Carla Riehl
First Love
As far back as I can remember, I was the loud, adventurous and mischievous daughter; she was the quiet, traditional and ladylike mother. I always blamed our problems on our age difference. She was thirty-eight when I was born, and at that time, in the late ’60s, that was old to have a baby. Though I was never embarrassed that I had the oldest parents in my group of friends, I felt that their advanced age accounted for their being so strict and conservative.
It was inevitable that the “loud” daughter and the “quiet” mother would clash. In my early teens, we argued a lot and it created an ever-growing wedge between us. One major problem was how strict she was when it came to boys and dating. We argued until we were blue in the face about when I would be allowed to date. Finally, the magic number was determined . . . sixteen.
In no time I was sixteen and dating. She didn’t talk to me about it directly, but I could tell my mother was very concerned. I couldn’t understand why. Didn’t she realize I was a responsible, intelligent girl who would never date a jerk? I assumed it was due to her “old-fashioned” ways. She was a strict “older mom” who just didn’t understand today’s world.
Then toward the end of my first year of dating, I met him. He was a great guy. My parents liked him instantly, though I could still see a look of concern on my mother’s face. Was she ever going to trust me? My boyfriend and I were in love and after going together steadily for a year, I started college. Anyone who has experienced first love and then a sudden separation knows the chances of staying together are slim to none. When we broke up, so did my heart. I was devastated. This eighteen-year-old know-it-all suddenly didn’t know what to do. I immediately ran to my “mommy” and cried on her shoulder like a baby.
Did she lecture me? Did she say, “I told you so”? Not once. Instead, she slept with me in my bed, held my hand and even kissed me on the forehead just like when I was a little girl. She never made me feel stupid or ashamed. She listened to my sad story and watched silently as the tears rolled down my face.
After a while, although I was feeling better, I was still very confused and didn’t quite understand what had just happened to me. I was very angry, and I expressed my concerns to my mother. I was surprised at the tone of my voice. It had a harder edge. I wasn’t so trusting or naïve; I felt older and more tired.
My mother gently explained the reasons she had been so concerned during my courtship, opening up to me like she never had before. She had always been so conservative with me about sharing her emotions that I sometimes wondered if she had ever been a teenager. Now, she told me about her first love and how she’d felt when it was over. Her heart had been broken, and the tears hadn’t stopped for weeks. When it was all said and done, she’d felt just as hopeless as I was feeling. She told me that in time her pain went away, becoming only a faint memory. She assured me that one day I would meet the man I would marry, and when I thought of my first heartbreak, I would smile. I would forget the pain and only remember the love.
I was surprised, shocked and relieved all at once. Surprised that my father wasn’t my mother’s first love. Shocked that she had actually shared this story with me. And relieved that my mother was not only a mom, but also a woman who had experienced the same kind of pain I had . . . and survived. It was then that my mother became my best friend.
After that, I shared all the challenges and problems in my life with her. College, dating, career and of course, more heartbreaks. But none ever seemed as serious as the first. I loved how close we were. Even my friends commented on our relationship. It made us both very happy and proud.
Then one day, many years later, I met him: my future husband. The first thing I did was call my mom and tell her all about him. During the phone conversation she asked me if I remembered my first heartbreak. Giggling, I answered yes, wondering why she’d asked.
I could hear the tenderness in her voice as she responded, “Are you smiling?”
Sophia Valles Bligh
It’s a Date!
“Should I meet him there Saturday night?” she asked.
“Of course not. You know the family rule,” I said. The cold pork chops hissed against the sizzling skillet. “Your date must always . . .”
“It’s not a date,” she interrupted.
“. . . come right to the door,” I chanted without missing a beat. We had rehearsed this very conversation before. A slight pause followed. “Where is he taking you?”
“Out for supper and maybe somewhere afterwards.” Panic peppered her voice. “A whole evening together— alone. What will we talk about?”
“Knowing you, you’ll talk about anything and everything. Since when have you been at a loss for words, anyway?” I joked, handing her a short stack of stoneware salad plates.
“But this is different. I hardly know Tom.”
Brushing aside crisp kitchen curtains, I peered into the deepening dusk. A gentle rain blurred the boundaries, skewing the scene like a photograph out of focus. “Well, there’s always the weather. Better yet, get him to talk about himself. Ask your boyfriend . . .”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“. . . about his interests. And, by the end of the date . . .”
“It’s not a date!”
“ . . . you’ll know each other better and probably have lots to say,” I encouraged. After all, I was experienced with this mother-daughter thing. I had raised four teenagers— all at one time—in the not-so-distant past. Could this be much different?
“Well—if you’re sure.” She paused. “It’s just that . . .”
“Yes?” I coaxed, a little impatient with her hesitancy, my mind racing ahead to the details of dinner.
But the voice that answered had slowed, softened and deepened.
“Do you realize how long it’s been?” Her words hung there, suspended, unsupported in the sudden silence.
Reaching across me to the stove, she flipped the pork chops and turned down the heat.
“. . . how long it’s been,” she cleared her throat, “since I’ve dated, I mean? Fifty-five years! With your dad gone so long now, I think . . . maybe . . . well . . . maybe it’s time. Why, Carol, I was seventeen the last time I went on a date.”
