It is a special day for a special woman. It is my beloved mother's 85th birthday!
She came into the world in a bedroom in their rented duplex home in Amagansett. She had two older sisters, one who was old enough to know what was happening, the other younger, and thinking that the baby's early cries were that of a cat wailing.
She tells me a story of being about three years old when the children were playing in the yard. She hopped up on the 'running board' on the passenger side of Mrs. Ryan's car. About that time, Mrs. Ryan started the car and carefully drove it to the post office about a half mile or so down the road, all the while unaware that her tiny neighbor was clinging with her little hands to hinges of the car door! All turned out well, but how grateful I am that it did! Had things gone another way, I might not be here to share this happening.
In 1938, a devastating hurricane hit the community. Mom was then in the seventh grade in the new brick school. She recalls standing in her upstairs classroom and watching out the windows as huge elm trees were toppled and uprooted, leaving gaping holes in the grass and pulling up sidewalks. The storm had caused deaths and destruction all over the coast, wiping out homes, stores and cars.
Mom had an active church life and youth group. She was a member of a group called Christian Endeavor. Her Christian salvation came during her mid teens, and she's lived that humble, quiet life ever after.
The high school years brought World War II. She saw a good many of her male school mates leave school and go into uniform to fight for their country. She was supportive of the war efforts, and became a Red Cross volunteer where she rolled bandages. She knitted sweaters, hats, socks and gloves for the soldiers.
After high school graduation, she worked for a time at Bulova Watch Factory where she got to know my father. She had gone to high school with him, and because the school was so small, she knew who he was, but didn't know him personally. They began to date, and before long, they knew they wanted to be married. Each could not have chosen a better mate for themselves. Though they certainly did not share the same opinion on everything, they were well matched.
They worked side by side for all the years they were given, she, taking care of three children and the home, and he working jobs to support his family.
Mom believed the adage, 'Idle hands are the devil's workshop.' She never had idle hands. During the hours when we were in school, she took care of the household chores, baked tasty cookies for our lunch boxes, she created quilts, sewed clothing for us all, and knitted mittens and sweaters for her family. She volunteered in many ways for many years. Many a child in an Appalachian orphanage wore clothing that she'd made and sent off to them. New babies born to mothers she'd never met were presented with layettes, sweaters and tiny afghans she'd knitted and donated to Birthright, an organization that helps unwed mothers. Somewhere a lonely serviceman in the Viet Nam War was reading her letters. A veteran somewhere sat in a wheelchair with his knees covered by a colorful laprobe created by Mom's hands. Large typed words sprung from a special typewriter while she typed books for the legally blind. Someone was rescued from the evils of alcohol because she made donations to a ministry who helped people with such problems. A child was able to go to church camp because of her help. I could go on, but you get the idea.
When Mom's youngest sister got sick in her early thirties, my mother shared the caring for her with her oldest sister, while still taking care of her own family and finding time to visit my elderly grandmother who was living in a nursing home after breaking her hip. When my youngest Aunt passed away from the cancer that ravaged her body, she left a sixteen year old girl and a twelve year old son. After a year of living with just their father, he chose to remarry and moved to a neighboring community. Because my cousin was in her last year of high school, Mom and Dad took her in to allow her to finish school with her class. Her brother went with their dad. Then, when my cousin was ready to marry, it was my Mom who helped her plan and accomplish her goal.
She saw Dad through two years of his cancer, and was devastated when he died. A few years later, another Aunt got cancer. Again, Mom was there to help her. Then, the oldest of her sisters also was stricken with cancer. Daily Mom was there to help, until my Aunt went to the hospital and slipped into her last sleep.
Today my special, caring, and loving mother lives with the challenges of being legally blind herself. She also suffers from some hearing loss, but still she is able to live independently. Oh, and independent she is! I live across the street from her, and I try to help as much as I can...or should I say 'as much as she will allow.' My brother and I share the transportation to doctor visits and grocery stores and other such trips. My brother mows her grass, my husband takes care of her landscape plants, and we often take her a prepared meal or have her come for dinner. But, for the most part, she takes care of herself.
