Mother Theresa Comes for Drinks Part 1

I’ve been wanting to write about my relationship with my mother, but even three years after her death, I still struggle to describe our connection without falling back on clichés. I loved and admired her at the same time that I loathed and rejected some of her behaviors. Advice that is often given to writers is to “show, don’t tell.” So here’s a story about a time that my mother visited me.


My mother usually made the trek from southern California to eastern Oregon to see me and her grandchildren once a year. She would visit for at least a week, stay with the grandchildren while I was at work and do all those housekeeping tasks that a working mother never has time to get to.  I would come home from work to dinner cooking, all the laundry clean and folded, and my ironing basket empty. I appreciated the help, but like most things of value, there was a price.

One day after work I invited several co-workers, including my boss, back to my house for drinks. We sat out on the patio enjoying the warm spring weather and my mother charmed my guests with her English accent and self-deprecating humor. Everyone told me how lucky I was to have a mother who would spend her vacation digging through piles of laundry and ironing. My mother basked in the glory of her newly adopted Mother Theresa persona. We ate appetizers and had another round of drinks. Our conversation rambled over current events and local controversies including a teacher who had been arrested at the middle school. I went in the house to get more snacks and returned to the patio to hear my mother saying “Jann was molested when she was five by a school employee.” I stood stunned watching my boss and co-workers listen to my mother tell the complete story of my molestation, reporting the abuse to the police, and the eventual trial.

As I write these words I am still at a loss about what to say. That day I served the snacks, returned to my seat, and pretended that everything was fine. That’s what we did in my family…never talk , never confront, pretend that everything is fine.

Memory Tree

I took the Christmas tree down today. Each ornament holds a memory of a past Christmas. My mother died at Christmas two years ago. When we cleaned out her house, I kept several of her ornaments. I think of her as I wrap the tissue around a small plush crown with rhinestones. Ours was not an easy relationship, but wrapping up the Christmas ornaments it’s not the challenges that I remember. Together we would shop the after Christmas sales for half-price ornaments. I have fond memories of teaming with my mom against the crowds to score my discounted decorations. Our bargain hunting treasures were the start of my families Christmas collection.

As the years have gone by, I’ve added a few new ornaments every year. This year I picked up a souvenir ornament on my retirement cruise to Alaska, It hung on the tree alongside the green salt dough dinosaur one of the kids made in kindergarten. My son will be thirty this year; his “baby’s first Christmas” ornament dangled alongside the double-decker bus from the "Rayer Reunion, 1997." The decorations document births and deaths, major life changes, and the spirit of Christmas past. I remember the love as I put each shiny or tattered ornament in the box.

When my grandchildren were born I started the tradition of buying each of them an ornament every year. I try to find one that reflects their current interests. This year I bought my oldest granddaughter a cow, because she says, “the cow is my favorite animal.” I hope years from now, when she is putting her own tree away, she will remember when cows were her favorite animal and how much her Nana loved her.