I am looking at my poor, reddened hands with a certain amount of dismay, but also with a small sense of happiness, for I have inherited my mother’s busy hands. One Mothers’ Day thirty-five years ago I wrote to her about them; having sketched them that summer I knew them intimately and had suddenly recognized my own hands as faithful copies.
And what was her “hand-work”? My mother’s skills were myriad; I think I learned about the work ethic from her. Dad went to work each morning and I unfairly took that for granted as a male-thing, but Mom could have chosen to do considerably less with her day. Instead, she took on sundry tasks: she preserved and baked, knitted and embroidered, and kept our house in order like the other mothers. Like them she volunteered with the church and the city. But she did far, far more. Surprising things. I often found her on the ladder painting the house, inside or out, wearing a jaunty head-scarf. Colour was deeply important to her and if that meant repainting a wall or the siding, so be it. Our house was small but she had decorated it beautifully, filling it with "Swedish modern" (now known as "mid-century teak"); you just had to be careful not to run into the piano in the dark because she, though 5’2,” might have moved it earlier that day. She painted in acrylics, and she listened to me reading my university essays out loud; decades later she wrote them herself and I edited them for her. Always completely herself, Mom gave me a hammer as a shower gift, with a note saying that every woman should have one because she might not be able to find her husband's when she needs to hammer a nail; I thank her every time I have the urge to hang a painting.
Ironically, Mom thought I was too hard on my own hands. I admit that I do far more gardening (weeding) than she ever did (she having had her fill of garden work as a child). My hands are so rough this week after five or six hours of weeding the damned garlic mustard that they are catching on anything smooth; when that happens, I hear her softly chiding me and I briefly resolve to do better. But the big painting I’m finishing (see the website for the current stage) necessitated a series of brush cleaning episodes and so the soft skin boat definitively sailed. Painting or gardening with gloves on is no fun at all, so here we are, Mom. Sorry. Thanks for so much. I miss you, especially this weekend.
I should go find my hammer: there must be a wall of paintings to rearrange. And the piano might look fabulous on that other wall...
And what was her “hand-work”? My mother’s skills were myriad; I think I learned about the work ethic from her. Dad went to work each morning and I unfairly took that for granted as a male-thing, but Mom could have chosen to do considerably less with her day. Instead, she took on sundry tasks: she preserved and baked, knitted and embroidered, and kept our house in order like the other mothers. Like them she volunteered with the church and the city. But she did far, far more. Surprising things. I often found her on the ladder painting the house, inside or out, wearing a jaunty head-scarf. Colour was deeply important to her and if that meant repainting a wall or the siding, so be it. Our house was small but she had decorated it beautifully, filling it with "Swedish modern" (now known as "mid-century teak"); you just had to be careful not to run into the piano in the dark because she, though 5’2,” might have moved it earlier that day. She painted in acrylics, and she listened to me reading my university essays out loud; decades later she wrote them herself and I edited them for her. Always completely herself, Mom gave me a hammer as a shower gift, with a note saying that every woman should have one because she might not be able to find her husband's when she needs to hammer a nail; I thank her every time I have the urge to hang a painting.
Ironically, Mom thought I was too hard on my own hands. I admit that I do far more gardening (weeding) than she ever did (she having had her fill of garden work as a child). My hands are so rough this week after five or six hours of weeding the damned garlic mustard that they are catching on anything smooth; when that happens, I hear her softly chiding me and I briefly resolve to do better. But the big painting I’m finishing (see the website for the current stage) necessitated a series of brush cleaning episodes and so the soft skin boat definitively sailed. Painting or gardening with gloves on is no fun at all, so here we are, Mom. Sorry. Thanks for so much. I miss you, especially this weekend.
I should go find my hammer: there must be a wall of paintings to rearrange. And the piano might look fabulous on that other wall...
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