Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies. Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian. The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade. mom....life lessonI love you.
This isn’t as simple as it sounds. Most of my friends, teachers, books, relatives have attempted to thwart that emotion. ‘Do you always do what your mother says?” “Good heavens, can’t you break that umbilical cord?” “Why do you let your mother dictate your behavior?” When I was a young girl, my mother was a guardian/caretaker. I was made to wear clumsy rubber boots when it rained, to protect my feet and my health. Itchy woolen underwear was a necessity in poorly heated classrooms during World War II. Parents kissed away pain, stayed up all night while I coughed, were kind enough not to shout at me for lingering too long in the sun with exposed fair skin. My mother was a caring woman, an attentive wife who also had space for her identity, and a superstar who moved in and out of roles with seeming ease. When I got to college, in Psychology 101 I heard, for the first time, that the mother-daughter relationship is supposed to be conflict-oriented. I liked my mother. She gave me room to develop my own interests, but instilled in me a code of ethics and values society could be proud of. During my dating high school years, she stayed awake until I was safely inside our house, yet she only left her bed to talk to me if I initiated the action. She told me nothing was so awful that I couldn’t come to her with it; that I was beautiful; and that love with a man one day would be a sharing and physically stimulating experience that would improve as the relationship strengthened. She liked me, too. So psychology instructors said she envied my youth, was jealous of my energy and accomplishment, did not want to relinquish control or face the empty nest of middle years. They said she wanted to live through me, yet wanted me to emulate her and not be too educated, too career-oriented, too self-sufficient. No matter that all of the above did not pertain to me; if I wanted to pass an exam, I had to mimic words spewed from a lectern. Why are genuine feelings of love regarded with suspicion? During the 24th year of my parents’ marriage, my father had a heart attack and died. My mother amazed me as she selflessly juggled to keep family circumstances and finances in order. Somehow, she managed money so I could attend graduate school; so that my younger sister, then age 16, could go to college, and so that my older sister and her husband could start a business. She gave me a wedding so lovely, it’s still sharp in my memory. She masked her emotional pain as she walked me down the aisle. Her gall bladder came out, she had two massive heart attacks, pulmonary emboli, and open-heart surgery. Alone, still, with independence vital to her self-esteem, she returned to her quiet apartment to take care of herself. My mother recognized the worth of each person’s life, and the brevity of same. She didn’t want to “burden her children with an old lady.” My father’s death left a void too big for another male to even attempt to fill; three decades of celibacy was her own choice. I love her. She gave me advice when I asked yet did not insist I follow it. She cared for my children yet reminded me that they are my responsibility, while I was her child and she was interested in me more. What a fantastic thing for my ego. She sensed when role reversal was possible and when I needed to play young-one. She was a survivor, brave even as her health declined from receiving contaminated blood during her open-heart surgery procedure. Her liver slowly failed though her heart was temporarily fixed. “Life, after all is precious,” she uttered without complaint. She represented that to her children and grandchildren. What did I give in return? I can’t answer for her. I hope the way I live gave her pleasure as she set the example for me: my stable marriage; my recognition as a writer; my job as a college teacher of English Composition; my “being there” as a mother; my ability in sports, music, art, cooking, sewing. I like myself. How many others feel this way? One philosophical statement summed up my mother’s interaction with people: flowers for the living. She believed one should give literal or figurative flowers while a person can smell them, and not just have them displayed on a grave. One Sunday in May is set aside for commercialism. Even doing that is better than saying, “Someday I’ll call or send a gift.” Someday has a way of slipping by. My mother enabled me to have independence. Psychology courses didn’t include me in statistical surveys years ago; they still don’t. ©1985 Gannett Co, Inc. (author owns the rights) Reprinted May 2000 “Fifty-Plus” Reprinted May 2000 “Rochester Shorts” Reprinted August 22, 2003, May 9, 2014 “The Jewish Press Magazine” syndicated March 2004 via Clear Mountain Syndicate reprinted May 14, 2010 The Brighton-Pittsford Post
