship with her through our career paths in education and our love of writing. I admire and respect her dedication to exercise. In short, I would love to be her when I grow up.

My Aunt P is also an amazing women. She's brilliant. She is so smart. I admire that she continues to challenge herself- she's learning Spanish and she's in her 60's. While most high school students I know can't master basic words and she can just chat away! She's a fabulous cook. I consider her to be brave. She takes care of others and has a great capacity for understanding and empathy. Every time I see her, I can talk with her and she's not judgmental. She skis and stays fit and trim. She's a wonderful role model. Though I don't see her often (enough!), I know she's there when I need her. She takes good care of my dad (and my uncle, too!).

Finally, is my mom. My mom died several years ago but she's still here. I miss her but I know she's made her mark on me with words and phrases I use. Or the way I cook (green beans, sour cream coffee cake, or breakfast casserole anyone?). Or with something I've taught Mac. I became closer to my mother when I was adult, and we became friends. My mom was patient; I hope this trait will rub off on me at some point. She loved to read; thank you for the love of books! It's the silly stuff that I remember. Though she would threaten to "beats knots" on our heads because of a messy room or leaving too much clutter, she never did, and it just became funny. She loved fireworks and I still think of her each time I see one. I think I get my ability to be "tickled" over small things from her. The things about my mom could go on and on so I'm going to just say my mom was a great lady.

So, kudos to ALL the wonderful people in my life, but especially to these admirable April ladies! Thank you for the influence you've had on my life!

Mags

Like white on rice

For years Daddy-O ate food that my mom (God or whomever, rest her soul) cooked for about 40 years even if he didn't like it. How about that? I didn't really know this until one day I was gonna fix and chicken and rice casserole and he said he didn't like rice.

I was drawn up short and started in with the Chinese rice torture: do you like white rice? No Did he like brown rice? Yes. Did he like fried rice? Not particularly. Does he like white rice at the Chinese restaurant? No, because it's sticky. But, I told him, it's supposed to be sticky! But nope, he still said he didn't like rice, but the man ate white rice for 40 years cause my mom fixed it. Sometimes, it was easier to just eat what mom fixed rather than argue with her. Hmmm.

By the way, I like white rice, fried rice, and sticky white Chinese rice. Brown rice, to me, is super icky.

So, I didn't make chicken and rice but I tried to convince him he would like it since it had mushrooms, cream of chicken soup, and cheese in it. No dice; he wasn't gonna eat it.

When I was a kid we had rice as a side dish. Just plain old white rice. Sometimes mom would make something she called 'Spanish Rice.' Since she's dead, I can't really ask her what it was, so to the best of my recollection it was like Manwich Hamburger sloppy joe meat sauce dumped on top of rice. I remember I at it but it wasn't my favorite thing.

Mom also made white rice with 'sweet and sour chicken' poured on top of it. She browned chicken and used green peppers, pineapple, pineapple juice, and corn starch as the 'sweet and sour' part. Then the whole thing got poured over it and that wasn't too bad; I liked it. She also made "Hawaiian meatballs" with the same sauce but with meatballs poured over rice. You see a trend here? Oh, and I liked it, too.

I also remember that she made white rice, put it in individual bowls, and covered it with milk and sugar. Ok. I have no idea where that came from. Or what in the world we had with it. Then if there was left over rice int he morning, I did the same thing for breakfast but let the rice just stay cold. But I do like that and still to this day, I'll make a pot of rice, let it get sticky, and cover it with sugar and milk and call it dinner.

It's hard to believe that I would eat rice as a kid since so many don't like it and make maggot comparisons, but I would just chow down. My mom would try and make potato pancakes with cheese with leftover mashed potatoes and I would gag and make retching sounds and not touch them, but I would eat rice like Confucius.

I don't like brown rice. It's yucky. I guess I could say it tastes "grainy" but... uh... ya know.

I don't like Rice-A-Roni; trust me, that is so not the real San Francisco treat.

Rice pudding is... acceptable, but I prefer tapioca.

I want a rice steamer.

An old Chinese proverb says, "talk doesn't cook rice."

Take a minute for rice,
Maggie-san

Good deeds do not go unpunished

This is a pretty serious post. You have been warned. Who knows? Maybe it's in poor taste to post this but this is my spot to get stuff off my chest so here goes.

Three weeks before my mom died she asked her mom (my Grandma Shrew) for some money to pay a bill and promised to pay it back. It was a long story as to why but that doesn't matter anymore. I want to point out that my mom told Grandmother Shrew she would pay it back. I also want to say Grandmother and Grandfather Shrew (here on out, they're the Shrews) have MONEY. Big MONEY. Money out the ass. Money enough to loan $300 without feeling a pinch. Money enough to give that away to anyone monthly and never feel the pinch. Money enough that they bought a brand new Cadillac and paid in cash- C*A*S*H!! With the Shrews everything ALWAYS came with a price, and when I hit my teen years I figured that out. This is just another example that proves this.

The Shrews said no. And they said the consequences that came with not being able to pay the bill were her lesson to be learned.

Three weeks later my mom died.

