I Always Knew, but I Didn't Know

After "Things I Didn't Know I Loved: After Naxim Hikmet,"
by Linda Pastan


I always knew I loved the sound of rain on the roof of the upstairs bedroom
at Beth's cabin.
And snuggling down under the covers and the feel of the soft linen sheets,
so smooth, so cozy.
But I didn't originally like the afternoon sun shining through the skylight
into my eyes.
But now even that is comforting, because her home is such
a home to me.

I always knew I loved the aroma of homemade bread, which my mother
used to bake,
And as I came in from school, I'd know something wonderful
was in store.
But when I was the mom, and baking the bread, it became much more
than simply taste or smell,
It became a symbol of who I was as mother, and my identity
as earth mother.

I've gone through so many stages in my life--from daughter to wife and mother,
and now to grandmom,
And the years as professional, to student, to minister, and now retiree.
And all the work that has gone into that life, and the stress that has
accompanied it,
That I'm still trying to understand who I am.

The question of, "Who will I be when I grow up?" is a
continually moving target.

My Mother's Flowers

My mother was the gardener in the family. She truly loved her flowers. She would have planters full of geraniums, petunias, and zinnias on the porches and bannisters. In our Oak Ridge house, morning glories twined their way up the railings to the utility room entrance. Most of her favorites were annuals, and I thought they were boring. But then, what did I know?

By the kitchen door she always had a little patch of mint, and when she served iced tea, she would go outside and break off a few sprigs and add them to the tea glasses. Those I did like, because they made the tea taste so good. I also liked the large peonies that she grew. And the iris in the back yard. I wanted her to concentrate more on different colors of iris and the spectacular peonies, but she preferred the less exotic flowers.

The one type of exotic variety she did enjoy raising was the collection of her African violets--on the shelves in the windows. All kinds and all colors. Beautiful all through the year.

I wish I'd inherited her touch with flowers, but I killed just about every plant or flower I ever touched. No green thumb for me!

My mother--with her music and her flowers--will always live in my memory.

Who Am I?

After recently attending my 50-year high school reunion, I find myself again considering my own identity. Who am I, and where have I come from? In writing group today, the word drawn was "aware," and the item was a red clayish stone


I am newly aware of who I am, and where I come from--Appalachia. The red stone makes me think of Appalachia. I've lived in several parts of the country during my lifetime. I grew up in Oak Ridge, TN (Appalachia), attended two years of college in Southwest Virginia (still Appalachia). Over the years I lived for three years in Seattle (Pacific Northwest), five years in Knoxville (East Tennessee again), two years in Idaho (Palouse wheatfields), and two months in Tucson, AZ (desert Southwest). The rest of my time has been in Nashville. I've lived through the end of World War II, Korean War, Viet Nam War and its protests, Civil Rights years, Desert Storm years, right up to the present times of turmoil and political bickering. (I no longer watch television, but get my current events from the newspaper. TV news makes my stomach hurt.)

Through my life I've been a student, a secretary, an administrator, a graduate student, a minister, and a retiree/part-time library tech. I've been a wife, mother, grandmother, and now a single woman on my own. I've taken piano lessons, art class, weaving class, been a stitcher and am now trying to write. I'm sure there have been other interests that I'm forgetting.

I just got back from my 50-year high school reunion in Oak Ridge, and now am plunged back into Appalachian literature and folk culture. Another time of transition begins. Who do I want to be this time around? We'll see. A "hippie hillbilly" sounds pretty good.

Some of us have more history than others. At our core, we don't really change, but how we view ourselves does. (Thanks, Ellen.)

The Music Teacher

The child brought the apple to her music teacher at the last lesson before summer vacation. And she also gave her teacher a card that said, "You're special." The music teacher was my mother, and this was her last year teaching private piano lessons.

My mother was a very talented musician, and one of the best private piano teachers in Oak Ridge. She taught lessons all during my school years.

As I grew up, of course, I also took lessons from her. Until, that is, I got to high school, when our power struggles and personality conflicts peaked (teenage rebellion, you know), and we both agreed it would be better for me to switch to another teacher. One of her friends kindly agreed to "take me on." It turned out to be a much better arrangement. Mrs. Maxwell was a very sweet, gentle lady, as well as a good teacher. These lessons were much less stressful for both teacher and pupil.

My mother taught only advanced students, but she suggested that I might enjoy teaching some of the beginners who had called for her. I did that, and made a little extra money that way. I even taught my father the basics of notes, and reading the scales. (I'm sure he was just humoring me, as his lessons didn't last very long. But he was a good sport about it all.)

When it came time for me to go away to college, I decided I'd had enough, and refused to take piano while I was there. I knew I'd never get even close to my mother's ability, so much to my later regret, I stopped entirely. It's one of those examples of making decisions as you grow up, and then having to live with them. In later years, I'd sometimes try to pick it back up, but never stuck with it for long.

The music community in Oak Ridge was a very important part of my life as I was growing up. I feel fortunate to have had such a talented mother. I only wish I had appreciated her more at the time.

Waiting for Better Thoughts

As many of my friends know, this has been a difficult spring for me. In writing group, I've tried to deal with some of the emotional stuff. This entry reflects it.


From
"You Reading This, Be Ready,"
by William Stafford

"Starting here, what do you want to remember?"
. . . . .
"Are you waiting for time to show you some better thoughts?"


Yes, I'm waiting for better thoughts.
I'm waiting for a better place to be.

What do I want to remember?
Not this--not where I am right now!

It seems that every day is dark now.
And I try to dig out of the darkness.

I open the door, and Toby and I go out.
But before we make the circle, the tears come.

And so we come back home.
Come in and close the door.

I know it will get better--it always has.
It's spring, not winter, and the sun shines.

It's not dark and gloomy outside--
Just inside.

The effect of the flood was devastating.
But it didn't impact me or mine.

Waiting for the "new glimpse" the poet mentions.
But I can't find it.

I withdraw into my cave.
Because I can't stand to impact others right now.

Every Monday, I think, "Maybe today.
Maybe this week will be better."

And as I go through the week, I still carry the hope,
"Maybe next week."