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Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies. Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian. The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade. From Hand to HandI stood in the corridor of the chemistry department; its characteristic odor bothered me. As I moved into the formation a teacher suggested it was time to make, I could see beakers, microscopes, atomic element charts through the panel of glass above each classroom door. My white graduation cloak, and white mortarboard cap with its orange and gold tassels, made me feel both giddy and sad. I liked high school and felt going away to a university wouldn't compare to these years. My mother appeared in the hallway looking for me. I waved. She smiled and took tiny steps in her high heels until she reached me. The shiny floor was not slippery but appeared so, and she walked with a different swing from her usual stride in case the finish was polished wax. I caught her fragrance of Shalimar and it contrasted with chemicals. "Hi, sweetie." She touched my arm. "You look beautiful." I smiled. She freed a few strands of my blonde hair that appeared caught under the mortar board. "I need your ring now. It goes to Joyce." I looked at the diamond set in hexagonal prongs; two tiny sapphires were on either side. The ring itself was platinum and the sideview that held the setting looked like lace. "Remember," my mother continued, "it was mine, then your sister Carole got it when she started high school, then you, and now it's your sister Joyce's turn. Later it'll be handed down to all your children the very same way." "Now?" I felt surprised that she'd come to me in the corridor right before this very special event. "Didn't I give it to you as you lined up to graduate from elementary school? I remember holding your old-fashioned bouquet while you slipped it on." My mother was pretty, although I didn't tell her that. Her hazel eyes looked into mine and I felt her timing wasn't correct. "But now," I whined. "Now." She didn't move away. "Things, honey, are not important; people are." I hated lectures on values, morality, philosophy. There I was, queuing up for commencement, and I was getting a people-are-important lecture. Ever since "Pomp and Circumstance" played before my elementary school diploma ended childhood, I'd worn this ring. I loved the sparkle. I loved the lacy look. I loved that it was now an heirloom. I didn't want to give it up. I couldn't see beyond the corridor but tried to figure out how soon this commencement would begin its parade of graduates to seats. I really wanted to stall handing over the ring but I wiggled my fingers forcing the platinum circle to rotate. I wanted it to rub against my skin for the very last time. Then I used my other hand's fingers and slid it off. My mother inserted it into a velvet case she'd carried in her brown leather handbag. She hugged me, reminded me to walk straight and tall down the aisle, keep my head steady, then she walked away. My finger felt naked; exposed was an indentation where the ring had been. I worried that my sister Joyce might not appreciate the tradition, and maybe she'd lose the ring so it could never continue its generational journey. "Line up graduates. You've got about ten minutes before the processional." A teacher ordered. It was bad enough I was confined to a smelly chemistry hallway so guests wouldn't see us or, maybe I was there because the corridor was long and wide and right straight ahead was the auditorium. The cloak was getting warm and every time I moved my head in a certain position, the tassel tickled my cheek. I stuck my small hand in front of me. The pale pink polish I'd so carefully applied to my nails caught my attention, but when I moved my blue-green eyes upwards all I saw was a vacant digit. "Remember what we've practiced, students. When it's time to turn the tassel as graduates, turn them at the very same moment; you'll get a signal. Make sure no mortar board is crooked! It's not a hat to be worn as a cap or any-which-way. Straight. Flat top." The teacher moved up and down the aisle of students. I got caught up in the anticipation again. My father entered. I watched him walk and smiled at the familiar sight of his movements; one shoulder always seemed lower than the other. His stride was pleasant. "Hi, princess," he grinned. "I'm too old for that," I blushed. "Never." "Is it crowded in the auditorium?" I wondered. "Yes. And the sunlight is streaming in from the long windows. It's a pretty room." He spoke softly. "You always see the pretty, Dad." "I'm looking at you, aren't