I would have loved to gift her with something so meaningful, something that she would truly be surprised and pleased to have. But, Mom's needs are simple and her wants are nil. I would have enjoyed throwing a big party for her today, but the family is scattered hither and yon, and life doesn't always fit our plans. I know that the grandchilden and greatgrandchildren will send their greetings, but it would be so nice to have a big gathering in her honor. My brother, my husband and I will take Mom out for dinner to her choice of restaurants tonight, and we will celebrate the life of this woman who I was blessed to have as my mother.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
One Big Family
Mom and her sisters were best friends. They spent their 'social' time mostly with each other. Because of that, the husbands, too, were friends and we were a close family. We 8 cousins were all raised together and spent lots of fun times together.
I've told you of our Sunday nights at one house or another, where we'd all gather to share a meal. The men would grill the meats, the women would prepare and bring potato salad, tossed salad, cole slaw, corn on the cob, baked beans, three bean salad, and desserts. My favorite of the desserts was strawberry shortcake. Usually I would get to slice the berries that had been hand-picked on Saturday by Mom and probably one of her sisters. If I was cutting up the berries, it meant I could 'taste test' them!
We used to meet at the bay beach on the weekends, and we'd spend the afternoon together. The adults would swim, soak up the sun, and talk together while we kids would take splash, swim, try to avoid getting nipped by crabs and play in the sand. The boy cousins, especially Buddy, would torment me by chasing me with sand crabs. Why that bothered me, I don't know, since I would dig and when I found one, I'd pick it up and put it into a paper cup. Sometimes he was friendly enough to share his fishing towel with me, and together we would work to catch minnows. Most of the time, I tried to steer clear of him as he was not usually nice to me.
The other children were my two younger brothers, Bud's two younger brothers, and my youngest boy cousin and his older sister. She was six years younger than I was, but still, my only girl cousin on Mom's side and I were as close as sisters.
Sometimes I long for those days of closeness with all of the relatives on Mom's side. Life has a way of bringing changes, even if you wish you could keep things the same. Mom, who was born third of the four sisters, is the only surviving one. Daddy passed away twenty-five years ago. My oldest brother died in 2006. My uncles, too, are gone now. That leaves the cousins and our spouses and all of our children and grandchildren. Only of them two remain in our old home town, the rest of us have scattered. Our closeness has faded, and that gives me some heartache.
I try to keep in touch, but everyone is not as responsive as I'd wish. Miles and time stands between us, and we know little about one another at this point in our lives.
All we really seem to have now is memories... blood that runs through our veins. That blood means we are still family members, but sadly, not the same type of family as we once were.
I often think that if we hadn't moved away, we'd be better connected, but there are some things that cannot be changed.
I've told you of our Sunday nights at one house or another, where we'd all gather to share a meal. The men would grill the meats, the women would prepare and bring potato salad, tossed salad, cole slaw, corn on the cob, baked beans, three bean salad, and desserts. My favorite of the desserts was strawberry shortcake. Usually I would get to slice the berries that had been hand-picked on Saturday by Mom and probably one of her sisters. If I was cutting up the berries, it meant I could 'taste test' them!
We used to meet at the bay beach on the weekends, and we'd spend the afternoon together. The adults would swim, soak up the sun, and talk together while we kids would take splash, swim, try to avoid getting nipped by crabs and play in the sand. The boy cousins, especially Buddy, would torment me by chasing me with sand crabs. Why that bothered me, I don't know, since I would dig and when I found one, I'd pick it up and put it into a paper cup. Sometimes he was friendly enough to share his fishing towel with me, and together we would work to catch minnows. Most of the time, I tried to steer clear of him as he was not usually nice to me.
The other children were my two younger brothers, Bud's two younger brothers, and my youngest boy cousin and his older sister. She was six years younger than I was, but still, my only girl cousin on Mom's side and I were as close as sisters.
Sometimes I long for those days of closeness with all of the relatives on Mom's side. Life has a way of bringing changes, even if you wish you could keep things the same. Mom, who was born third of the four sisters, is the only surviving one. Daddy passed away twenty-five years ago. My oldest brother died in 2006. My uncles, too, are gone now. That leaves the cousins and our spouses and all of our children and grandchildren. Only of them two remain in our old home town, the rest of us have scattered. Our closeness has faded, and that gives me some heartache.
