OK, this is really scary

Me and Max, December 2012

[The Man I Love] posted a photo he took of our son and me on his Facebook page. We were sitting in a Bethnal Green pub, browsing a map of London on an I-phone

It made me remember a photo I posted in this blog a couple of years ago, of my mother and her oldest son - my brother S - doing a crossword puzzle together.

S and Mom, 2007

 Life repeats, there are human patterns that recur from generation to generation. Moms instruct their children, no matter how mature they are.

Of course, this usually doesn't take place in a pub........!

Happy Mother's Day!

In downtown Los Angeles' wholesale flower district

Have a wonderful Mother's Day! Do something nice for your mom!

Click photo to "embiggen."

Mother's Day

This is my mom in 1964 or 1965 or thereabouts. While I was growing up, I knew my mom was beautiful. It was just a fact - obvious. But it wasn't something anyone talked about, least of all her. In fact, she was so shy about herself that she seldom agreed to have her picture taken. This is one of the few pictures I could find of that era.

She wasn't much for girl-talk. Her shyness kept her somewhat aloof from other mothers - no neighborhood kaffee-klatches or gab-fests at our house.

My education as a girl was not what you might call comprehensive. She didn't teach me how to curl my hair or put on makeup. She didn't really practice those arts herself - she had her hair done once a week at the "beauty parlor" and as for makeup, she'd slick on a lipstick quickly with only a glance in a mirror, blot her lips and forget about it.

She did enjoy style, and I was her willing pupil in those arts. When we had drapes and slip-covers made, she shared swatches with me to compare together. She decorated my bedroom - helping me choose cotton chintz printed with Degas' ballerinas in gold.

She had a classic sense of fashion, and enjoyed clothes that fit well and flattered. I remember trips to town for school clothes, where she showed me how to match patterns and colors - the plaid skirt that could be paired with a blue top or a red top.

Above all, she loved to garden. Whether it was petunias in the dooryard of our small Pennsylvania house, the ambitious rose garden in Illinois, or the wildflower woods at our New Jersey home, she had to have a garden. Even during the last years she lived in her Texas home, she loved her garden, and made sure the winter pansies were set in before she left it.

She's almost 85 now, and lives in a small apartment in an assisted living facility near family. When she left her home last autumn, she didn't look back.

She and my father, who died in 2002, kept and carried along with them almost every material possession they gained during over 50 years of marriage. They even took in possessions left by other family members as they passed away. But when Mom decided to move, she let go of all that. She took a suitcase, some treasured trinkets and photos, and little else.

Along with the house, she left behind the furniture, the piano, the records, her books, the waste baskets, the lawn mower, the dishes, old letters and photographs. Each of her children kept something to remember, but the rest was sold by estate-sale liquidators.

I have the photographs - where I found this picture of her - slim and elegant in this simple linen dress. She was probably 38 or 40 years old here.

When I packed Mom's suitcase for the trip north, I went through her dresser and her closet. She didn't need the Ferragamo pumps or the silk blouses or the skirt suit anymore. They would fetch a good price in the sale. But I took a couple of scarves she used to wear - and I wear them to remind me of her sense of style. Today I'm wearing a '60's era silk square, fresh green and aqua by the designer Vera.

Thanks, Mom.

Mother's Day

On Mother's Day, motherhood is so sentimentalized we forget the day-in-day-out chores of motherhood. Now that I'm a mother myself, I know how unglamorous it can sometimes be, stuck with a couple of kids - kids who are so absorbed and delighted with scooping sand into buckets that they don't even know you're there.

I love this photo of my mother. Just steps away from her chair, my brother and I were playing in a sandbox, busy busy busy.

I don't know what her thoughts were. Was she bored? Dreaming? Was she wondering why she, a recent college graduate in Chemistry, was now sitting by a sandbox watching two toddlers? Was she simply relaxed, caught in between smiles or words? Was she wishing someone not take her picture?

But there she is. Watching us play. Committed to being our Mom, through all the dull moments and all the sweet ones.

Mom and Brother S., working on a crossword puzzle together.

We're just more fun to play with now.

Farewell to Texas

These pink azaleas are blooming in the garden of my mother's house. This week the house goes on the market. The realtor gave a tour for agents yesterday and feedback is good - it should sell, and he's got it priced right.

My brothers and I have spent the last several days clearing out - taking the things we want and the things Mom has asked for, shredding old papers, throwing away trash. We're working with a small business that will host a sale in the house and sell everything else, for a percentage of the sales. They were a little disappointed at how much cleaning and clearing we'd already done - but we left enough behind.

