The Lessons From My Mother

mother-lessons

My mother just turned 80. She doesn’t look 80, or whatever I thought 80 looked like. She doesn’t act 80, or whatever I thought 80 acted like. Florence Henderson is 80. Cicely Tyson is 80. Willie Nelson, Barbara Feldon, Joan Rivers — all 80. It doesn’t seem possible to me that they are that old. But what do I know? What do any of us under 80 know about being 80, other than it’s the new 70?

Roger Angell recently wrote a beautiful story for The New Yorker about being in his 90s. It was a window into his heart and mind — his voice was timeless and moving. He said we’re never too old to benefit from deep attachments and intimate love. And that having a faithful dog doesn’t hurt either.

My mother doesn’t have a dog. When my siblings and I were little we had a Golden Retriever named Ginger. Mom swore the only reason we had her was on account of us, because Mom was absolutely NOT a dog person. Yet, when Ginger had seizures — and she had them often, especially towards the end of her life — it was my mother who held her and comforted her until the seizure had passed.

As for love, my father was her one true love. He’s gone now, but never far from her thoughts. I’ve often wondered how different her life would be had she let someone else into her world since his passing, but for reasons that are her own, she decided not to go down that road again.

For the last few years she’s kept herself busy and from becoming invisible (the way many seniors tell me they begin to feel), by putting her considerable energy into developing continuing education courses for her peers.

Though many of the clichés about aging don’t apply to her, she has slowed down a tad, and yes, with the wave of a hand she will dismiss offers of help (unless it has to do with electronics). But that’s nothing new — she was stubborn long before her time.

At my mother’s birthday party, we watched old home movies and looked at photographs. Some of them were from her own childhood — evocative images of a lost time. Each Sunday in summer, my grandparents’ backyard served as the gathering place for family and neighbors. Men in ties, pressed shirts, and suspenders played cards at a folding table beneath the trees; women in their best dresses, stockings, and heels played ping-pong; and children danced in circles and sang to Ring Around the Rosie. For the first time I saw her life in a new light: the richness and beauty of a poor family of immigrants, all of whom were happy just to be in America together. She was a dimpled, curly-headed girl, who would transform into a beautiful, sometimes self-conscious, woman — one with big dreams, who married a man with bigger dreams, and had a family of her own.

My mother managed an impromptu narration for the crowd, telling them who was who, and adding story highlights. Growing up, she was always doing that with me — narrating. She would whisper lessons in my ear about the artwork and museums we frequented, the actors and directors of the movies we watched, the fashions in store windows, the objects she collected.

Back at her house a few nights later, we all said goodbye — our flights were leaving the next day. One of my sons, her youngest grandson and an art student in NY, admired a print with a giant eyeball hanging on her wall. He had asked her about it more than once over the years, and once again, she told him the story — the name of the artist, where he was from, what he was known for. While she did, I scanned the room and saw glimpses of my childhood, the objects that have come to define various stages of our family’s life. And for each, I could hear her whispering in my ear — telling me the stories that have always brought them to life, imparting wisdom that I sometimes heeded, sometimes didn’t.

“It’s yours,” she told my son about the print. “I’ll write your name on the back.”

She looked over at me and our eyes met. I put my arm around her and tried not to cry. But I did. We both did. I knew why she said that to him — she’s 80, after all — and it was as if she had just whispered another lesson in my ear.

About the writer

@MelissaTShultz

Melissa is a writer, and an editor with Jim Donovan Literary. Her essays and articles have run in publications such as The Washington Post, The Dallas Morning News, Reader’s Digest, The New York Times, Ladies’ Home Journal, Babble.com, Newsweek, Huffington Post, Scarymommy.com, Club Mid, BetterAfter50.com, and The Los Angeles Times, as well as CNN Radio. She was previously Director of Creative Services for Food Marketing Institute in Washington, D.C. Her first book will be published by Sourcebooks in 2016. Follow her on Twitter @MelissaTShultz and her blog: Sisterhood of Mothers.com.

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Melissa T. Shultz 1 year ago

You have a VERY important job. Never, never forget it. Your children will not tell you this because they don’t understand it yet, but it’s true. You are shaping lives. Very special lives.

Erica 1 year ago

Thank you so much for sharing. After a day spent with toddlers, it was nice to think that someday, they will see how much I do for them just like you see with your mother and I see with my own. On a day when I couldn’t have felt more down, you have helped me see that even though they don’t show their appreciation now, they will someday.

Melissa T. Shultz 1 year ago

You too, Sammie!

sammie 1 year ago

What a beautiful post! This piece really moved me. That was such a thoughtful, beautiful gesture–reserving that piece of art that spoke to your son.

Just yesterday, I woke up with my paternal grandpa on my heart. He lives in another state, and doesn’t travel much these days, so I miss him dearly…and I don’t call him nearly enough. I couldn’t ignore that nagging feeling, so I just picked up the phone and called. Had a great conversation, and he is doing great, but this post is just another reminder that we HAVE to seize the day. We have to tell the people we love how we feel while they are here. And cherish these moments.

Thanks for sharing your heart!

Joy Burke 1 year ago

My grandma just did the same thing with a silver tea service set. She’s 85

Melissa T. Shultz 1 year ago

Thank you, Candy!

Melissa T. Shultz 1 year ago

I bet you are the perfect person to bring her stories to life…

Melissa T. Shultz 1 year ago

Thank you, Mary…

Melissa T. Shultz 1 year ago

I am sure you will, bet you have some good stories already!

Melissa T. Shultz 1 year ago

I so appreciate your reading them and writing to me…

Melissa T. Shultz 1 year ago

Thank you!

Melissa T. Shultz 1 year ago

Lovely note, I appreciate your sentiments…

Melissa T. Shultz 1 year ago

Thank you, Jennifer…

Candy Ennis 1 year ago

Beautiful <3

Jessie Johnson 1 year ago

Absolutely beautiful. I alwasy enjoy reading you guess posts and blog

Meredith 1 year ago

My great grandmother passed away this past fall. She was the matriarch of our family. The eldest of our five living generations. When we cleaned out get apartment it was exactly as you described, I could hear her voice telling the stories, the meanings being everything. Somethings were given away. Others doled out per her request. I was very close to her and I miss her every day. She was always there at every holiday, get together, and school function, even for my kids. This post Christmas was so odd. She wasn’t there. We have a new normal. And it sucks.

Dawn 1 year ago

Write about her. Write everything you can remember in as much detail as you can. Then she won’t die with you. There are people remembered today by people who never met them, all due to the written word.

Chrissie Quez 1 year ago

Made me teary, i always thought my parents would go on forever, the reality of all of us getting older n them at some point not being here is a thought i always avoided even though its reality.

Mary E. Williams 1 year ago

Beautiful.

Amy Ramey 1 year ago

Love this!

Laura Goldman 1 year ago

This brought tears to my eyes. My mother, my favorite person in the world, died when I was 22 and I have spent all of the more than 40 years since missing her presence daily and painfully. My son never met her, and although I tell him stories, or show him pictures, he will never know her and will not have memories to carry forward after I die. When I die, she will die with me, again. But despite the pain, I still love to think of her and what an extraordinary woman she was.

Ashley Briggs 1 year ago

This made me think of my own grandmother and mother. I know they will leave one day but I pray I’ll be able to tell such a wonderful story about them.

Emily Martin 1 year ago

I LOVE this. Life is about living, but it’s also about what we leave behind. Thanks for challenging me to live a little more and to make sure I’m leaving enough behind.

Jennifer Lowther-Abramo 1 year ago

This is heartbreaking and beautiful.