I turned—once again a daughter—and winked. “Oh, but Mom . . . it’s not a date!”
Carol McAdoo Rehme
My Daughter, the Musician
Furnish an example, stop preaching, stop shielding, don’t prevent self-reliance and initiative, allow your children to develop along their own lines.
Eleanor Roosevelt
When people I don’t know ask me if I have children I say, “Yes, a daughter and a son, both in their twenties.”
“Oh, really? What do they do?”
“One works in television production and the other in a rock band,” I say.
Invariably, the next question is: “What instrument does your son play?”
I smile. “My son is a television producer and a photographer. My daughter plays lead guitar. She’s also the vocalist and writes all the songs for the band,” I add.
Almost as invariably, the next question is: “Ah—an all-girl band?”
“No, she’s the only woman in Bell (the name of the band).”
“Oh.”
I wish all those people were with me right now, sitting in this audience, in this theater in Seattle, watching my daughter on stage; playing, singing, strutting and, in general, doing, as it were, her thing.
“Is she good?”
“She’s great! But it is possible I am the wrong person to ask.”
You see, Vanessa was not born with what you might call a God-given singing voice. I was not surprised. She came by it naturally. All my life I have been musically challenged. When I was in elementary school, we were made to try out for the school chorus. The song each of us had to sing was “Bicycle Built for Two.”
I can still remember the humiliation of having to get up in front of my class and warble, wobbily, “Daisy
, Daisy, give me your answer do!” At the second extremely flat “Daisy,” there were audible snickers. However, the school rule was that if you wanted to be in the chorus, you got to be in the chorus, so I was asked, somewhat diplomatically, if I would mind just moving my lips instead of actually, well, singing.
Of course, I was hurt, but I let it go. After all, I could draw pictures and write stories better than the other kids. And later, so could my daughter, which may help to explain why I pushed her in those areas and gently (I thought) steered her away from music.
Didn’t work. The more I pushed in one direction, the more determined Vanessa became. Stubborn as a mule (I don’t know where she gets it), Vanessa devoted hours to her guitar. She listened, watched, studied, practiced, learned. Same with the singing. She would not give up. We fought. I tried to discourage her. I lost.
Now, with the release of her first album, reviewers are calling her voice “strong,” “gutsy,” “true” and “soulful.” They say the same thing about her songs. And so I sit in a theater next to all these strangers, bursting with pride. Do I say, “Wow! That’s my daughter up there”? Yes, but only to myself because I have been forbidden to say it to everybody else.
Heading backstage, I am ashamed of myself. I had actively tried to keep my daughter from pursuing her love, her music. I thought I knew best. I didn’t want to see her hurt. “Follow your dreams,” I would say, when what I really meant was, “Follow my dreams for you.”
In one of her songs, Vanessa writes, “Give me something to hold to/ give me something to reach/ and I can take on anything and shine like the sea/ But ask me to live without that/ I can’t make it work—can you?” No, I guess not.
And it doesn’t really matter whether Vanessa becomes tomorrow’s singing sensation or fades quietly away into obscurity. What does matter is that my daughter stood up to her mother and followed her dream—and her mother, old dog that she is, learned a new trick. It’s called humility.
Linda Ellerbee
She Came Back Bearing Gifts
The time is always ripe to do right.
Martin Luther King Jr.
My daughter, Carey, was never really like other children. She began talking in sentences by the time she was a year old. She was extremely inquisitive and always too mature for her age. She excelled scholastically and showed signs of musical talent at an early age. She was inducted into our state’s program for gifted and talented children and was invited to be a violinist in the local Youth Symphony. Awards for outstanding achievement in academics and music lined the bookcase in her bedroom. Her stepfather and I couldn’t have been more proud.
Then, slowly and dramatically, everything changed. Carey’s appearance changed. She started running around with a new group of “friends.” She dropped out of the symphony and sports. Truancy notices and reports of her absences from school became commonplace. She became sullen, withdrawn, belligerent and, at times, violent. She scoffed at any form of discipline, crept out of the house in the middle of the night, and often stayed out all night. She ran away from home three times. Carey had discovered drugs.
I fretted, worried, and spent many sleepless nights anticipating a call from local police telling me she was in jail or, worse yet, dead. I lamented over the things I must have done wrong in raising this child and wondered what had become of the moral and emotional foundation I thought I had provided her. Little did I know that this was just the beginning of the end of my dream of a “normal” family with a perfect life.
Over the next two years, my primary goal was to “fix” Carey. I asked a police friend to “scare” some sense into her. I arranged a private “tour” for her of the juvenile detention center. I put her into private counseling. Last, but not least, we moved away from the city, away from the bad influences. Carey loves horses, so we bought three, one for each of us, thinking that if we shared her interest as a family her problems would get better. It was a good plan and it did work . . . for a while. Before long, it all started again.
Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, my husband confessed that he was seeing someone. We separated on Memorial Day weekend. I’m not sure how I made it through the first few months. I was scared and lost. I couldn’t sleep, forgot to eat, worked twelve-hour days between two hours’ driving time, and did my best to keep up with three horses, two dogs, fifteen cats, three acres of yard work and normal household chores. As you might guess, Carey’s contribution was, at best, minimal. I felt hopeless.