We were unable to conduct such a sale long-distance, so we feared our only choice would be to donate everything to Goodwill or throw it away. Then we heard about the company we're working with. Even though I don't want or need much of the stuff in the house, it's nice to think that someone will clean, price, and display so many things I remember from childhood, and that someone else will see them as treasures to bring home.

Goodbye to the house, goodbye to East Texas. I kept some treasures, and I'll share them with you later.

East Texas scenes

Here are some scenes of the East Texas town that my Mom recently left, after living there for almost twenty years. I took some photos during this month's visit.

During the day, when Mom was settled in with her books or her crosswords or her Sudoko, I would go out and take a walk around her neighborhood.

The street where Mom lived is in a wooded area, and the houses are pretty far apart. Although most of the native vegetation on the lots was cleared when the houses were built, there are some vacant lots in between houses, and they are thick with tall trees and foliage that feels primordial. You can really understand why this part of Texas is called the Piney Woods.

In this part of Texas the native trees are loblolly pine, longleaf pine, hickory, dogwood, and redbud. Nineteen oak species grow here, having adapted to the acid soils and high rainfall. Pines are commercially harvested here, and you often encounter logging trucks on the two-lane back roads.

Outside of town, there are farms. One of Mom's friends farms cattle south of town, and there are many chicken farms that contract for some of the country's largest chicken producers. This pasture with horses, goats, and a few cows is on the road to Mom's old neighborhood.

The town itself is home to one of Texas's state universities, and the campus dominates the northern part of town. The main road through town is lined with the usual fast food and chain restaurants, along with supermarkets, big pharmacies, liquor stores and other retail.

What I like is the small original downtown, which, like many Texas towns, is built around a central square. The streets are paved in red brick, and the buildings date from the mid 19th century. I've posted about it before here, here and also here. There are lots of antique shops here. This small mercantile store is an example of how the town values its history.

North of the town square is an historic residential neighborhood, with well-kept houses that range from magnificent to modest. This Victorian with amazing fretwork and gingerbread is a landmark.

This 1920's bungalow sits next door to its twin. I love the low lines.

The railroad tracks take a curve south of the town square, and when you go to the other side of the tracks, you find some of the older industrial establishments, like this plant for Lone Star Feeds, whose tower and sign is a distinct landmark in this neighborhood of small, sometimes shabby cottages.

Although I'm so thankful we've been able to make a change that will improve Mom's life, I'll miss being able to visit this beautiful little town.

Swedish rescue

When we moved Mom into her new place, the management allowed me to spend the first two nights with her, making sure she was settled and didn't have trouble finding her way around the place. But no matter how much you love someone, spending a lot of time together in a small space can be exhausting.

On the second day, my brother came to the rescue. He suggested we let Mom go to the dining room herself and get acquainted with her new neighbors, while we went out to lunch. He brought me to Stockholm's, a little brew pub on State Street in downtown Geneva, Illinois.

The place was dark, old-fashioned, with a great old 1930's style back bar. Swedish and Danish flags were proudly displayed - reminding me of Geneva's Scandinavian heritage. Each summer, Geneva has a big street festival called Swedish Days. When we lived in this area, back when I was in grade school, Geneva was the town we'd come to on Saturdays, to see matinee movies at the small cinema, and where Mom would take me shopping for school clothes, at the Merra-Lee Shop. The cinema is now a restaurant, but Merra-Lee is still there.

Geneva is the county seat of Kane County, and Stockholm's is only a couple blocks from the courthouse. The lunch crowd looked like lawyers and local business people. The TV was on low, and the atmosphere was quiet, dark and restful.

They brew their own beer and ale at Stockholm's. We ordered a couple of pints of light golden ale called Aegir's ale, and some sandwiches.

I looked around. It seemed timeless. At the bar, the stools each had little brass nameplates on the back, for the "regulars."

Local barrooms aren't generally featured in the memories of schoolchildren, so I don't know whether Stockholm's was there when I was little, or if it was a new place crafted to look old. The wall painting of a Viking ship under full sail tugged a little at my memory banks - was it familiar? Had I seen it as a child, perhaps, from the sidewalk, or from a passing car?


No matter. We sipped our pints, and shared my french fries. Stockholm's was a fine place to spend a cold November afternoon, and catch up with one of the nicest people I know - my brother.