We could say I've been pissed at the Shrews since then- and pissed would be putting it mildly. We then had a knock-down/ drag out fight on Christmas Eve the first holiday after mom died- just 3 months later. I stood up for myself as did Daddy-O. You gotta take a stand sometimes, right or wrong. Since then, I think I've talk to the Shrews a total of 5 times. At most. That fight was December 2006

Now let's fast forward to April 2009. Grandmother Shrew called me. She was crying and wanted to know why all this time I wouldn't talk to her. I didn't want to tell her about the mom/ money thing so I was vague. I don't know why. I was afraid she might lie and then it's her word against a dead woman's and then I would be REALLY pissed at her. So, one thing led to another and she and I were "yelling" at each other.

I'm sure you figured out there are other things Grandmother Shrew said and did to me and to my mother (and father) over the years that I'm not writing about here. There are and she did, but I just can't seem to write them here in black and white. This is personal enough. Assume the Shrews were not the best parents and grandparents in the world, and while that wasn't my cross to bear, they hurt my mother more than I can say and I become fiercely protective of those around me. I couldn't protect mom from them while she lived, but I know I can protect mom's memory. I stayed mad at the Shrews; right or wrong, it was my choice.

Now look back at last Monday- just a week ago. My Grandfather Shrew went to the hospital and he's dying. He's 83 and will never leave the hospital. He knows this. The man had 5 open heart surgeries among a whole host of other things; doctors never thought he would live this long.

Lately I've gotten several calls from folks who've encouraged me to be the one to make peace since he's dying- so I won't feel bad or guilt after he's gone. Makes sense, I guess. In ten years if I got over this, I can't make amends with a dead person, now can I? But was I ready to do it now? I swallowed my pride because the guy is dying. Maybe it's not about whether I was ready to make amends but do it because he's dying- and it would make him happy, according to these people who call, if I made up with both Shrews. I called my Grandmother Shrew on Friday night. I went to her house and we talked. I never told her about the being mad over money thing, because she is just a sad, old, sick lady so I kept that one detail to myself. I swallowed my pride and gave in to her, made peace with her. Sucked down my own feelings and did the right thing.

Grandmother Shrew and I made things right. It was the right thing for me to do. I thought. I guess.

Early Saturday morning, she calls and wants me to come to the hospital at 7 a.m. because Grandfather Shrew had a very bad night; he wanted to talk to me before "the end". So I went.

The long and the short of it is that he wanted to tell me he was very disappointed in how I lived my life, never settling down, not living like a good Christian. He said he was really disappointed that I never got my Masters degree and that I move around. He also said he was very hurt and upset over how I talked to my Grandmother Shrew in April so I was out of the will. Oh yeah, he said he still loved me but this was a way to teach me a lesson.

Wow. Dang.

I said okay. What what I supposed to say?

I stood up for myself but I swallowed my pride and tried to make it right. And I get disinherited.

And other than being hurt and stunned momentarily, I'm alright with it. I stood up for myself and am out. Everything will go to my brother, a few cousins, and their church, maybe their dog- who knows? Who cares? I can't be bought which makes me feel good. I said to Daddy-O months and months and months ago that my silence would probably get me disinherited and I was right. And I can live with it. Not that I have a choice, but rather than feeling bitter and angry, I'm good with the choices I made and the ending result if, I guess, no fault of my own, and I'm okay with it. I'd rather be poor and have my head up than have sucked up to them for money.

I will continue to try and keep lines of communication open with Grandmother Shrew after he's gone, but I'll be damned if I try and back pedal; after she and I talked on Friday I made a promise to her to stay in touch and I won't renege on that promise. I'll keep the story of the money to myself- being disinherited doesn't change the fact that she's just a sick, sad, old, mean lady. I won't suck up for money- I don't want it if it means I have to be a hypocrite. I won't be "bought" or controlled by money- what sad people they are to buy love, but then again, they've always done that. I think it's sad that on his death bed, that's the memory he wants to leave me with: that he thinks I'm a big, mean disappointment. Okay.

Weird the way things work, right?

I'm not trying to say I'm a great person. I'm not trying to say I deserve anything. I'm not saying I handled this entire thing the right way. But I did stand up what I believed in, and I tried to do the right thing, in my own way. I'm not any more rich nor poor than I was yesterday or last week or tomorrow. That's it.

Maggie

Mother's Day- a tribute

I was thinking about my mom recently and since it's Mother's Day I thought I would share my current remembrance.

My mom was pretty much "mom" like when I was growing up. She wasn't what you would call cool and she wasn't June Clever, but she was a good mom. All the kids in the neighborhood liked my mom. She let all us kids just be kids. She listened to us, she never batted an eye if my brother and I wanted to bring friends home for dinner or to spend the night. One day she came home from work to find 9 of us watching a movie in the living room and fixed enough spaghetti for dinner to feed all of us.

Mom baked cookies and made sure we did our homework. She tolerated our loud music, the front door banging- though in the summer by July she would be known to scream "either go out and stay out or come in and stay in but STOP BANGING THAT DAMN DOOR", and our constant barrage of visiting friends. She never stopped the games of tag until it was too dark to see at night. As long as we cleaned up our dress up mess or made sure the sprinkler was turned off, we could make messes and play with the garden hose as much as we wanted.

