Isn't
that the way we see ourselves? Inside we are simply who we are, and I say that
person has no age. Only when we're
forced to examine our lives in some way do we have to acknowledge the reality
of our age. Of our aging.
About
my mother--we all called her Mama, and that is how she signed letters to us. My
dad often called her "My Little Mama" and nobody minded that,
although I have heard people who know a lot say a husband should never call his
wife Mother or Mama or whatever.
Again,
about my mother, I was taller than Mama for a long time, like from age 11 on. We all were.
It wasn't difficult. She was short
and conscious of her height, I know, because she used to say, "Short girls
are never beautiful, Carol. Only tall girls with long necks are
beautiful."
For
a while, I thought she was talking about me, encouraging me to grow tall. I
already had a long neck, but I don't remember seeing it as a mark of beauty.
Now
I think she must have been talking about her own lack of height. Actually, in the grand scheme of things, her
size doesn’t matter, but it’s part of what I remember, a point of pride,
really, because she was so much person in that little bundle.
Maybe
she was trying to make me think she wasn't beautiful, one of those things
mothers say when a glance in the mirror brings them up short. (No pun
intended.) If she was no beauty I never knew it.
My
oldest daughter was born on my mother's birthday, 69 years later. We lived in
Caldwell, Idaho, much to my mother's disapproval. After all, her parents had
moved away from Idaho for her sake, Utah offering education, and music
education in particular, not available to her in rural eastern or rural western Idaho. And my parents had
moved us to California for similar reasons. Wonderful decision, I say.
Well,
Caldwell notwithstanding, my mother was visiting, asking those important
questions I would also hear at other times. "Can't you have this baby,
Carol?" Mama had come early, probably my fault, and needed to go home. I
did what I could. I walked, and at my doctor's appointment I mentioned my mother's
need for an expeditious birth. Was there any way to bring that about? Of
course, I knew there was not. Babies come when they come, or so I thought.
But
he gave me some tiny pills I was to put, one at a time, between cheek and
gum--no not tobacco--buccal pitocin.
As
I recall, he didn't explain much--or anything--to me, and obviously I was too
ignorant and too trusting to ask.
Any
woman who has been induced knows that the labor, or what feels like labor, may
begin, but the contractions are not quite contractions. The pains get you
nowhere or next to nowhere. But finally, two days later, I think, just barely
on my mother's birthday, my first baby girl came to this earth. Of course, I
named her Lola, after my mother.
Like
the original Lola, this Lola plays the piano very well. Very well indeed. And
she is a natural teacher, very bright and capable. Unlike her grandmother, who
was 4'9" and maybe another 3/4 inch, maybe, the Lola I raised is tall. I
am proud of her 5'7" and very happy to say she has a long neck.
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