"The squeaky wheel gets the oil," she said.
My mother is the one who taught me with old sayings and phrases. "Your granpap always used to say that. 'The squeaky wheel gets the oil'…"
How disturbing, I thought. How many times within a week did he have to confront someone acting like a squeaky wheel, I'd think, to work that into a conversation enough to say it all the time? The questions kept pouring in: What did he do for a living? Where am I from anyway? Why doesn't the word "yonder" come naturally to me, why don't I already just know these saying and phrases? And how can I weave this new one that I've just learned into a third grade conversation without sounding like Benjamin Franklin, reincarnated. Luckily, I never found the opportunity to work this phrase in at such a young age.
I remember lying sprawled across my mother's bed which was gigantic to me at the time and was covered with a white chenille bedspread. There I was, thinking again. Nothing unusual, just thinking and staring up at the ceiling, and enjoying that it was night again. Taking a break from that, I watched my mother putting on her makeup in the bathroom. She looked irritated with her hair. (Her word would be "aggravated".) I have no idea why or what I asked her, but it lead to a brief conversation on gray hair and wrinkles. "Why do people get gray hair and wrinkles?" I asked. "Oh, just getting old. It happens to everybody." I secretly panicked at that thought as she tucked her hair back here and there and gave herself a final inspection. "…just thank God it doesn't happen all at once."
It wasn't a normal answer for anyone my age, I'm sure; but it made good sense to me in that mildly edgy, comforting way. I considered it and nodded. I think she's tall and pretty, I thought. She looks mad, but she's not. She's being funny in the face of it all. And yes, I did think these thoughts when I was little. Probably because of all the answers my parents gave me at a young age -- they made me laugh and think at the same time. Maybe not always in that order though.
"In order to have a friend, you must be one." And "always return something in better shape than when you borrowed it." Pointing up between rain clouds one afternoon just beginning to go evening, she remarked on a small hole between the clouds just big enough to see the blue sky behind it all. "There's just enough blue in that sky to patch a pair of pants." As only a 15 year old high school girl can do, I looked at her in a way that suggested she'd just whipped that one out of her aluminum space-bonnet on her long, boring rocket ship journey from the planet Mars. "Nope, your Mama Sue used to always say that…'There's just enough blue in that sky to patch a pair of pants'…"
Why? I asked. "Beats the heck out of me, but I think I can see what she was getting at."
"Make new friends, keep the old. One is silver and the other gold." If I ever had to describe my mother, I'd just start by listing off all of her friends. She has a vast array of friends. Each one is unique and different, like a special, handcut gemstone all set in a solid gold crown she wears like a party hat when they're all get together. Everyday is a birthday when she's with friends. And it's an honor to know her friends.
"Quality over quantity," is how we both live. But to look at the exquisite examples around her, she has both. She has friends from 50 years ago and some from 50 minutes ago. Maybe you've already met her – yesterday in a checkout line at Kroger's most probably, or at a crafts fair three years ago. Or at a campsite in the mountains, or just passing by as you walked your dog. "I'd talk to a rock if I had the chance," she told me once as I rolled my eyes, after sitting outside for 45 minutes in a sizzling hot car, just waiting for her to stop making friends in the McDade grocery store. "She never met a stranger," is how my dad put it. I bet sometimes, he wished she had.
Of course, there's nothing wrong with rocks. But she's a little more choosy than that. She chose her friends, and they chose her. "You can always tell someone by the company that they keep." I know that's true. And when I look at my mother's friends, I see angels and healers, cooks and artists, actors and comedians, Buddhists and Christians. Different and same. Daylight and dark. With just enough blue to patch a pair of pants.
When I look at my mother's friends, I see my mother. And happiness, acceptance, and laughter. Lots of laughter. And that is the best gift she could ever give anyone, and the best gift she could ever be to me.
"Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be." That is how I can describe my mother on her birthday today, and for many more to come.