I?" His light blue eyes met mine. "Oh, Daddy." I reverted to my girlhood word for him. "I've got something for you." He reached into the right pocket of his double-breasted suit, and removed a ring box. At first, I thought it was my familiar ring and my mother had decided I could wear it for this ceremony, but the box was different. My father opened the box, removed a white gold ring with three tiny diamonds in a row set in a raised oval, and then moved it on my vacant ring finger. "This is for you. It's new. It's yours to start on an heirloom trip through time. Give it to your daughter, then her daughter..." I cut him off with a whispered "thanks" and a shallow hug so my mortar board wouldn't fall off. I was in ecstasy. "Princess, remember it's a thing. Wear and enjoy it, but it'll outlast all of us. People are precious and not things. Don't 'save' it because it's new." Why, when he gave a speech did it seem unlike a lecture? Was it his tone? Was it his quiet way that revealed his sensitivity? Was it that fathers to girls are special and not role models to be accepted/fought? "We're ready to move." The teacher ordered. The school band could be heard introducing the processional. "I love you, Daddy." I looked at my beautiful ring. He kissed my cheek and I inhaled the scent of his Yardley after-shave lotion. I knew I'd wear only that ring until I was engaged. My high school class one would go on my right hand, whenever it finally came from its Boston manufacturers. What had been, to me, a stench from chemicals was now mixed with Shalimar and after-shave lotion. The chemistry corridor seemed less offensive since getting my ring, and I marched, with my group, out of the science wing and into the auditorium to assigned seats. Under the spot of ceiling light, I wiggled my finger, watching the stones sparkle while the commencement address was being recited. I turned my tassel and felt grown up. Of course I'll wear my ring and not save it, and maybe eventually understand the 'people not things are precious' philosophy, but for now I just want to look quickly and see if I can find where my parents are sitting. ©1994 The Christian Science Monitor
Reprinted March 2016 Eunoia Review Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies. Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian. The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade. a lifetime guarantee Ouija Boards had rules to follow during play. Seriously. With its numbers, letters, pointer, some words, a person may communicate with unseen. Don’t ask a question that might give a frightening response, and play it outside your home so the spirits’ energy will not invade your private space. Whew. The little thing that moves while yours and your friends’ steady fingers touch it, planchette, must not be left on the board as bad luck could result. So many scary things seem associated with this game, quite popular when I was a teen.
Yet, today, might medical science bring back Ouija Boards for life determination? According to The Wall Street Journal, Friday March 22, 2019, Opinion Page, if a physician in America suggests a patient has six months left of life, and the human does not die in that framework, a hospice provider might sue the doctor for fraud. “U.S. v. AseraCare is a civil fraud case, so the dispute is about money.” (‘Medicare’s Hospice Rules Could Make Your Doctor a Criminal’, by Kyle Clark and Andrew George, The Wall Street Journal, Friday March 22, 2019, Opinion Page) My older sister’s stomach cancer was aggressive; her congestive heart failure coupled with diabetes, shifted spine, and more were merely ‘things’, as was her open heart surgery. Part of the stomach was removed, chemo, but eventually the entire stomach left her physical frame and a feeding tube was inserted. She told me she was going to miss cream cheese, a childhood joke about her taking the whole package and putting the cheese between halves of a bagel and trying to eat that. The 3,000 mile distance made visits by phone; she lapsed into a coma. Her offspring were called to come. This woman rode a camel in Egypt, traveled alone to places in the world few might do with a companion, and so wanted to live to sign up and be among the first passengers to soar into space. Life-oriented, and daring, dying was just not an option to her brain just as physical/medical limitations to her were not ‘limits’ but just challenges. The family waited. Since hearing is the last to go, when I telephoned and the receiver was cradled against her ear, she spoke and knew it was me, giggled about childhood, asked about my family. The coma returned, but so did my phone calls and her becoming alert. Her family waited longer. She just liked life too much to allow it to leave in the time frame expected with such disease. Some spark