In a corner of my office sits an old plaster of paris "tree"
of flowers that weighs every bit of twenty pounds or so. Chipped in
various places, many might consider it an eyesore. Certainly many would
have thrown it away long ago.
In most cases, I would have too.
However, I happen to love the artist and every chip tells a story.
One chip speaks of the time I moved from Indiana to Oklahoma. Another
tells of when it was knocked over by the door it used to hold open. Yet
another scarred portion brings to mind the time that my daughter's
half-sister Casi, whom I adore, picked it up to ask me what it was, and
dropped it screaming when she saw a spider on it...onto a concrete
floor. I think one could even tattle about the time I tried to use it as
a hammer in my new house, before my tools were unpacked.
Yes, every single ugly mark has something to say -- together they weave
the story of my life.
Did I mention I love the artist?
The artist is my mother; yet not the mother I know today or even the
mother I knew eighteen years ago when I graduated from high school. In
fact, not even the mother I knew 25 years ago as a young girl. This is
the young mother; the mother that was barely twenty years old.
The mother that though she was in an unhappy marriage and working, at
times even at not just one, but two jobs, took the time to do something
for herself -- take classes on how to create with plaster of paris.
The mother that I remember cuddling up with on the bed in the "TV
Room" in our New York home and watching "The Price is
Right."
The mother that I can still recall taking me to the friend's house that
was taking the same class with her so I could play with her children --
one was born the same day as me. In fact, that's how they met, in the
hospital giving birth to us.
This is the same mother that was in a strange state, over 1500 miles
from her family, with odd speaking people. People that absolutely adored
her Texas accent, I might add.
The mother that lovingly fashioned this tree of flowers for her
grandmother, our Nanny. When she passed away at the age of 85 almost
sixteen years ago, my mother then passed it along to me, telling me how
much Nanny always loved this tree of flowers.
Yet, isn't this the same mother I still remember today?
I believe so -- I see her every week when she picks up my daughter, her
precious Kallie-doll, and takes her home for a mid-week
"weekend" with Grandma and Papa.
I see her when she has tears in her eyes watching her only daughter
loving and caring for HER only daughter.
Again I feel that mother when I confide my soul to her...and she to me.
Still she's there when, together, we remember the past, dream of the
future, and cherish every today.
Yes, I love the artist and I love that old chipped plaster of paris tree
of flowers. I don't imagine I'll ever rid myself of that "ugly
eyesore" -- it whispers to me of the love between my Nanny, my
Mother, myself and my daughter. It also beckons me with memories of the
mother I knew then who happens to be the very same one I love today.
That, my dear friends, is something that cannot be purchased at the
newest super mall with mere money.
© 2001 Lynelle Dawson
All rights reserved. No part of this article may be
redistributed, rewritten or republished without permission of the author
Here
are some links to more of Lynelle's beautiful writings
The Wheels on The Bus
Going
Catty With Lynelle Dawson
Kisses to Heaven
