I am the type of person who needs to know what is round the next bend. I make sure to admire the scenery along the way, but I am always trying to catch a glimpse of what lay ahead. I cannot seem to help myself it has always been so. I feel cheated if I know nothing of something I could have been worrying about; preparing for all eventualities is my specialty. I believe it goes hand in hand with the annoying propensity to want to be nearly everyone’s mother. Intellectually I know adopting (metaphorically) people who are, in some cases older than I am, will never fill that emptiness that should have been filled by a child; but once again, I cannot seem to help myself. Most people are gracious and kind when I hit them with the news of their adoption, usually with a song or card attached to the announcement. I also believe it is a very big part of the reason I choose to lead a reclusive life. It feels like people can see the raw, gaping whole in my soul that is meant to be a mother; I feel exposed and vulnerable. Therefore, if I know what to expect, how exposed I will be, maybe I can be prepared and spare the world that awful view of nothingness that is me.
We all have our faults and my parents had plenty and some to spare and yet though Daddy leaving us often and for long stretches hurt, we survived and not one of us, as adults doubted his love. Mommy, during her dark and bleak hours of despair and need may have said she wished we had never been born, yet not one of us can pretend today that we do not know she said it because she could not stand to see us suffer and go without milk and bread or warm coats and shoes. Without those hardships, who can say where any of us would be today? I for one believe they made us stronger people. Some of those hardships are the brightest moments of my childhood.
My mother used to sew our clothes, in the good years when we were very young and there were not quite so many of us. One summer (I was about 4 years old) she made me a shorts outfit that I loved so much I can still picture it today. It was a cotton plaid of orange and yellow and green (I had a true infatuation with and admiration for plaid as a pre-schooler). The sleeveless top had ruffles all across the front and the shorts had pockets. Times were good then, and she sewed more because she liked to than because it was economical. She would sit down at her sewing machine and before you knew it, somebody had something pretty and new to wear.
Another sewing story that I recall happened a few years later. Mommy did not have a sewing machine at that point; I am not sure what became of it. It was the first magical snow of winter, deep and heavy, clinging to the trees and beautiful in the full sunlight the morning after the storm. We wanted desperately to go out and play in the snow but we had no gloves and Mommy would not let anyone out of the house without gloves. Rather than endure our tears and fits she somehow produced a length of heavy red flannel, a needle and heavy black thread and she set to making us each a pair of mittens. It was a great game to us as we each in turn knelt in front of the coffee table in the living room and placed our hands on the flannel to have them traced out for mittens made especially for us. In no time at all (and that is saying something for a bunch of house bound kids) we were tromping through the woods and shaking snow down onto each other. I imagine the sound of children’s laughter rang from one end of our hollow to the other that magical day as our red mittens flashed against the white backdrop and quickly became drenched. But Mommy did not know about the wet part.
There is always hope.
Betty
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