As a child, whenever I asked my mother a question she couldn't or didn't want to answer, and mostly because she didn't know the answer, she'd say, "It's a wigwam for a gooses bridal". If she talked too long over the back fence, or front fence, to our neighbor, she'd sigh "Well, this won't buy the child a frock or pay for the one she's got on".
One day as as my mother bustled, huffily around our kitchen, she said, "Someone is talking about me, my left ear 'lob' is burning". I corrected the word 'lob' to lobe. Now my mother didn't like being corrected by anyone, especially by me, her nine year old daughter. "Well it was lob when I went to school!", she snapped, as she banged the lid down on the saucepan in which the corn beef bubbled fiercely. Now I knew that my mother could barely write her own name due to no schooling, and I'd often seen her sign her name with a cross, after explaining to whoever, that due to arthritic fingers she could no longer write. Knowing all this I decided my mother's words didn' hold much water
I thought my mother was very clever and beautiful to boot. I was ten before I understood that my mother had a turn in her right eye. It was Neville the ten year old next door who brought the reality to my attention. We were arguing, and as he searched around for words to wound, he shouted, not in his usual squeaky voice, but in a sort of man's rough shout, just like his dad's, "And your old girl's a cross eyed monkey- face". I didn't feel hurt that he called my mother a monkey -face, I knew it wasn't true, but I cared very much at the swipe of truth he dealt me about my mother's turned eye. I knew instantly that was true. I did not want my mother to be marred in the eyes of others in anyway, anyway at all, and I was not going to be put off the track of my mother's qualities, by the skinny boy whose freckled, red, brown and white face was now shoved close to mine. As no words would come to my aide, I reached out, and gave a sharp twist to his freckled pug nose, then ran for my life towards our open front door.
3/ MOTHER'S QUALITIES 17/10/10
Of the many things I admired about my mother, the main thing was her voice, both her speaking, and especially, her singing voice. I was shocked to hear one of my father's many sisters say on a visit "You know Harold, your wife does have a poor grasp of the English language and I think that's sad". I suspected that the word lob or something like that had been noticed by my aunt. I felt very sorry for my mother and from then on I decided I didn't like that aunt. I also decided to ask our neighbour, what she thought, of my mother's speaking voice, and when she replied, "I think she sounds real common", I decided not to ask anyone else. I just knew my mother and her voice were out of the ordinary.
MY MOTHER AND HER PRESIDENCY
My father refused to call the club by its name and said, whoever had chosen the name must have been a damned fool! He'd mutter "It's a lot of bloody rubbish". He might be referring to the "Whoop Whoop Club" or to my mother's recent push to become president, or both. The group had been running for ten years with the same president, who my mother described as 'tough as old iron'. She'd say, " she's a real old biddy, a real old warhorse, but she's met her match this time", again my mother would start rubbing her fishy thumb and middle finger together. " What our dear president doesn't know is, I've got a few tricks of my own up my sleeve". And she had.
Whenever my mother spoke of her plans to become president, my father would clench his teeth, thrust forward his gritted jaw, and grind out words of frustration "What the bloody hell do you want with that rubbish. That insane daughter of hers is already driving us mad with phone calls". My mother would let her eyelids droop a little and then she'd whisper dangerously, "Let's get to the truth of this, Dotty's phone calls don't drive me mad, but they drive you mad and why? because you're jealous! And while we're on the subject, the name of our club is meant to be a fun name, but you wouldn't know anything about fun, would you!" My father would grind out the words "Christ Almighty" he'd then raise his hands high in the air, let them drop! and say, "A bloody man would be better off dead!" then he'd slam the front door behind him and go for a walk. It often happened, I would arrive at the end of this familiar scene and hear my mother's voice, ring out triumphantly "and don't forget what that solicitor told me forty years ago, I've got grounds for a divorce any time I feel like it!".
Although those all too familiar words, seemed to go in one of my ears and out the other, deep inside, I knew that they melted into a place, far at the back of my mind. That mysterious place where the endless cliches ,the never answered questions, all the cloud like shapes that fluttered and floated before my eyes when I lay on the grass and stared up into the blue sky ,would one day, come together for me, like a completed giant jigsaw-puzzle, and at last the picture would make sense.