just took longer than predicted to extinguish. If this were now, and not in 2005, might her doctors be sued because something in her will-to-live allowed more time? Most have heard “I want to live through Christmas” from a terminally ill person, and, in spite of science, the ‘will to survive’ gives that human a last family celebration? If spirits might be aroused with a Ouija Board; hopes ignite via a Chinese fortune cookie; predictions anticipated from a horoscope; why can’t the force called life be, somehow, pushed and stretched for longer than calculations suggest? Down with being subjective. ‘Based on scientific knowledge, I predict’ has to be an absolute. Sue the sports’ coach who said ‘if you warm up and exercise you lessen your chances for injury’ and you get injured after warming up and exercising. What is ‘lessened’ anyway? The dentist assumes your tooth crown will last ‘x’ years and it fails before that; sue him/her. There’s a lifetime guarantee on your pillow’s firmness but a limited warrantee; what does that mean? Hm. Maybe that’s the way an American doctor can prevent being taken to court because all realistic calculations should have a terminally ill patient deceased within six months but stays alive longer: there’s a lifetime guarantee the person will die; there’s a limited warrantee in judgment to exact date. Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies. Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian. The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade. “...’til Niagara Falls”I wiggled my fingers so the sunlight would play with the pearly shine on my nails. The platinum-color polish glistened. My dad really didn't like the iridescent hue, but it was a statement that I seemed to be making: I’m grown up. It is 1952!
The Hotel Niagara had a strange shape, but my parents were told that it was the best place to be on the American side. Since they were treating the family to a celebration of my older sister's wedding, they wanted her extended honeymoon to be the best. Niagara Falls. A place for lovers. My older sister, Carole, is in love, and Joy, my younger one, too adolescent to understand; I wanted what Carole was feeling so I simply called attention to myself with those icy-cold nails which everyone hated. Me too, but I, of course wouldn't reveal that. "Are we going to Canada for the Maid of the Mist?" I sipped at my chocolate milk that I poured over ice. "The Cave of the Winds looks dangerous. Slippery." My mother mentioned after glancing at the tour pamphlet. “Good." I perked up and stopped annoying everyone with my fingernails. "Let me see the brochure." Carole smiled at her husband, Bennet, as if they had some special secret between them. "The college girl wants danger." "How about rolling in a barrel?" Joy, age 14, asked me. "Yuk, yuk," I said sarcastically. "Go ahead everyone. Pick on me because I like trying things. I also want to go into a wax museum, ride on that gondola thing over the water in Canada.” My mother cut me short. “We all know your zest for things.” The words came out with some admiration and not chiding. “Okay. Let’s cross the border. Mom and I will watch you from above. The Cave of the Winds should have slippery spots so be careful.” Dad protected us with his sentences. We left the shop and walked across the Rainbow Bridge. My parents paused between two country’s flags and I snapped a picture. I wished that a real rainbow had suddenly appeared in the sky, and I wouldn’t even have had to caption the processed photo. The name was romantic. I couldn’t really believe I was leaving the entire United States, an actual country, and crossing a border into a foreign one. A pretty-named bridge that I strolled across wasn’t like going to places I learned about in history books where crossing a border had guards and wooden wands going up with security approval/police dogs/ and suddenly everyone is speaking a language I don’t understand. This was more like going from Brooklyn to Manhattan. Only the change of flags made me consider this was a connection between, well, two places I was supposed to think were different. I loved the heavy, yellow-colored, rubber slickers, and the spray of water from the falls wetting my face, the slippery feel on wooden steps of the Cave of the Winds. I wished I had someone I loved to share this with. Sure, I loved my family, but not like what Carole had at that moment. “It’s scary,”Joy grabbed a wooden railing on the steps. “It’s supposed to be,” I remarked. “The Maid of the Mist won’t be, since we won’t even get off the boat. But there’s a long drop in an amusement-park like car on a cable to get us down to the boat. That’ll be the only scary thing there.” “Why are these steps so slimy?” Joy clutched the bannister. “You’re walking on wood that’s always