I try to keep in touch, but everyone is not as responsive as I'd wish. Miles and time stands between us, and we know little about one another at this point in our lives.
All we really seem to have now is memories... blood that runs through our veins. That blood means we are still family members, but sadly, not the same type of family as we once were.
I often think that if we hadn't moved away, we'd be better connected, but there are some things that cannot be changed.
A Hairdresser's Mistake
My dolls had, for many years, endured the many creative hairstyles I'd given them. Now it was on to real people. I was approximately 8 or 9 years old, and Gramma and I were enjoying the day from the front porch of the house where our family lived with my mother's mother . I was issued a verbal invitation to comb Gramma's hair, and I never turned that down. It was my first step toward my chosen future-career.
As Gramma sat with her hands in her lap, I gently removed the large,gray hairpins from her bun, allowing the soft, silky hair she had never cut to fall down her back. First I brushed the hair back, with long, even strokes. After a time of this, she requested that I use the comb and give it some pressure across her scalp. I did as I was asked, and then, after a while, decided that it was time to 'curl' Gramma's hair. It wasn't long before I realized that twisting the comb upward on locks which fell well below her shoulders was not a good idea. She could not tell as she sat what was happening, but I could see that I'd made a bad decision, and I worked to release the tangled comb. No amount of effort on my part was producing good results. Before long, Gramma sensed that something was not quite right. She felt behind her head, and realized that there was an implement wound up in her hair, and it was feeling to her hands like quite a mess.
We called in the aide of my mother and my aunt. Oh dear! I felt as if I was going to hear a good tongue lashing over this one. I don't know if I felt worse by then about what I thought would be my fate or over what I'd caused in the first place. One at a time they tried to remove the comb, and though they had some success in moving the item further from Gramma's scalp, they could not release it fully from the length of hair. Nothing was to be done, but to clip off the strand at the lowest point possible. I knew I was in trouble then! I felt awful as Gramma was close to tears and fretting as I'd never seen her do before.
After the deed was done, Gramma sat with the comb in her hands, pulling the wads of her hair out of it, she gently instructed me to never do that again. My mother gave me a scolding too, letting me know that I was to use the tools to only brush and comb, not to try curling. I thought that I'd never need to worry about it, as I feared I'd never again have the invitation to 'play' with Gramma's long hair.
However, I was wrong. With a soft reminder to not try to curl the hair, I was soon back in business. I learned to make a braid on Gram's head, and often at night I would brush it many times before I braided it for bed. When I was a little bit older, I was asked to wash her hair and put the bluing in it for her, so that the color would be more silvery than the dingy, yellowy-gray that she thought it was. From then on, it was my job to do, and I knew I'd been forgiven for my past mistake.
As Gramma sat with her hands in her lap, I gently removed the large,gray hairpins from her bun, allowing the soft, silky hair she had never cut to fall down her back. First I brushed the hair back, with long, even strokes. After a time of this, she requested that I use the comb and give it some pressure across her scalp. I did as I was asked, and then, after a while, decided that it was time to 'curl' Gramma's hair. It wasn't long before I realized that twisting the comb upward on locks which fell well below her shoulders was not a good idea. She could not tell as she sat what was happening, but I could see that I'd made a bad decision, and I worked to release the tangled comb. No amount of effort on my part was producing good results. Before long, Gramma sensed that something was not quite right. She felt behind her head, and realized that there was an implement wound up in her hair, and it was feeling to her hands like quite a mess.
We called in the aide of my mother and my aunt. Oh dear! I felt as if I was going to hear a good tongue lashing over this one. I don't know if I felt worse by then about what I thought would be my fate or over what I'd caused in the first place. One at a time they tried to remove the comb, and though they had some success in moving the item further from Gramma's scalp, they could not release it fully from the length of hair. Nothing was to be done, but to clip off the strand at the lowest point possible. I knew I was in trouble then! I felt awful as Gramma was close to tears and fretting as I'd never seen her do before.