Tushie
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One day as as my mother bustled, huffily around our kitchen, she said, "Someone is talking about me, my left ear 'lob' is burning". I corrected the word 'lob' to lobe. Now my mother didn't like being corrected by anyone, especially by me, her nine year old daughter. "Well it was lob when I went to school!", she snapped, as she banged the lid down on the saucepan in which the corn beef bubbled fiercely. Now I knew that my mother could barely write her own name due to no schooling, and I'd often seen her sign her name with a cross, after explaining to whoever, that due to arthritic fingers she could no longer write. Knowing all this I decided my mother's words didn' hold much water
I thought my mother was very clever and beautiful to boot. I was ten before I understood that my mother had a turn in her right eye. It was Neville the ten year old next door who brought the reality to my attention. We were arguing, and as he searched around for words to wound, he shouted, not in his usual squeaky voice, but in a sort of man's rough shout, just like his dad's, "And your old girl's a cross eyed monkey- face". I didn't feel hurt that he called my mother a monkey -face, I knew it wasn't true, but I cared very much at the swipe of truth he dealt me about my mother's turned eye. I knew instantly that was true. I did not want my mother to be marred in the eyes of others in anyway, anyway at all, and I was not going to be put off the track of my mother's qualities, by the skinny boy whose freckled, red, brown and white face was now shoved close to mine. As no words would come to my aide, I reached out, and gave a sharp twist to his freckled pug nose, then ran for my life towards our open front door.
3/ MOTHER'S QUALITIES 17/10/10
Of the many things I admired about my mother, the main thing was her voice, both her speaking, and especially, her singing voice. I was shocked to hear one of my father's many sisters say on a visit "You know Harold, your wife does have a poor grasp of the English language and I think that's sad". I suspected that the word lob or something like that had been noticed by my aunt. I felt very sorry for my mother and from then on I decided I didn't like that aunt. I also decided to ask our neighbour, what she thought, of my mother's speaking voice, and when she replied, "I think she sounds real common", I decided not to ask anyone else. I just knew my mother and her voice were out of the ordinary.
MY MOTHER AND HER PRESIDENCY
My mother joined a senior citizen's club and she very quickly saw the possibility of becoming president. President of "The Whoop-Whoop Club". My mother didn't approve of the name, but as she was a new member she had no say. Well not until a little later that is, and by then she had accepted the name. My mother would half close her good eye and say "You can't teach an old dog new tricks, a new broom sweeps clean, and not always for the best at that, he who laughs first laughs last" , then she would rub her thumb and middle finger together, hold them close to her half closed good eye and with pursed lips say, "Little fishies are sweet." There must have been some point she was making along with the dog, the broom, the laughing and the little fishies, but it hasn't stayed in my mind.
I struggled constantly to make connections between the cliches, and the words of wisdom, my mother smugly inferred were contained in them. As time passed a growing suspicion took hold of me that there was not, and never would be, any connection to be found . My father refused to call the club by its name and said, whoever had chosen the name must have been a damned fool! He'd mutter "It's a lot of bloody rubbish". He might be referring to the "Whoop Whoop Club" or to my mother's recent push to become president, or both. The group had been running for ten years with the same president, who my mother described as 'tough as old iron'. She'd say, " she's a real old biddy, a real old warhorse, but she's met her match this time", again my mother would start rubbing her fishy thumb and middle finger together. " What our dear president doesn't know is, I've got a few tricks of my own up my sleeve". And she had.
Whenever my mother spoke of her plans to become president, my father would clench his teeth, thrust forward his gritted jaw, and grind out words of frustration "What the bloody hell do you want with that rubbish. That insane daughter of hers is already driving us mad with phone calls". My mother would let her eyelids droop a little and then she'd whisper dangerously, "Let's get to the truth of this, Dotty's phone calls don't drive me mad, but they drive you mad and why? because you're jealous! And while we're on the subject, the name of our club is meant to be a fun name, but you wouldn't know anything about fun, would you!" My father would grind out the words "Christ Almighty" he'd then raise his hands high in the air, let them drop! and say, "A bloody man would be better off dead!" then he'd slam the front door behind him and go for a walk. It often happened, I would arrive at the end of this familiar scene and hear my mother's voice, ring out triumphantly "and don't forget what that solicitor told me forty years ago, I've got grounds for a divorce any time I feel like it!".
Although those all too familiar words, seemed to go in one of my ears and out the other, deep inside, I knew that they melted into a place, far at the back of my mind. That mysterious place where the endless cliches ,the never answered questions, all the cloud like shapes that fluttered and floated before my eyes when I lay on the grass and stared up into the blue sky ,would one day, come together for me, like a completed giant jigsaw-puzzle, and at last the picture would make sense.
Tushie
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