Then came Christmas. I had always loved Christmas, a time that would bring back sweet memories of childhood surprises, family truces and special traditions. But this year there was nothing to celebrate, no reason to even drag out the Christmas decorations.
On Christmas Eve, I worked until noon. If I could have, I probably would have worked right through to the new year. The hour drive seemed longer as I imagined my cold, empty house . . . very much like my heart. I pulled into the drive, reluctantly got out of the car, obligingly petted the dogs and grudgingly walked toward the back door. Suddenly a sweet aroma wafted toward me, beckoning me forward. As I opened the door, a potpourri of tantalizing scents enveloped me. I first identified the smell of food . . . not ordinary, quick-fix food, but festive, only-on-holiday food. Then I recognized the sweet smell of scented holiday candles. If my nose was merely delighted, my eyes were in awe! This house I was entering had been transformed from the drafty, colorless old farmhouse I had left behind that morning into a warm and glowing Christmas fantasy, a joy to all my senses! Soft Christmas music playing on the stereo relocated from Carey’s upstairs bedroom gently competed for my attention to the holiday décor as I floated through each neatly groomed room. When I reached the living room, Carey was sitting in her holiday finery, complete with an apron and a childlike smile I remembered from long ago but hadn’t seen in several years. She said, “Sit down and relax. Christmas dinner will be ready soon.”
I’m not sure what I said to her then to let her know how much I appreciated what she had done, but no words could have adequately described the way I felt. I just sat and allowed the sights, sounds and smells to fill my senses . . . and my heart. Over Cornish game hens stuffed with cranberry-orange dressing, homemade sweet potatoes (not from a can), rice pilaf and creamy chocolate pudding, we laughed as we talked of Christmases passed.
Lying in bed that night, I thanked God for giving me my daughter. The daughter whom I thought I had lost had just blessed me with the most wonderful gift I have ever received: a much-needed reminder of the true spirit of Christmas . . . love and hope.
Luann Warner
The Pink High-Tops
It was late November. We wandered the mall, shopping with the multitudes during the pre-Christmas rush. My two little ones and my mum moseyed along, taking in the holiday gala.
Then I spotted them, a pair of pink high-top sneakers.
I delighted in their pastel cockiness, gentle pale pink on aggressive high-tops. I had found my Christmas present. “That’s what I want Mum, those sneakers,” I said.
She looked at me as if I had lost my mind. I am sure she had expected me to suggest a cashmere sweater for Christmas, but instead I had found an inexpensive but delightful bit of fun.
A week later, when I returned from a conference in Washington, D.C., the pain in my lower back was unbearable. I went to the hospital, underwent some tests and was admitted. Surgery was scheduled for the next day. No big deal, I thought. Take out three discs, be home in four days, a few weeks off. We’ll manage.
Something went wrong.
I vaguely remember waking in the recovery room screaming in pain. I remember my mother sitting beside my bed and saying her rosary. In a stupor, I could only begin to imagine what character-building events lay ahead.
While I lay in the hospital, my husband, Tom, had to shop and wrap. My father visited faithfully every day and watered my miniature Christmas tree. Two days before Christmas, with much pleading, I was released from the hospital and taken home hea
vily sedated, bent at forty-five degrees on a walker.
The words from the day before kept ringing through my head. My husband was sitting nearby, incredulous. The surgeon, my nemesis, chart in hand, spoke. His words were crisp, clear and delivered unemotionally: “You will never walk unassisted again. But with therapy, we can help straighten you some, and with time the pain will gradually subside until it can be managed.”
Who is he talking to? He can’t mean me. All I kept thinking was, I have two young children. I’m only 31 years old. Of course I’ll walk upright again.
At home I felt as if I were in a fog shrouded in pain. The tree was up. Presents were piled beneath it. I was laid in a recliner on an egg crate mattress. The recliner accommodated the bend in my body. The codeine and other drugs helped block the overwhelming pain and fear.
On Christmas morning, Mum and Dad came for breakfast. As the gifts were being opened, Mum said, “Tom, you did a fine job. Everything looks lovely.” I noticed the sparkle of the paper. Looking closer, I saw that everything was wrapped in “Happy Hanukkah” paper. I couldn’t laugh. It hurt to just turn my head. Poor Tom, he’d tried. But the paper—what a kick. Our Hanukkah Christmas is still a wonderful memory.
The little ones helped me open my gifts. And there they were, a pair of pink high-tops; I’d forgotten all about them.
I started to weep, loving them yet wondering whether I would ever be able to wear them. I wept uncontrollably. The kids didn’t have a clue what was wrong. Tom rushed them to the kitchen for blueberry pancakes, the annual Christmas fare. My mother, unflappable as always, just looked at me without as much as a question and said, “You’ll wear them.”
Three weeks later, my beloved dad died unexpectedly— another bad dream—and I was back in the hospital for the first of the many tests and hospitalizations to follow. I was put into traction and finally a full-body cast, and slowly I worked my way back to some semblance of an upright position.