After the deed was done, Gramma sat with the comb in her hands, pulling the wads of her hair out of it, she gently instructed me to never do that again. My mother gave me a scolding too, letting me know that I was to use the tools to only brush and comb, not to try curling. I thought that I'd never need to worry about it, as I feared I'd never again have the invitation to 'play' with Gramma's long hair.
However, I was wrong. With a soft reminder to not try to curl the hair, I was soon back in business. I learned to make a braid on Gram's head, and often at night I would brush it many times before I braided it for bed. When I was a little bit older, I was asked to wash her hair and put the bluing in it for her, so that the color would be more silvery than the dingy, yellowy-gray that she thought it was. From then on, it was my job to do, and I knew I'd been forgiven for my past mistake.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
More Hairdressing
When I was eleven, we moved from Gramma's house, and into our newly-built one a mile or so away. Our new neighbors took notice of the dolls hairdos when we girls would play together. One mother was quite 'impressed' by my young skillfullness, and asked me if I would set her hair in her rollers.
I had begun using them some on my own hair by that time, and I knew I could do it. At the appointed time, I went to her house and was surprised to see a can of beer on the table. Our family didn't drink any sort of alcoholic beverage, and to me, the smell of that stuff was awful. Another surprise awaited me when she asked me to comb the beer through each strand of hair before it was rolled! I certainly hadn't heard of such a thing before, but she explained that when it dried, it would hold the set longer, and would have no odor at all. Well, I supposed in my young mind that wearing beer on your head would be more healthy than drinking that awful smelling stuff.
Her trick did seem to accomplish the desired result, and she was pleased with my neat rolling of her hair. She asked me many times in the years we lived side by side to set her hair in that way....and to my recollectiion, I never turned her down. It was my first paid hairdressing job. Another neighbor, too, sometimes had me set and style her hair. I was grateful that she, too, didn't use the beer applications.
Thus began my road to becoming a 'real' hairdresser!
I had begun using them some on my own hair by that time, and I knew I could do it. At the appointed time, I went to her house and was surprised to see a can of beer on the table. Our family didn't drink any sort of alcoholic beverage, and to me, the smell of that stuff was awful. Another surprise awaited me when she asked me to comb the beer through each strand of hair before it was rolled! I certainly hadn't heard of such a thing before, but she explained that when it dried, it would hold the set longer, and would have no odor at all. Well, I supposed in my young mind that wearing beer on your head would be more healthy than drinking that awful smelling stuff.
Her trick did seem to accomplish the desired result, and she was pleased with my neat rolling of her hair. She asked me many times in the years we lived side by side to set her hair in that way....and to my recollectiion, I never turned her down. It was my first paid hairdressing job. Another neighbor, too, sometimes had me set and style her hair. I was grateful that she, too, didn't use the beer applications.
Thus began my road to becoming a 'real' hairdresser!
Reconstruction of Mind and Heart
For some reason, I have always been curious and intrigued by the ways of the Amish people. Whenever we would go to Pennsylvania, I would request that we go to Lancaster area for a day or two. Though I did not appreciate the tourist traffic or the over-growth there, I always enjoyed riding the roads through the neat farm lands owned by those who live a simpler life.
Perhaps that is what tugged my heart most...the simpler lifestyle. Their ways appeared to be that of people who lived a hundred years or so before we do. Without electricity, without modern transportation or machines or technology. The clothing worn by the people of the sect appeared to be neat and clean and simple, yet so out of date in today's world. They were a people, at least in my eyes, who kept to themselves, not speaking first, but would answer politely when spoken to. I've always wanted to know more about them.
Recently I discovered a blog, composed by a woman who was born into an Amish family. At this time, I do not know why she and her husband decided to leave the Amish way of life, but as I follow her daily postings, I'm sure I will discover their reasons. She has, thus far, captured my full attention with her honest and humble thoughts, and I'm thoroughly enjoying this peek into a life that is so mysterious to most of us.