soaked, and slime grows well on that.” I pretended I knew the answer. I noticed Bennet was helping Carole by supporting her with his arm. I didn’t want to admit I was jealous. “Are we really under the falls?” Joy kept her head down. “Will we go into a dark cave?” “It’s called Cave-of-the-Winds,” I sounded out each syllable, “because we are under the cascade in this one area where the sound is as loud from the steep falling water onto rocks, and the splatters, as the real wind moving around.” I looked up but my eyes caught forceful spraying water. “We can touch the falls. What an exciting thing!” The water’s sound was incredible. “Mom and Dad are really missing this. I’m really part of the rushing drop and not just standing on some observation desk looking down at it.” My clothes were damp under the slicker, and my hair quite wet. I loved the sensation. Later that evening, after dinner, we saw the falls lit up with pretty colored lights. My parents hugged, as they always did anyway. Carole and Bennet made silly faces at one another. Joy talked about the wax figures in the museum and how very real they looked. I thought about the porcelain cups and saucers with red roses decorations, and my mother, who told me I should put these away for my trousseau and remember buying them at a pretty China shop in another country. Was that supposed to make me feel better about being a middle child? Well, I’d 'used’ that middle-child thing a lot and couldn't play on her sympathy for being ‘caught’ in a never first/never last situation. I don't think she realized I was in love with the idea of being in love until I blurted out, “I hope my next vacation won't be with family but rather with a husband of mine.” The eight-hour train ride home was as quick as that going. We got on a sleeper, in our private compartment attached by doors to the newlyweds on one side and my parents on the other. We had dinner on the train, went to sleep, and awoke in New York City. Silly wishes sometimes become realities; my father died two years later and I never again did take a family vacation. And two years after that, I walked down the aisle with my mother, and a void my father left that couldn't ever be filled. Platinum polish lacked warmth. And Niagara Falls always reminded me of statements that can reach Fate's ears, yet I live, now, only 90 miles from that area. Summer 1999, my daughter and her family drove up from Cincinnati, Ohio, so my husband and son-in-law could be golf partners in a country club tournament in Rochester, New York. She wanted to go to the Falls and show her two children this wonder , while the guys were on the links. We put on thin blue plastic ponchos for The Maid of the Mist, and the spray in my face made me feel both happy and sad. I still liked water spraying on my skin. Her children, David, age 12, and Jennifer , age 9, were giggling, and we captured our expressions using a throw-away camera. I told them about the heavy, yellow, rubber slickers. An elevator took us to the boat, but I mentioned the cable ride of 1952, and how I thought it might not quickly stop before crashing since it seemed to speed downward. I watched from an observation spot as they walked on wooden steps, Cave of the Winds, but elected not to chance slipping or navigating so many stairs. I saw my sisters and myself in my mind. At lunch, from the highest restaurant tower we found on the Canadian side, my daughter, Sheryl, was completely taken by the exquisite view from so many stories up: I noticed the Hotel Niagara. It looked old, and the odd shape seemed more peculiar. Windows, once so modern, were rectangular eyes and I wondered if the guests inside were looking across the border at the tower we were in. Was it shabby behind its brick facade? Did any other hotel ever copy its strange, yet unique form? How many happy/sad stories did plaster walls hear? Was another girl, taking parents' love and life for granted, prancing around the lobby showing off her pearlized nail polish? I mentioned I'd stayed there in 1952, and it was a pricey place then. Then. So long ago. I didn't want to spill out my immature actions, and hurtful statement about not wanting anymore family vacations as if I were ‘cool’, but found my lips revealing such. So long ago. Words that I've regretted. Parents dead. The Falls area changed. A casino, more roadways and congestion. My grandson had bought a computer mousepad at a gift shop after the Cave of the Winds walk. Computers. Certainly didn't exist in 1952. Neither did air- conditioned cars, cell phones, camcorders, for starters. But the falls keep falling. Water keeps rushing. Visitors with similar wishes, or feelings, or regrets, or cooing at new mates move between two countries without needing passports. Change, yet unchanged. My grandchildren listened to my outpourings with wisdom I didn't have when older than they. David said it was all right now, and Jennifer said she loved me. Sheryl has always been available to hear my tales about my past as I presented a real me with flaws as well as assets. She was glad I was sharing this with her children. I was more than Grandma.. . multi-dimensional with sensitivity and sometimes self-anger. The Rainbow Bridge connected and confronted me with an unresolved past. But I knew now that the 90-mile trip would be one made often because there are memories of a special day with Sheryl and her children. ©2000 The Jewish Press Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies. Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian. The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade. a ladder is to climbThe softcover book, given to me at age thirteen, was called "Ten Rungs" by Martin Buber. The philosophical sayings were different from the philosophy books my dad used to read to me many evenings, yet meaningful as well. "In every man there is something precious, which is in no one else." I just knew that was totally true even at my very young age. Also, in this same paperback, it said: "For if someone like him had already been, there would be no reason for him to be in this world." I still find, decades and decades later, these two comments to be almost opposite. Not being self-absorbed, I did and still do feel unique. I could easily use biology to defend that no one else alive has my fingerprints or DNA. My personality, experiences, environment, health, emotional growth, as examples, sets me apart and giving has always been more ‘comfortable’ than receiving. But many of these traits are universal. How I’ve used them may define ‘me’. "For if someone like him had already been, there would be no reason for him to be in this world." There was no one like my dad, and that isn't because he was only in his forties when he died. But there is always a reason for someone like him to actually be in this world because he displayed sensitivity and caring for others, had a remarkable work ethic, and so forth. Shouldn’t there be justification for humankind, in general, to have the traits he had with his ability to love unconditionally, encourage others, and be an example of virtue? My notes in margins of “Ten Rungs” showed I questioned this comment. One of my granddaughters is taking a course on the human predicament. I mentioned that I had a predicament regarding humanism, and gave her these two quotes to think about. If there’s one intelligent, compassionate, generous, selfless, and so forth, shouldn’t the quote about not having another like him be totally disregarded? Shouldn’t we want him cloned? He (or she) would’t lose the precious-uniqueness since we come to our values from many routes, but I see more circumstances that call for the special substance of quiet greatness than only individuality. The book my dad read to me was "Little Journeys to the Homes of the Great" the volume called "Philosophers". Elbert Hubbard put that together. I liked, by Socrates, "Knowing the man, we know what he would do; and knowing what he did, we know the man." And "Life to him was a precious privilege, and what were regarded at unpleasant experiences were as much a part of life as the pleasant ones..". And this: "You know yourself by watching yourself to see what you do when you are thwarted, crossed, contradicted, or deprived of certain things supposed to be desirable." Oh how valuable it is to actually notice our personal responses when we are contradicted and deprived! There’s an invisible mirror beginning in childhood. Yet it takes getting old to know that life is a privilege. The young and healthy see time as unlimited and expect vigor and happiness to extend the proverbial ‘forever’. Why shouldn’t they? It makes those quick-passing years special. Accepting that sadness and loss is as much a part of life as joy and gain also takes maturing. So when does our ‘precious, which-is-in-no-one else’ actually hit us as a truism? I guess the fact that it evolves makes it possible to deal with Buber’s ‘no reason for him to be in this world’ and any acceptance of this is individual. Couldn’t it be wonderful if the planet had another Albert Einstein to pen simple statements like these: “That we are here for the sake of other men —above all for those upon whose smile and well-being our own happiness depends...” “Everyone should be respected as an individual, but no one idolized.” ? My grandchild’s school assignment allowed me to continue to expand my knowledge, and also dig into beliefs and agree or challenge what I assumed was automatic. Life is a privilege. Yes, Socrates, it still is. ©2017 The American Humanist Association
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