Our Mothers, in Different Versions

Mother’s Day is supposed to be one of those “One Size Fits All” holidays, or at least that’s how the marketing forces would have it, but of course we know better. A day thus designated affects people in a whole range of ways. Anytime we’re supposed to feel any certain thing, there’s always a good chance we’ll feel something else entirely.  The meaning of today, like snowflakes in an endless variety of configurations, falls on us differently depending on what our particular experiences with motherhood have been. Losing a mother at a young age, for instance, might mean that every Mother’s Day brings a reminder of a painful time long ago; those who are actively caring for an elderly mother now, on the other hand, might feel their efforts bolstered by this day of recognition.

As the years without my own mother begin to add up, I’ve become more interested in how I manage to keep her memory alive. What’s particularly worth noticing, I think, is the way in which my view of her begins to take on more flexibility, almost as if she were a kind of jewel—not in the sense of sparkling perfection, mind you– with any number of different facets asking to be noticed. Much of this, I’ve come to understand, has to do with my thinking of her more in the whole sweep of her life rather than just as my mother.

Let me show you what I mean. Here is a picture of Barbara Lamb Ingraham the way I most remember her. Long-time readers may recall this same image from a previous blog, so I hope you’ll forgive me for bringing it out again:

It’s a fine picture, showing her characteristic optimism, warmth, and appreciation of her surroundings. Although I can recall plenty of moments when she was not showing these qualities but was instead irritated — at me or my brothers or just some combination of circumstances—still this picture captures the kind of expression she wore much of the time. In her later years, she was just about always ready to greet someone and bear witness to her own good fortune. Here, you can almost see, or maybe I’m reading some of this into the image, her sense of relief and tranquility that her main years of responsibility—being a loyal wife, mother of five children, supervisor at a comfortable distance of countless outdoor games with neighborhood kids, caregiver of many dogs and community activist—were now behind her.

Yes, this is how I most remember her. Sure, while growing up I had seen plenty of pictures of her earlier life in Canada, too, with her laughing siblings and Irish Setters I’d never known, but somehow they didn’t really take hold. She was always primarily my mother – perpetually in the older generation.

Then, a few months ago, this picture arrived from a cousin, by email.

It took my breath away. Here was my mother, but in a whole other version. Responsibilities? What responsibilities? The woman in this picture, in this moment, was not thinking about duties – of the child-rearing or job-holding or any other sort—at all. She is completely relaxed, almost languorous, but has a gleam in her eye too. Whatever conversation is going on, she is thoroughly enjoying it. Years later, when I would be deliberating among work options, perhaps, she would often say something like, “Try to reduce stress!”  You can see the essence of that woman here. And the cigarette!  She had always acknowledged that she’d been a smoker, not been proud of the fact either. But I think this was the first time I’d actually seen the evidence right in front of me. Here, clearly, was an intriguing person, a person who might sit chatting idly for a couple of hours but then also jump up and swim across a lake with friends. Here she was, at a time many years before she would run a comb through her faded red hair, get behind the wheel of her Impala and drive me to piano lessons. Maybe, in fact, that earlier version of herself was still there underneath all the things she was doing as a mother, for us.

I’m guessing that you too have sometime seen a picture of one of your parents and had this kind of jolt, too. It’s pretty amazing, really.

I will try not to wonder too much how my own daughter is viewing me these days; now that she’s almost 20, she’s stored up a whole lot of images both positive and negative, I’m sure. I can just hope, though, that some years later on, she might discover there’s still a touch of mystery there.