I've discovered on nearly every turn that my notions of what the Amish people are like and how they live their lives are nearly all wrong. I suppose much of my thinking has come from articles or books written by outsiders who don't know any better than I do what the truth is about these 'plain people'. Now that I'm getting to know this woman through her words, I must erase much of what I've ever believed about them, other than the thought that they are hardworking religious people. I've always admired them due to what I thought was true. In fact, after exploring several excerps of her writing, I find that I am examining my own life to see how I measure up to the way God would have me to live my own life and beliefs.
It is always a good thing to do a bit of self-examination and perhaps some reconstruction. This new reminder is a blessing, for there are some spots in me, in my attitudes, in my work, that need refining. As this gentle woman continues to share her journey from then 'til each new dawning, I believe I will discover that she and her family,too, have done some true soul searching and have been shown where and how they can make changes to best live as their God wants them to.
It is a joy to follow this blog and to learn from it.
Perhaps that is what tugged my heart most...the simpler lifestyle. Their ways appeared to be that of people who lived a hundred years or so before we do. Without electricity, without modern transportation or machines or technology. The clothing worn by the people of the sect appeared to be neat and clean and simple, yet so out of date in today's world. They were a people, at least in my eyes, who kept to themselves, not speaking first, but would answer politely when spoken to. I've always wanted to know more about them.
Recently I discovered a blog, composed by a woman who was born into an Amish family. At this time, I do not know why she and her husband decided to leave the Amish way of life, but as I follow her daily postings, I'm sure I will discover their reasons. She has, thus far, captured my full attention with her honest and humble thoughts, and I'm thoroughly enjoying this peek into a life that is so mysterious to most of us.
I've discovered on nearly every turn that my notions of what the Amish people are like and how they live their lives are nearly all wrong. I suppose much of my thinking has come from articles or books written by outsiders who don't know any better than I do what the truth is about these 'plain people'. Now that I'm getting to know this woman through her words, I must erase much of what I've ever believed about them, other than the thought that they are hardworking religious people. I've always admired them due to what I thought was true. In fact, after exploring several excerps of her writing, I find that I am examining my own life to see how I measure up to the way God would have me to live my own life and beliefs.
It is always a good thing to do a bit of self-examination and perhaps some reconstruction. This new reminder is a blessing, for there are some spots in me, in my attitudes, in my work, that need refining. As this gentle woman continues to share her journey from then 'til each new dawning, I believe I will discover that she and her family,too, have done some true soul searching and have been shown where and how they can make changes to best live as their God wants them to.
It is a joy to follow this blog and to learn from it.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Hair Care
As a child, Saturday nights always meant hairwashing and setting. After a bath, I would towel dry my hair and sit at Mom's feet, on the floor. There, I would endure the combing out of the snarls, and I remember 'singing' quite loudly at times, when a stubborn knot was being untangled.
Following the detangling, I would sit for a little while longer while strands of hair would be would around Mom's finger, and clipped in place against my head. Row after row of pin curls would be placed from my left temple around to the right side, until at last they were finished at the nape of my neck. Then, off I'd go to spend the night, sleeping on bobby pins or clips. I don't believe I could put up with sleeping on those things today, as I'm a fitful sleeper these days, but somehow, I was fine with it when I was much younger.
In the morning, we'd pull all of the pins out of my wound hair, and brush the dickens out of it. Eventually, we'd get control of those wild curls, and I'd go off to Sunday School with a shiny head of flipped up curls.
A few years later, when I was a teenager, I learned to set my own hair with rollers. They gave my fine hair the fullness I desired, especially when I backcombed it a bit in a method called 'teasing.' 'Tormenting' would have been a more appropriate word for that procedure, as it caused split ends and broken strands, but it was the 'fad' of that time, so I did it too.
Before long, I decided that I'd like to be a hairdresser after high school, and began my practice on other people. I'll share more on that at another time.
Following the detangling, I would sit for a little while longer while strands of hair would be would around Mom's finger, and clipped in place against my head. Row after row of pin curls would be placed from my left temple around to the right side, until at last they were finished at the nape of my neck. Then, off I'd go to spend the night, sleeping on bobby pins or clips. I don't believe I could put up with sleeping on those things today, as I'm a fitful sleeper these days, but somehow, I was fine with it when I was much younger.
