What I learned from my mother involves whispers, hushed moments, dimly lit spaces, and the occasional grasp of an elbow.
She showed me that gingerbread is at its best when blended with rich blackstrap molasses, especially if you start the mixing the day after Thanksgiving.
Laundry, though it seems like a never-ending task, can be artfully draped on a rope, a tree branch, a hanger, or even the back of an Adirondack chair. It can be wrung out in the sink and then draped over the shower rod or passed through the rollers of a crank machine nestled under birch trees where we freshen our summer clothes in lake water.
You can dry clothes in a shiny new Kenmore dryer that releases a golden scent, filling the air with memories of fragrant t-shirts. I remember my mother, tears threatening to spill as she stood over the washing machine, gripping the cold white edge of the top loader. I later discovered she mourned the loss of her sister’s newborn, a tragedy I had never even known existed.
She taught me that mountains of socks, underwear, and tank tops could transform into impressively neat stacks. There was a certain pride in promptly putting these in drawers before the tower of blue jeans toppled over—a real “just a darn shame,” she would mutter in her soft, exasperated tone.
She imparted wisdom about energy and the value of precious time. As life winds down, daughters often mirror their mothers, laughing the same way, mastering turkey gravy, and setting tables with napkins and candles, just like her. Yet, they remain strangers to the depths of her heart, peering into those dimly lit rooms where unspeakable emotions are tucked away.
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In conclusion, the lessons from my mother are woven into the fabric of my life, reminding me that while we may not always understand each other, the teachings and traditions we carry forward are what truly connect us.