Liz Hailey was to have a Caesarian. Dad might have to choose. Dad said he couldn't live without his wife. A young, new doctor was brought in. Mama and I
- we both made it.
When I was three and a half, I would sit at the dining room table, stringing buttons with a large needle. Mama would be darning Dad's socks, or sewing. At four, I was ironing Dad's handkerchiefs, on my own board with my own iron. There must have been thirty of those squares. I didn't burn one of them.
Every Christmas, Mama filled a whole table with celebration. There were candied orange and grapefruit peels, sugared walnut halves, (from our very own trees), red and green gelatin candy squares – rolled in powdered sugar. There were Spritz cookies pressed into all kinds of shapes, with all colors of sprinkles.
Mama was a master decorator. She made ballerina skirts, with satin tops sewn on. I was a red moth, once: I was to weave in and out of the sleeping beauties dressed in black. That show, in 1945 was sponsored by Portland 's Park Departments. The first night we had to perform when it was near to dark. It was hard to see and I heard Mama say to Papa as we were driving home, she thought I would have fallen. The second night I fell. The audience roared.
Mama took me to kindergarten when I turned five. The very first day, I got to hammer and saw. I made wooden squirrel bookends. Mrs. MacNally asked me to stop kissing her hand each morning. It gave people the wrong impression, whatever that meant. Kindergarten ignited that metallic smell of lunch pails, Velveeta cheese sandwiches, and sour milk from a thermos. It also marked the beginning of my separation from Mama.
And then, one winter, when I turned seven, Dad was promoted in his work to St. Paul , Minnesota . It was freezing cold. The summers were blazing hot. Mama would hang the washing on the backyard clothesline to dry. Socks, panties, dresses, shirts, towels and sheets would be burning clean in the sun.
One such afternoon I thought I'd give Mama a treat. I'd take down the laundry, and fold it myself. I started with the socks and shirts. When I got to the sheets, I got all tangled up. I got my head out where I could see. I was being carried on the sheet, up and over all the rooftops, past Como Park to a new land of little houses. Everything sparkled and shined.
I peered into a window, and saw a housewife on her hands and knees washing the floor. Her young daughter was singing. The husband was bringing the bucket of water. It was liquid diamonds. The soap was jellied opal and amber. The dirt and dust was powdered onyx. The housewife smiled, and started scrubbing with a yellow silk embroidered cloth.
The daughter and the husband were holding the bucket and were spreading out a red carpet. I rapped on the crystal window. And there was my Mama's face.
“What are you doing wrapped up in this sheet?” she asked me.
I didn't tell her that I was only dreaming, of course.
I think Mama was the happiest in Seattle , the city with the crying skies. Papa was promoted again and so we moved there next. I was almost nine. Mama had her own bridge groups, made many friends with the neighbors, and belonged to a couple of women's clubs like Music and Art. Mama blossomed on Magnolia Bluff a district of Seattle where we lived. Those were the years of homemade biscuits, pancakes, pineapple upside down cakes, chocolate chip cookies, tomato soup cake, thick steaks, salads with Roquefort dressing, roast turkey dinners and, on special occasions, shrimp cocktails to start.
Mama worked in the garden. It was brimming over with flowers. She planted gold, orange, and rust nasturtiums on one side of our house. The pink camellias and rhododendrons were there already. She planted yellow marigolds on their toes. Maroon, lavender, and red dahlias, she put on the other side of the house. She filled the front rockery with pink azaleas. We had a long fence full of climbing roses that Mama started with only cut stems. Purple jasmine fell over the arch of the back gate.
One day, Mama suggested that I tell her everything. She said she did that with her mother. I envied the closeness. I tried it out. We were down in the basement. She was emptying the washing machine. I told her some secret, and waited for the new connection – the closeness. She said nothing. Nor did I.
When I was eleven, Miss Porter, the art teacher once asked me if my mother knew how scatterbrained I was. I didn't understand: I was always good in her class. Miss Porter would make us use the entire color wheel in each assignment. Once I made a stencil of a deer, and filled in the stencil with different colored chalk over all the paper. I did it in ten minutes and it won me a scholastic key award. Mama and I went to the department store Fredrick and Nelson to accept the award. We sat next to Miss Porter. She forgot to tell Mama how scattered my brain was. Mama thought everything was okay. Why wouldn't she?
Until one day, the school counselor asked Mama to come in for a conference. Mama got all dressed up, and looked nervous, like she had done something wrong. It was about my seeing Him. I came from a good family the counselor said, I was supposed to be setting an example. Afterward Mama tried to have a heart to heart with me. She was crying without tears. I was the only one she and Dad had, she said. The talk left me feeling far away – one more botched attempt at bonding. Well, fine, I wouldn't see him anymore. I would become a ballet dancer and change my name to Marina Barunsky. I would live far, far away and win even more awards.
Nastrovia!
After college, I moved in briefly with my folks. Dad had been promoted yet again to San Francisco . I came home one day, after having performed The Horsegirl in The Balcony where I wore little more than a G-string, at the Actor's Workshop. Mama was peeling carrots at the kitchen sink. I felt far away from her, and angry. I got more and more angry watching her peeling those carrots. The carrot isn't in your hand, Mama; it's out in the world on a long, dangling rope. I'm not settling like you.
So I went to New York . I wore black. I was working as an actress. I started psychotherapy. And I felt like a stranger to Mama. I called her on the phone long distance:
“Hello Mother?”
“Hello Daughter.”
“How are you?”
“Fine.”
“What are you doing?”
“We're eating dinner.”
“What are you having?”
“Some hamburger, peas, applesauce and some cottage cheese.”
“Oh, sounds good.”
“What did you have for dinner?”
“Steak, baked potato, salad, and cheesecake.”
“Well what do you know!”
“I'll call you….bye, Mother.”
“Bye, Daughter.”
Copyright © 2006 Marian Hailey Moss All rights reserved.