The Silken Tent
My Letter to the World
May 2000

 

May 13, 2000
Saturday

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day in the United States. As an official national observance, it dates from 1914. The idea for a day honoring mothers was advanced as early as 1872 by Julia Ward Howe (and has existed in ancient cultures and in England from the 17th century), but didn’t catch on until Anna Jarvis mounted a campaign in 1907 after a ceremony she organized to honor her own deceased mother.

It didn’t take long for Miss Jarvis to become disillusioned about how her idea was being used. In 1923 she filed a lawsuit seeking to halt a Mother’s Day festival that she thought was too commercial, and struggled the rest of her life to see that the day was centered on sentiment and not profit.

That struggle was unsuccessful. One can only imagine how today’s degree of commercialism compares with that in the 1920s.

At our house we fall back on the same attitude that shapes our Valentine’s Day observance -- that is, I feel honored every day of the year by the joy that fills our house, and I don't need a commercial expression dictated by the calendar. But we always get a card and a small gift for Ron’s mother-- this year, 100 self-stick postage stamps. (Her birthday is at the end of April, and we’d gone the decorative but useless route then with a big wreath of natural twigs and dried roses.) She ALWAYS sends me a lovely “you’re a great daughter-in-law” card. She is one of the sweetest people in the world and completely trashes all mother-in-law stereotypes -- but that’s another essay.

My own mother died in 1993. Nevertheless, I am not without living mothers (besides my mother-in-law) whom I love and regard as role models to honor this year. In fact, I have two.

The first is Jean, a woman who goes to my church and attends the Thursday morning study group I never miss. She’s in her mid-seventies and troubled with back and hip problems. She has a son my age who suffered a brain injury during his birth that left him unable to walk and to reach what would have his been his full intellectual and emotional potential. He has required full-time care all of his life. I thought he was her only child, but several weeks ago she mentioned that her first child was a girl who lived only a few weeks. Last week she said something about always being aware that she will never be a grandmother.

Jean is the living embodiment of the serenity prayer. She left the congregation she had worshipped with from childhood when several members mentioned being disturbed by the presence of her son at services. For many years she stayed away from church altogether, but she never stayed away from prayer and a relationship with God. Ten or so years ago she met one of our pastors, and has found a welcoming church home at Tree of Life. Every time I’m with her I learn something from her about faithfulness, about courage, about hope. She is one of the wisest women I know.

The other is Marilyn, my neighbor whose son died last year awaiting a heart transplant (see link below). I haven’t seen much of her over these months. She came to my holiday open house but stayed only a very short time. Our last conversation was on the parking lot of Mr. Deli over on Linglestown Road. She told me she’ll probably go back to work (as a kindergarten teacher) next year. She asked about my current activities, and I told her I’d finally gotten serious about my novel.

When I happen to mention that I am writing a novel, I’m asked sometimes what it’s about. It’s a lot easier for me to say what it is not about. It’s not a romance, at least not in the conventional Harlequin or Silhouette sense, though it features two people who fall in love and embark on a sixty-year course of faithfulness and mutual support. And it’s not about the Civil War, although it begins in 1861 and one of the central characters takes a bullet in the head at the Battle of Gettysburg.

Today, thinking about Jean and Marilyn, I think I can now frame what it is about. It’s about a mother, a bereaved mother who has to bury four children in quick succession and who never forgets the beauty and the strength of each, though one was an adult and out of the nest and one was a just-weaned toddler, and she had seven left to love and to care for. Though she has little education, she learns to write their names on paper and stitch them onto cloth, and not a day goes by that she does not call up their faces and whisper their names and remember who they were.

For Marilyn and Jean I found cards with paintings of birds in soft colors, much like the ones that visit our feeder. I wrote each a letter about how much she means to me, and included these words from Emily Dickinson:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers--
That perches in the soul --
And sings the tune without the words --
And never stops -- at all --

And sweetest -- in the Gale -- is heard --
And sore must be the storm --
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm --

I’ve heard it in the chillest land --
And on the strangest Sea --
Yet never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb -- of Me.

One Year Ago: Shiva

(Of shivas I know a great deal from books but have scant practical experience. And of a mother my own age grieving a child my child's age? This is not an event we practice for.)

(Previous -- Next)
Letters 2000
Archive of 1999 Letters
 Back to the Title Page

This journal updates irregularly.
To learn when new pieces are added, join the Notify List.

 The contents of this page are © 2000 by
Margaret DeAngelis.

Love it? Hate it? Just want to say hi? Click on my name above.