My mom was our mom and didn't try to be our pal and buddy. And as an adult, looking back, I love that even more about her. We had chores and if they weren't done she yelled. We had rules to follow and if we didn't, we could get a smack with the wooden spoon on the butt. We were expected to be respectful, to not sass, not talk back and if we we jerks, she wasn't afraid to heap on the guilt and ground us. Mom worked outside the home so we all had to do our part. She was also pretty in tune with what was going on at our schools and in the community. Again, it wasn't so she could be "cool" but because it was her job to know as her role as our parent. She didn't try and dress like a teenager either. She always looked nice but she did look like a mom- you know what I mean by this!

Now I want to clarify, my mom wasn't backward but she didn't try to act like a teenager or make fun of our music or clothes or verbiage. She didn't try to act like a teenager but she knew stuff. She was the manager of a retail store while I was in high school and this store had MTV on all the time so she was pretty familiar with music of my generation, which were the big hits of the 1980s, often thought of as an oxymoron in and of itself. Now, again, she knew the music, liked some of it, hated more of it, but tolerated it whether she was at work or whether is was blowing out of speakers at home.

As I'm telling you all this you probably have a pretty good picture of my mom- a nice, understanding, kind woman from small town Midwest. And you're probably wondering why I'm making sure you know that my mom was an excellent mom but very much "mom" like... I have a reason!

So it might come as a surprise that my mother had a favorite song and a favorite video. Well, okay, maybe not that she had a favorite song- lots of moms have a favorite song. But, I'm including the link here of my mom's all time favorite song and video- OF ALL TIME. When this came on the radio or TV, she would run in the room and blare it and dance around. Ummmm, yeah. Seriously. She really did. If it came on the radio when we were in the car, she blasted it. Even when she became unable to walk without her cane, she would still crank it up and "chair dance". I. AM. NOT. KIDDING. Even thinking back on it now, it still cracks me up and leaves me shocked and surprised. Really. I'm not kidding- this was her favorite song and video. Enjoy!

Whitesnake - New Music - More Music Videos

Madder than a wet hen

When I was a teenager I was actually a pretty good kid. There was little 'drama' from me as one might expect from a teenage girl. But I had a healthy respect for my parents and I liked my freedom they gave me. I also liked having a phone in my room and a car to drive back and forth to school and work- they giveth and they taketh away. So I didn't sneak out of my house, didn't drink, didn't lie about where I was going, didn't take drugs... I was a boring and just generally a good kid. I tell you this because what follows is out of the ordinary behavior for me...

I was not a morning person and to be honest, I'm still not. If I can wake up naturally, then I'm fine... but when having to wake up to an alarm clock- well, I have never been one to do so gracefully. My mother figured out that I was not the Princess of Happiness in the morning so she never got out of bed until we were gone. And she didn't have to be at work until 8:30 or 9 am so why should she get up and frolic with the Queen of Darkness at 6:30am if she didn't have to? And she didn't have to because my father, on the other hand, had to be at work around the same time my baby brother and I had to be at school, so dad was sort of our "morning parent" if you will.

One morning when I was in high school, a sophomore or a junior, I was feeling goofy in the morning. Who knows why I was in a good mood? And I was feeling ornery and for some reason decided I was going to play a practical joke on my mother. I have no idea what possessed this behavior in me but I... well, I... I took black electrical tape and taped down the ON handle on the sink sprayer. Ummm, so whomever turned on the water faucet next would get a shower. And my brother and father both saw me do this. And they snickered.

So fast forward the rest of the day... and boy oh boy was I in trouble when I got home.

Apparently, my mother sort of... re-arranged her morning routine and for whatever reason there is, she got fully dressed for work and did her hair and makeup before she ever went to the kitchen. I remember thinking when I did it she would only have a wet robe or wet pajamas so it wouldn't be a big deal. But for some reason that was not the case. And she was ready to walk out the door to go to the office, all dressed up, when she turned on the spigot. And got soaked. And not just her clothes, but her hair and her face. to the point where she was late to work because she had to re-do her hair and make up AND change clothes. And was she ever PISSED.

She called my father at work and sputtered and swore and yelled about what her son had done. Dad, I find out later of course, was trying to keep from laughing and told her it wasn't her son, who was the typical jester of the house, who did it. I guess, according to what I learned later, is that mom was about twice as furious as she laid into dad, blaming him. When he finally got a word in edgewise and told her it wasn't him.... there was silent fuming on the other end of the phone. Mom hung up. Dad thought he was going to be short one child.

I have to admit now that I don't remember what punishment I got, if any- probably just yelled at or grounded, but to this day I remember how mom couldn't believe that I was the one who would do such a thing. Everyone else hears this story and howls with laughter- I still do giggle at it. And until her dying day my mother never found "the funny" in this situation.

My dad and brother were always pissed that they didn't think of it first.

Best practical joke I ever played,
Maggie