Watermarks

My mother had this group of women friends that she met while in college. Like her friends, my mother did not attend college right after high school. Instead she got married, a job and a divorce, in that order. She was an “older” student. This amuses me because I view myself as an older student. Of course, my mom was nowhere near 40 when she returned to college, but she likes to say that was the trend “in her day.”

This group of women friends was a tremendous influence on me growing up, although I didn’t realize this until just recently. It wasn’t until I was older and in school that I discovered that all mothers were not like mine and her friends. They were a different breed of women. Unique, intelligent and assertive and for a time, the center of my universe.

Their clothing had a lot to do with my high opinion of them. In the winter they hid themselves in thick turtleneck sweaters with jersey wool pants that flared at the bottom. Their thin wrists jangled with bracelets and they left rooms smelling like Channel No. 5. In the summer their long brown arms held cold gin and tonics and their shoulders freckled in the sun. They wore big hats and sunglasses on the beach. Pictures of them from that time look like a snapshot collection from the Baudelaire sisters circa 1957, visiting cousins from Connecticut for the weekend.

They all attempted to smoke, danced tipsily to Sam Cooke records, and painted their toenails “kissing pink” in the afternoons. The husbands of these ladies spent their time either on the porches smoking or in the kitchen arguing the best way to cook a lamb shank. All the men in these families cooked. It wasn’t that my mom and her friends couldn’t cook or didn’t know how; it was just that the men did the cooking.

My mom and her friends all had their various families’ vacation together. We rented a large hunting lodge up north. The walls with the living room were covered with the trophies of past hunts. Deer and bear stared at you from every wall. One of my mom’s friends was so unnerved by their glass eyes that she hung all the dishtowels over their faces. This left the husbands to grumble in the kitchen, forced to wipe their hands on their shirts that were decorated with pictures of hula girls and pineapples.

These women read and discussed books, wrote dissertations, attended political meetings, took naps during the day, used the TV as a babysitter, drank early in the day, never left the house without lipstick, went skinny-dipping with their husbands in their children’s pool, went to work. These women told their daughters to go to college, get a Master’s degree, travel through Europe, get a job and then get married and have a baby, in that order.

My mother made no bones about the trails of motherhood, but she was honest about it being a blessing and a curse. She never made me feel the resentment she must have felt, but made me believe that women are simply better able to “deal with all the bullshit” life throws at you. It was if she and her friends said, “sure it is dreary, but it won’t kill you.” I will be forever grateful for this. It has helped me immensely.

I wonder what my daughter will make of the circle of women around me. What impact will they have on her upbringing? What will she take away from these experiences? Will she remember?

I feel fortunate to have known these women as a little girl and now as a mother myself. The part that is heartbreaking is watching these women die. Having to say goodbye to these women has been devastating for me. I don’t allow myself to think of the affect their death has had on my mother. We simply cannot speak about it. Rather, my mom and I share stories. What I remember and what really happened. My mother and I grow closer during these little chat sessions. We share a coke and swap stories.

“Remember how Barbara never drove with shoes?”
“Remember when Joanne would make popcorn at 3:30 in the morning?”
“Remember Chris teaching me water ballet and how she never got her hair wet?”

These stories give my mother and I comfort as we say goodbye to these magnificent ladies. These women that became “extra” mothers to me. Mothers that offered extra pieces of gum, sprays of perfume, a turn driving the car (me age 9), kisses on ouches, sunscreen on my cheeks, soft strokes with the hairbrush (except auntie Barbara, who always took half my scalp off), silk nightgowns to play princess, hugs at nighttime. These “aunties” have been my entire female world growing up. My heart is so heavy with sadness. How do I say goodbye?