The secretary belonged to my mother’s grandmother. This piece of furniture goes by several other names, one of which, escritoire, when properly pronounced, drips like honey from the tongue. Like others of its kind, my mother’s secretary has a drop-down desk for writing, multiple niches for storing bills, letters, and important papers, a drawer, and two cabinets at its base.
In memories from my childhood I see my mother seated at this secretary, writing grocery lists or letters to friends. It makes for a nice picture, yet this memory, like some others, I mistrust as possibly false. Time and remembrance can deceive as surely as Eden’s snake, and the secretary, though an admirable piece of furniture, would make an uncomfortable desk for writing, especially for one as short as my mother.
Speaking of time and memory, my mother gave me an early lesson in the difference between recollection and reality. When I was in second or third grade, my friend Allen was in our kitchen and I was telling him how I had broken my leg when I
In memories from my childhood I see my mother seated at this secretary, writing grocery lists or letters to friends. It makes for a nice picture, yet this memory, like some others, I mistrust as possibly false. Time and remembrance can deceive as surely as Eden’s snake, and the secretary, though an admirable piece of furniture, would make an uncomfortable desk for writing, especially for one as short as my mother.
Speaking of time and memory, my mother gave me an early lesson in the difference between recollection and reality. When I was in second or third grade, my friend Allen was in our kitchen and I was telling him how I had broken my leg when I
was four years old. I had tried to jump over a wagon in our yard in Johnstown, Pennsylvania, and on hitting the ground had fractured my leg. Unable to walk, I dragged myself to the front door of our house where, faint from pain and exhaustion, I beat on the door until my mother ran to my rescue.
For years I had remembered breaking my leg and crawling to the door. I truly believed what I was telling Allen.
Mom turned from the stove and gave me an odd look, studying my face. She evidently discerned I thought I was telling the truth.
“That’s not how it happened, Jeff."
“What do you mean?”
“You jumped off the woodpile and came limping into the house. You limped around a few more days and then your dad took you to the hospital for the x-rays and they found a greenstick fracture.”
Mom went back to her cooking, leaving me amazed by the folly of my retrospection. And here’s the weird thing: even today, when that broken leg comes to mind, I still see myself low-crawling across the grass, pulling myself inch by painful inch toward the front door. (Readers may want to take into account my recollection of this incident when going through my stories here. I may be the owner of my past, but sometimes, I am certain, memory is a deceptive tenant.)
Mom taught us lessons, as mothers do, designed to last a lifetime. Manners, for example, were important to her. You didn’t talk with food in your mouth. You didn’t slurp your drink. You put your napkin in your lap. You didn’t wolf down your meal. You said “please” and “thank you” and your treated all people, no matter the color of their skin or their station in society, with respect until they gave you reason to do otherwise.
Mom also detested lying. Getting into trouble and being punished for our misdeeds was one thing, but if we lied about what we had done or what had happened, we could count on going from small claims court to criminal proceedings presided over by a hanging judge. Tell the truth, and throw yourself on the mercy of the court, and you'd probably be okay. Tell a lie, and dire punishment was assured. Usually that punishment came in the form of “Wait till your father gets home,” which meant a long day’s wait of cold fear, sometimes followed by a spanking.
The greatest lesson my mom taught all of her children was love: how to love and the costs of loving. She didn’t teach this lesson with words but by her own example. Mom had six children, seven counting her first, a daughter who died at birth, and every one of those six on becoming an adult knew how to love other people. Every one of us also found, usually as we entered our mid-twenties, that our mother was one of our best friends.
Next in importance to Mom’s lesson on love was her lesson on death.
For years I had remembered breaking my leg and crawling to the door. I truly believed what I was telling Allen.
Mom turned from the stove and gave me an odd look, studying my face. She evidently discerned I thought I was telling the truth.
“That’s not how it happened, Jeff."
“What do you mean?”
“You jumped off the woodpile and came limping into the house. You limped around a few more days and then your dad took you to the hospital for the x-rays and they found a greenstick fracture.”
Mom went back to her cooking, leaving me amazed by the folly of my retrospection. And here’s the weird thing: even today, when that broken leg comes to mind, I still see myself low-crawling across the grass, pulling myself inch by painful inch toward the front door. (Readers may want to take into account my recollection of this incident when going through my stories here. I may be the owner of my past, but sometimes, I am certain, memory is a deceptive tenant.)
Mom taught us lessons, as mothers do, designed to last a lifetime. Manners, for example, were important to her. You didn’t talk with food in your mouth. You didn’t slurp your drink. You put your napkin in your lap. You didn’t wolf down your meal. You said “please” and “thank you” and your treated all people, no matter the color of their skin or their station in society, with respect until they gave you reason to do otherwise.
Mom also detested lying. Getting into trouble and being punished for our misdeeds was one thing, but if we lied about what we had done or what had happened, we could count on going from small claims court to criminal proceedings presided over by a hanging judge. Tell the truth, and throw yourself on the mercy of the court, and you'd probably be okay. Tell a lie, and dire punishment was assured. Usually that punishment came in the form of “Wait till your father gets home,” which meant a long day’s wait of cold fear, sometimes followed by a spanking.
The greatest lesson my mom taught all of her children was love: how to love and the costs of loving. She didn’t teach this lesson with words but by her own example. Mom had six children, seven counting her first, a daughter who died at birth, and every one of those six on becoming an adult knew how to love other people. Every one of us also found, usually as we entered our mid-twenties, that our mother was one of our best friends.
Next in importance to Mom’s lesson on love was her lesson on death.