Time With My Mom

Last week I spent a couple of hours with my mom.

That may come as a surprise to those of you who know me, and know that my mom died more than a decade ago.  Let me explain…

 

I mentioned a couple of days ago that my mom canned.  That sentence in no way communicates the reality of the situation—my mom canned like a maniac.  She canned everything she could get her hands on, and as much of it as she was able to.  When I was in high school we lived in a neighborhood with some empty lots in it.  My dad got permission to plant a garden in TWO of the vacant lots, in addition to the garden across the back of our yard.  I can’t remember what else we grew (and weeded) there, but I do remember my mom canning dozens of bottles of beans, corn, and tomatoes. 

My mom was no canning purist—none of her vegetables or fruits were every going to place at the fair.  She canned her tomatoes by washing them, throwing them whole and unpeeled into the blender, then putting that in the jar.  I’m sure her other methods were equally fast and furious.  They may not have been pretty but they met our needs. 

 

On Labor Day I spent about 6 hours canning peaches.  I don’t think I’ve ever canned peaches before, so I was pretty excited to do this.  As I blanched and peeled and cut and bottled I had the strangest feeling; like my mom was teaching me what to do.  I felt it as I used the knife blade to pry the peach halves apart so that I wouldn’t make marks on them with my fingers.  I felt it again when I used the knife to lift the peelings off of the peaches instead of “slipping them off with my fingers” like my directions said to do.

As I worked throughout the day, I knew that I must have seen my mother doing those things; seen them enough times over enough years that they had seeped into my unconscious mind, waiting until the day when I would need that information.

I thought a lot about my mom that day.  As my back hurt more and more I marveled at how hard she always worked.  She had six kids like me, except that she had them in 7 years.  And then she had four more.  She survived my dad going back to college for five years (and working full time)  when I was 13.  During that time the 9th and 10th kids were born.  I don’t know how she did it, and I don’t  remember ever hearing her complain about it. 

My mom is my hero, and I’m glad I got to spend the day canning with her…