Pink Saturday - Love note

It's Pink Saturday. Visit Beverly at How Sweet the Sound, and see posts from other bloggers inspired by the color pink!

We were cleaning out the drawers of the two bedside tables in Mom's bedroom. My nephew will be driving a van full of some of her stuff up to Chicago later this month, so my brother and I were preparing things for him.

One of the things about my parents is that they never threw anything away. We moved seven times between my birth and graduation. Yet even now, Mom's house has things I remember from childhood. And I'm not talking just about china, furniture and keepsakes - I'm talking about the same bathroom wastebasket, the same saucepans, the same cheese grater with the broken handle ("It still works.")

I found this pink florist's note in the table on Dad's side. It had a pressed, crumpled pink grosgrain ribbon attached. This note would have been written in September, 1945.

Dad and Mom met at the University of Texas, when, struggling in Chemistry Lab, he asked the best student in class to help him study. They had a whirlwind romance, and were married in April of 1945. They were together until Dad passed away in early 2002.

When I showed it to Mom, she smiled. He was always buying her flowers back then, she said, even when he couldn't afford them.

The Road Trip

On Saturday morning, my brother and I packed up his car with everything we needed to travel with our Mom from East Texas to the Chicago area. She was leaving the home where she'd lived since 1989, and moving into an assisted living facility closer to her family. We had the clothes she needed for the next couple of weeks, some household items, and treasured keepsakes. We had a cooler full of refreshments and snacks. We had her books, her crossword puzzles, and her Sudoku books. We had spare reading glasses, pencils, a cozy crocheted afghan to keep her warm, and pillows. We had about a dozen pillows.

While we packed the car, Mom stayed in her bed, waiting for the moment we could escort her out and settle her in the luxuriously prepared back seat of the car.

I was tucking some last minute items away in the cargo area, and my brother was tidying something in the garage, when I heard a faint cry from inside the house. I looked up to see my brother fling some object away from him and dash into the kitchen. I quickly followed.

She'd fallen several times in the last month, and we'd come to recognize her cry of alarm - had she taken a spill?

Thankfully, no - Mom was in the hallway, upright with her walker, saying, "Someone's at the door!"

"Geez, you scared the hell outta me," said my brother. Then he went to answer the door.

It was her neighbor, D., come to say farewell.

D. and his wife had been very kind to my mom, more than I can even express here. They'd invited her to their home for holiday gatherings, they'd kept an eye on her house, and in her recent infirmity, they'd been available when she needed care.

D. is an enthusiastic rose gardener, and he brought a blossom to see Mom off with. My brother found a bud vase in Mom's china cabinet, and brought it into the car.

So when we set out, leaving the house behind us, D.'s rose came with us. Here it is as we drove north on US 59.

We drove as far as Little Rock, Arkansas, that first day. The second day, we drove north through the Ozarks, in the beautiful rolling hill country. The rose was a great reminder of a cherished home for Mom, while ahead the road stretched on.

I have a lot of pictures and stories to share about our trip. We had some laughs; we had some annoyances. We saw beautiful sights, some weird things as well, and enjoyed each other's company. I'll share those things later, but for now I just want to say - It was a good trip to be taking - my brother, my mother, and me.

We spent the second night in Missouri, in a huge tawdry hotel next to an amusement park, empty and echoing now in the off-season of November.

When we left the next morning, the windshield was covered with frost. We knew we were heading North.

We continued on, and soon crossed the Mississippi and drove into Illinois. "Look, Mom. There's the arch. You're now in Illinois," I said. "It's your new home state."

The land flattened out, and we drove north through the state, until we arrived at Mom's new home.

My other brother had driven there before us, taking Mom's car packed with more of the things she wanted to keep. He had already put her favorite photos in her room, waiting for her arrival.

When we checked in, we brought the bud vase with D.'s rose, and put it on the table, with the photos of her grandkids.

So - thank you, D., for bringing a beautiful rose to Mom for her journey. I like to think how it traveled with her, and cheered up her new home.

Texas Barbecue

This place out on the Loop road in my Mom's East Texas town has been selling barbecue since 1959. Mom and Dad moved down here in 1989, and this became their favorite barbecue joint.

I never really knew its name before, because my mom and dad always called it "The Good Ole Boy's." Back when my dad was alive, each time we visited, he'd take [The Man I Love] or Our Son with him to go pick up a pound or so of sliced beef. Since making a run for barbecue wasn't an errand for girls, I was never really sure where the place was.

