What my mother instilled in me is often veiled in secrecy, hushed whispers, dimly lit corners, and the touch of her hand on my arm.
She revealed that the best gingerbread is made with blackstrap molasses, ideally mixed the day after Thanksgiving.
She taught me that while laundry can feel like an unending chore, it can be hung almost anywhere—on a rope, a branch, a hanger, or even draped over the back of a rustic chair. It can be wrung out in a sink or hung on a shower curtain rod, or even passed through hand-cranked rollers beneath the birch trees where we washed our summer clothes in the lake.
Laundry can also be dried in a sleek Kenmore dryer, equipped with a fragrance dispenser, which infuses memories of scented t-shirts with nostalgia. I recall my mother standing over the washer, gripping the white enamel edge, her emotions barely contained as she faced the grief of losing her sister’s newborn—a tragedy I had never understood until later.
She taught me that the piles of socks, underwear, and tank tops can be transformed into neat stacks. There’s an art in putting these away quickly before the tower of blue jeans topples, an act she deemed a “damn shame” if undone.
Through her, I learned about life’s energy and fleeting hours, how as time passes, my daughters may mimic her laughter, replicate her turkey gravy, and set the table with napkins and candles just like she did, yet remain distanced from the deeper parts of her soul—the unspoken truths tucked away in the corners of her heart.
This article was originally published on May 9, 2014.
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In summary, the lessons from my mother are woven into the fabric of my life—timeless teachings that echo through laughter, labor, and love, even as they remain shrouded in unspoken emotions.