In the morning, we'd pull all of the pins out of my wound hair, and brush the dickens out of it. Eventually, we'd get control of those wild curls, and I'd go off to Sunday School with a shiny head of flipped up curls.
A few years later, when I was a teenager, I learned to set my own hair with rollers. They gave my fine hair the fullness I desired, especially when I backcombed it a bit in a method called 'teasing.' 'Tormenting' would have been a more appropriate word for that procedure, as it caused split ends and broken strands, but it was the 'fad' of that time, so I did it too.
Before long, I decided that I'd like to be a hairdresser after high school, and began my practice on other people. I'll share more on that at another time.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Hair Cuts
As I found my barber shears and the comb, and sat my husband in the chair for his monthly haircut, I found myself thinking back on other days of 'shearing'.
When I was small, Mom would get out a set of electric clippers, and I'd watch as the buzzing machine in her hand trimmed away his deep,wavy hair. Dad didn't care much for his hair being long enough to show the waves. It was harder for him to keep that way, so he'd have her cut it close to his head. What a shame! I thought the wavy hair was so handsome on him! His last haircut was done not long before he passed away 25 years ago, the evidence of which still remains in his beat up old felt hat that is in my closet.
My brothers, too, were sometimes the victims of that machine. Every summer they'd get crew cuts at Nat's or Augie's barbershop, but in between times, as their hair grew out, they'd get a scissor trim or a full-on close cut.
I was lucky. I didn't have to endure the sound or the use of that little electric monster. I got my share of 'just straight around' cuts, though, with a pair of none-too-sharp scissors that could pull my hair. But, as bad as those scissors were, I was far more enthusiastic about them then those clippers! I hated haircuts back then. No matter how much towel or sheet was wrapped around me, the clippings always managed to get down inside my clothes. No amount of baby powder applied or brushing off could keep the annoying little hairs from causing my back to itch until I had my bath!
Years later, I became a hairdresser. I was always very careful to wrap the neck as tightly as possible without choking my patron. The cape was always placed over the back of the chair, so that as few clippings as possible would cause my patron discomfort.
After I married and had children, I was the only barber or hairdresser they knew until they left home. My son had never been to a barber until he joined the Air Force. Today my children and grandchildren go to salons for their haircuts. I can't say that I'm unhappy about that. I've still got three patrons, Mom, my husband, and myself... but won't take on any others. Sometimes you grow weary of doing what you once loved, and I'm ready to retire from this occupation.
When I was small, Mom would get out a set of electric clippers, and I'd watch as the buzzing machine in her hand trimmed away his deep,wavy hair. Dad didn't care much for his hair being long enough to show the waves. It was harder for him to keep that way, so he'd have her cut it close to his head. What a shame! I thought the wavy hair was so handsome on him! His last haircut was done not long before he passed away 25 years ago, the evidence of which still remains in his beat up old felt hat that is in my closet.
My brothers, too, were sometimes the victims of that machine. Every summer they'd get crew cuts at Nat's or Augie's barbershop, but in between times, as their hair grew out, they'd get a scissor trim or a full-on close cut.
I was lucky. I didn't have to endure the sound or the use of that little electric monster. I got my share of 'just straight around' cuts, though, with a pair of none-too-sharp scissors that could pull my hair. But, as bad as those scissors were, I was far more enthusiastic about them then those clippers! I hated haircuts back then. No matter how much towel or sheet was wrapped around me, the clippings always managed to get down inside my clothes. No amount of baby powder applied or brushing off could keep the annoying little hairs from causing my back to itch until I had my bath!
Years later, I became a hairdresser. I was always very careful to wrap the neck as tightly as possible without choking my patron. The cape was always placed over the back of the chair, so that as few clippings as possible would cause my patron discomfort.
After I married and had children, I was the only barber or hairdresser they knew until they left home. My son had never been to a barber until he joined the Air Force. Today my children and grandchildren go to salons for their haircuts. I can't say that I'm unhappy about that. I've still got three patrons, Mom, my husband, and myself... but won't take on any others. Sometimes you grow weary of doing what you once loved, and I'm ready to retire from this occupation.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)