An Ordinary Mother’s Day
Something about a forty eight-year old woman sleeping with a blanket every night doesn't seem right. In fact, a little strange. I too would pass judgement on this ritual. That is of course if it were not me we were discussing. I can’t recall when she knit the blanket, or how long it took her to complete, or if I asked for it, or if it was even intended for me. It doesn’t really matter. There’s no great pattern or design in this typical blanket. No fantastic colors or defining textures. I can visualize the yarn unraveling from the large ball and gently crawling over her crooked middle finger, that all the women in my family have inherited from her.The yarn gains warmth from her hand before it winds around the cold metal needles and the simplicity of her flesh caresing every inch of this blanket brings me comfort.
I can remember the last time I saw her. I was an awkward thirteen year old wearing a canary yellow gingham blouse. Not the small dainty gingham but rather bright, large and imposing. It was stiff and I wrestled with the collar as it chafed at my skin. I think my mother was hoping to bring cheer and happiness into her hospital room. During my regular visits to her home, she would open the door with a smile with a bounce rather than a walk, and I immediately understood how excited she was to see me. This day was different.
As I approached the hospital room where she lay, I reached my trembling hand to the door handle. A suction of air made the door heavier than my body weight leading my mother to finish the task. A cool breeze whipped the hair from my face providing a clear view of my grandmother sitting up in bed. She struggled to move her tired limbs to the edge. Although she had been battling cancer for over a year, my mother protected me from seeing her struggle. The worn hospital gown draped her body, stripping her of the flair she possessed beyond the walls of the hospital. An oxygen mask concealed her nose and mouth. My heart pounded as if I had dashed up the front steps of her house to greet her.
“Hi lovey.” She struggled to sound cheerful, and normal. My innocent teenage body went limp,frozen. I felt the earth pulling my knees downward, yet somehow I held steady. Within moments, my mother realized my weakness and whisked me out of the room. I struggled to remember her final kiss, as I realized this would be the last time I saw my beautiful grandmother.
My grandmother was a master of turning the mundane into the extraordinary. Once a year when the pomegranates came into season, she would cover her suburban kitchen table with newspapers, slice open the pomegranates and let me pick at the fruit with my fingers. The afternoon would be filled with wild giggling and fingers dripping in crimson. My red stained hands would last for days. Most of my friends had never even heard of pomegranates. I was less impressed by the basic fruit but delighted with the opportunity to boast about my remarkable grandmother. I would babble to any open ear about her quirky love for parsley or her watercolor paintings. She had an enormous tree that clearly marked the center of her back yard with its “magical bark” that peeled off like the stiff rind of an orange. There was the daily walk to the supermarket down the road where she indulged me in chocolate licorice, popcorn and Good and Plenty before heading to the movie theater across the street from her house. I giggled as we concealed our snacks past the ushers. We became partners in a smuggling scheme that had a stupendous success rate. I can’t recall a single movie we viewed together, but I remember the plush red velvet seats that I struggled to keep in the down position and her reassuring hand helping to silence the squeaking. The warmth of her close to me was more memorable than what appeared on the massive screen.
My grandmother never received her drivers licence, but my grandfather drove a beige metallic cadillac. I would sit sandwiched between them in the front seat. Squished against the windshield sat a dirty white rubber buddha.“For luck” she would say. I’m not sure where it came from but the Buddha stared and smiled at me on our rides. We would drive to the temple on Friday nights, which I would have violently objected to had my parents even suggested going to Shabbat services, but as long as I had my grandmother next to me I didn’t much care where I was in the world.
Since my mother was a child, my grandparents lived in a home that was situated on a double yellow lined street running through the middle of suburbia USA. My grandfather was a podiatrist and his office was attached to the house ensuring prime location in the center of town. The interior was dark and the chocolate brown carpeting suffocated any remaining light. My grandmother kept a bowl of whole walnuts in her family room and as kids we struggled with the clumsy cracker to get to the meat inside. Most days ended in a shower of walnuts flying across the room after slipping between the grip of the cracker. As years went on, I practiced enough to deftly crack a walnut and enjoy the delicious center that I had worked hard to unlock. Sometimes I dream of effortlessly cracking that stubborn nut placing its meat in the palm of my hand and offering it to her, while her shining eyes meet mine, pleased that I had finally mastered the task.
The pale yellow kitchen was bright despite the one small window over the kitchen sink. Oneday, my grandmother created an imaginary game through this average window. She decided we would pretend to be stars of a cooking show in her kitchen. “Cooking Ladies” she called it. This window was our on air camera. “Next you beat the eggs like so.” she said into the window. I never felt her faking or pretending to be a “cooking lady.” and when she put the apron on, we were live on air. Today I realize she was just an average cook, and it was never her love for cooking that led to the invention of this silly imaginary play. It was her love for me.
Later in the day, we would take Doodles, her buff color standardized poodle on a walk in the abandoned lot nearby. He would sniff the sidewalk as we held hands in the empty lot with weeds poking through the cracks. We would meander down main street chatting, or not. Blanche and I were comfortable in the silence. Even if there was more to say, silence was a gift. It was a gift thes security in knowing her love and acceptance were unconditional.
When the evening grew late, I climbed the steep brown staircase to the second floor and crawled into the bed my mother had slept in as a child. The neon lights from the building across the street flashed rhythmically and sent me to sleep. I frequently returned to my grandmothers’ bed in the darkness of night to lay beside her. The warmth of her spooning me always eased me back to sleep. “Shh. just close your eyes.” she would say and she stroked my long hair. I can smell her minty breath and cedar scented nightgown as I write these words so many years after her passing. My grandma Blanche was the first grandparent to be taken from me and if I’m being honest, I wish she had been the last one to go. We didn't have enough time. I needed more. I still feel that I need more. And so, this old ordinary blanket is all I have. A blanket she knit when blood ran swiftly through her veins and her heart pounded strong.
When my daughter was born, I had the opportunity to honor my grandmother by passing on her name. All the names on my list lovingly began with a “B”. The moment my daughter was born felt the presence of my grandmother's spirit. She filled my thoughts as I began my life as a mother. On the day of my daughter’s baby naming, a ceremony in which Jewish daughters are formally given their hebrew name, my mother and I travelled to the cemetery with my wriggling daughter. We gathered up my baby girl and carried her to a stone amid hundreds of others and stood silently. Then we spoke as if Blanche stood in front of us. We introduced her to Bailey, returned to the car and cried. Cried for our loss, cried for this baby who would never experience such a remarkable woman. Cried for the hope we had for this new beautiful little girl, that she too would experience the love Blanche had bestowed upon us. Many people in the world achieve impressive accomplishments, and place great value on money and fame. My grandmother was not impressively accomplished, and certainly not affluent or famous. She was an ordinary woman, who knit an ordinary blanket, on an ordinary day, in an ordinary house, and yet in the mind of one child she was extraordinary.