Happy Birthday, Mama!
xoxox --bny
My mother is the one who taught me with old sayings and phrases. "Your granpap always used to say that. 'The squeaky wheel gets the oil'…"
How disturbing, I thought. How many times within a week did he have to confront someone acting like a squeaky wheel, I'd think, to work that into a conversation enough to say it all the time? The questions kept pouring in: What did he do for a living? Where am I from anyway? Why doesn't the word "yonder" come naturally to me, why don't I already just know these saying and phrases? And how can I weave this new one that I've just learned into a third grade conversation without sounding like Benjamin Franklin, reincarnated. Luckily, I never found the opportunity to work this phrase in at such a young age.
I remember lying sprawled across my mother's bed which was gigantic to me at the time and was covered with a white chenille bedspread. There I was, thinking again. Nothing unusual, just thinking and staring up at the ceiling, and enjoying that it was night again. Taking a break from that, I watched my mother putting on her makeup in the bathroom. She looked irritated with her hair. (Her word would be "aggravated".) I have no idea why or what I asked her, but it lead to a brief conversation on gray hair and wrinkles. "Why do people get gray hair and wrinkles?" I asked. "Oh, just getting old. It happens to everybody." I secretly panicked at that thought as she tucked her hair back here and there and gave herself a final inspection. "…just thank God it doesn't happen all at once."
It wasn't a normal answer for anyone my age, I'm sure; but it made good sense to me in that mildly edgy, comforting way. I considered it and nodded. I think she's tall and pretty, I thought. She looks mad, but she's not. She's being funny in the face of it all. And yes, I did think these thoughts when I was little. Probably because of all the answers my parents gave me at a young age -- they made me laugh and think at the same time. Maybe not always in that order though.
"In order to have a friend, you must be one." And "always return something in better shape than when you borrowed it." Pointing up between rain clouds one afternoon just beginning to go evening, she remarked on a small hole between the clouds just big enough to see the blue sky behind it all. "There's just enough blue in that sky to patch a pair of pants." As only a 15 year old high school girl can do, I looked at her in a way that suggested she'd just whipped that one out of her aluminum space-bonnet on her long, boring rocket ship journey from the planet Mars. "Nope, your Mama Sue used to always say that…'There's just enough blue in that sky to patch a pair of pants'…"
Why? I asked. "Beats the heck out of me, but I think I can see what she was getting at."
"Make new friends, keep the old. One is silver and the other gold." If I ever had to describe my mother, I'd just start by listing off all of her friends. She has a vast array of friends. Each one is unique and different, like a special, handcut gemstone all set in a solid gold crown she wears like a party hat when they're all get together. Everyday is a birthday when she's with friends. And it's an honor to know her friends.
"Quality over quantity," is how we both live. But to look at the exquisite examples around her, she has both. She has friends from 50 years ago and some from 50 minutes ago. Maybe you've already met her – yesterday in a checkout line at Kroger's most probably, or at a crafts fair three years ago. Or at a campsite in the mountains, or just passing by as you walked your dog. "I'd talk to a rock if I had the chance," she told me once as I rolled my eyes, after sitting outside for 45 minutes in a sizzling hot car, just waiting for her to stop making friends in the McDade grocery store. "She never met a stranger," is how my dad put it. I bet sometimes, he wished she had.
Of course, there's nothing wrong with rocks. But she's a little more choosy than that. She chose her friends, and they chose her. "You can always tell someone by the company that they keep." I know that's true. And when I look at my mother's friends, I see angels and healers, cooks and artists, actors and comedians, Buddhists and Christians. Different and same. Daylight and dark. With just enough blue to patch a pair of pants.
When I look at my mother's friends, I see my mother. And happiness, acceptance, and laughter. Lots of laughter. And that is the best gift she could ever give anyone, and the best gift she could ever be to me.
"Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be." That is how I can describe my mother on her birthday today, and for many more to come.
Happy Birthday, Mama!
xoxox --bny
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