A lot of the time, thoughts begin as little seeds within my head. I spend time nurturing them, getting them ready for the world outside. They grow strong during the time of gentle love. I water them and feed them riches. Other times, the words tumble into my fingers and become something I never could have imagined. I'll let you decide which this one is:
The day that the Laundry blog was born, one of the places I was carried away to had black and white tiled kitchen floors, there was a huge blackboards at the end of the stairs and the smell of dairy farm lingered--rich creamy heady fresh from the bulk tank. Although I was quiet young when I played on the tree swing, jumped in piles of leaves, raced down the stairs, left my mark in chalk and gathered as family to give thanks in this particular house, I remember it. Little snippets of love. This was a house filled with generations of laundry airing women. When I wrote that blog, I did not intend to pay homage to my mother, I was truly just reflecting on stories I had heard over the years from women who lived them. Women who helped form who I am today.
The views of many help me see how this piece could be about my mother. My mother was simple. Nothing fancy. She didn't wear make-up, have her nails done or wear the latest fashions. She did not always say the right things and she did not always do the right things, either. She was not perfect. She was simply perfect. Simply my mother.
She loved her family. She loved her friends. She loved her work. Her heart and soul were generous--some say made of gold. She was loved by many. Her temper was hot. Her care for others grew to large. She forgot herself. She left too soon.
The beauty of a mother is not held in their abilities or their faults. The beauty of a mother is deeper. Its in the way she does things every day. Thanklessly. Cook, clean, repeat. Every action is watched. One day those actions are picked up by those around her. Sometimes changed. They grow for next the generation to cultivate. Sometimes forgotten. Coming back when the time is right.
I was 27 years old when she left this world. I was ripe with child. My time with her was too short. I still had a lot of skills to gain from her. Simple brilliance afforded her to leave knowing I was strong enough to find the women would take care of me. The women who could help me learn and relearn those lessons she was not able to teach. The beauty of a mother is that no matter how long they grace your life, whether a full rich life time or a quick moment, they give more than you know. Knowledge that sticks with you, in those cobwebby spaces in your mind.
No matter how long they have been gone, be it two weeks, 10 years (has it almost been ten years already? nope, it's almost 11) or an adult lifetime, they are always your mother. Always the person who cared for you when you were sick, the one who said "I love you" when you have screamed the opposite, the person who thought about you before themselves. The one was willing to go without so you could go on. The one that is always and forever proud, even when you are not trying to win it.
{and then there is Dad, but that's a whole other blog}
In memory of
Judith Ann (Herricks) Larson
August 6, 1945 to July 19, 2001
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