[title subtitle=”Words and image: courtesy Seth Haines”][/title]
Seth wrote this essay to promote the book, The Mother Letters: Sharing the Laughter, Joy, Struggles, and Hope, that he co-created with his wife, Amber.
If man was made from the dust of the earth and woman cut from his rib, my mother was sawed from the bayou’s bone. A daughter of cypress knees, Spanish moss, and spent shotgun shells, she was reared on a lane with a passel of boys—a rough and tumble crew of scabby, bb-gunning, scratching, cussing boys. She learned to spot snakes—water moccasins and coral alike—spit on a scraped knee, and climb trees. She cut her literary teeth on Planet of the Apes, knew the names of superheroes and villains.
My grandfather told me she was a bona fide daddy’s girl, a parasitic, stick to the hip sort. He took her hunting in the basin of a Louisiana bayou, and poor shot as she was, she winged a green crested mallard. He rowed to the gaggling bird, swimming circles, black-marble eyed. “Finish him,” Gramps said, “or we’ll have to break his neck.” She was tough girl, but didn’t have much use for shotguns after that. This is how the story goes, anyhow.
I imagine my mother as the fist-fighting sort of girl, the kind who’d knock your tooth out if you mentioned how pretty she looked in her Easter dress. I imagine her, queen of the treetop, swaying in the pecan tree’s upper crown. I see her pitching rocks through tire swings, maybe trying a plug of molasses-flavored tobacco because the boys were chawing it. I don’t suppose this is the whole truth. I suppose she was a lover of dolls, and flowers, and tea parties. I know she loved Dorothy and Black Beauty. She wanted ruby slippers and an oiled saddle. Maybe she enjoyed playing dress up with her grandmother’s old jewelry.
My mother grew into more feminine whiles—so my father says, glint in his eyes. She learned miniskirts, halter tops, the ways a singer can charm men with a few shakes of the hip. She learned the sensibilities of 1970s southern womanhood, too. She learned how to deep fry, make a man’s gin and tonic, perhaps even crochet. There was college, marriage, the losing oneself that comes with raising a couple of rugrats. She sang soprano in church choirs—still does—and joined the Junior League for a spit. She loves to shop. No one can sniff out a deal on a blouse like my mother. She’s a by-God bloodhound for a sale rack.
My mother grew from tomboy to womanhood, but she kept the true grit under the fingernail polish. When I was a boy, she’d rather walk me down the creosote stained railroad trellises of Black Bayou—her old stomping grounds—than search for deals in the waxed halls of any shopping mall. She’d look over the muddy waters, ask me to imagine the days dinosaurs swam in the prehistoric waters. She’d conjure space aliens if I tired of dinosaurs. She was good for the imagination of a little boys. I’m grateful for this.
I wasn’t raised to believe certain things about cooking, cleaning, or who’s to take the proverbial family bull by the proverbial horns. Pops did most of the cooking (of the gourmet Creole variety), and a good portion of the cleaning. Mom read stories of adventure aloud at the table, and hoisted me into trees. And this is not to say that my father was effeminate, or my mother was boyish. Pops still brought home the bacon, shot hoops in the backyard, and took me fishing. Mom still wore heals, collected pretty patterned plates for church-lady parties. It is to say, though, that my parents each lived into their unique roles. They were comfortable outside of traditional definitions, or in them, whatever the case happened to be.
I’m thankful for my mother, a woman who knew her way around boy things. I’m thankful for one who didn’t mind imagining ice planets and pretending to be the princess of the rebellion while I wielded stick lightsabers.
Mom taught me good truth – mother is not a word that comes with a standard definition. Mothers come in all shapes and sizes. There are crochet moms, and tea party moms. There are moms who love Anne of Green Gables, and those who love Star Wars. There are tom-moms and girly-girl moms. Some moms bring home the bacon, and others stay home and decoupage coasters with twin babies cooing on their hips. Some are traditionally traditional; others are not. And as an aside that’s no small aside, traditional isn’t a word that necessitates celebration; mother is.
I’m thankful for my mother, a woman who knew her way around boy things. I’m thankful for one who didn’t mind imagining ice planets and pretending to be the princess of the rebellion while I wielded stick lightsabers. I’m glad my mother wasn’t traditional in the traditional sense of the word. She taught me to look for a woman who is much the same.
Mother – this is the word of the day. A word that is best when unsaddled from stereotypes, when unhitched from expectations. It’s the word that brings life, that nurses this world along, and along, and along.