On this trip, I had a craving for barbecue. Mom had to tell me where the Good Ole Boys had moved to, after a shopping mall development displaced them. And of course, she couldn't remember what their real name was - for her, too, they were just the Good Ole Boys.

It's a small town, so I didn't have too much trouble finding them. The place earns brownie points for authenticity because they have a cow on the roof.

In Texas, barbecue means beef, not pork. Mom told me what she wanted me to get. I picked up some barbecued beef brisket by the pound, a couple of sides of beans and cole slaw, and some extra sauce on the side. They had some tasty looking peach and berry cobbler, but we already had some dessert at home. Mom and I had a nice dinner. The beef was good, tender, but with the real taste of smoke. The sauce was nice and tangy. The beans were made with small navy beans, and tasted like the barbecue sauce - as it should be. The cole slaw was a little, bland - but who goes to a barbecue joint for the cole slaw?

The following day Mom and I had a good lunch with barbecue beef sandwiches. She has a good appetite, when the eating is good.

Mother's Day

I started this blog for many reasons, most of them selfish, but one of the reasons was so that My Mom, who lives in East Texas, could read it, and look at the photos, and enjoy my stories and dumb commentary.

This is My Mom with me in 1954 when I was born.

My Mom is a brilliant woman. She has a sharp, analytical mind. At 81, she does Sudoku and crossword puzzles everyday - she does the New York Times crosswords in PEN! - and has a vast compendium of knowledge of geneology, history, horticulture, and science.

She grew up as the youngest child of a farm family in a rural Texas community where she wasn't expected to be much more than a wife and mother. She went to college - unusual for a girl of her era and upbringing - and met My Dad because he needed her to help him with his Chemistry lab work. And she was beautiful.

They were married soon after they met. She left Texas to join him as he gained his Masters' degree and his Ph.D at other schools. She quit her studies and helped support him by working at a record store in Atlanta. When he went to graduate school at Penn State, she returned to school and completed her degree in Chemistry.

But when My Dad started working, she did what most married women in 1954 did - she settled down and had children, starting with me. After me came Brother One, and then Brothers Two and Three came together, twins.

She's been alone since My Dad died in 2002.

What I really like about this photo is how Mom is smiling - laughing, even - as she looks at me. She looks absolutely delighted with her baby girl. I can only hope I've given her at least a little bit of such delight in the years since.

Mom - If you're reading my blog now - I love you. Happy Mother's Day.

Friday Flower Blogging - Rose of Topanga

When you visit older properties in Topanga, you often encounter this rose. The flowers are tiny, like a miniature rose, and they are an exquisitely delicate shell pink.

The plant, in contrast, is a thick-stemmed monster, with arching canes of blossoms rising high over your head.

This is Climbing 'Cecile Brunner', a sport of the polyantha rose by the same name, registered in 1881. It's sometimes called "The Sweetheart Rose" for its delicate pink blossoms. I like to think of her as the Rose of Topanga, because there are so many plants around this canyon.

My friend Jill claims that Cecile Brunner is what's really holding up the porch on her house - not the posts of the porch. Down the street from us, a 'Cecile Brunner' has engulfed my neighbor's fence whole. In other places, you can see it growing into the trees.

If you want to buy Climbing 'Cecile Brunner', you can find her in garden centers and mail-order nurseries, but I would guess that most of the plants in Topanga were grown from cuttings - and you could do the same.

Growing a rose from a cutting is the easiest thing in the world to do. Not only it is economical and satisfying, it continues a long tradition of gardening that has spread roses around the world, and has preserved antique treasures. Pioneers crossing the continent brought slips of roses to their new homes - some of those roses were in turn brought from their ancestors' homes in Europe. If you had to pick up and leave North Carolina for California, Texas or Iowa, you couldn't always bring grandmother's sideboard, but you could bring a slip of the rose that grew on her grave.

You can use the rose you put in a vase on your dining room table. Or the one your friend brought to work. When you're done enjoying the blossom, cut it off. Then trim the bottom of the stem, diagonally. Keep some of the leaves on the stem if you can. Then stick it into moist dirt, and wait for it to grow roots.

There are lots of variations to the technique. Some people dip the stem into a rooting hormone powder you can buy at the garden center. I have the best success if I root it in a 4- inch pot that I then enclose in a plastic bag - like the ones you get in the produce section at the supermarket - sealed with a twist-tie, and then let it sit in a shady place. Other people just stick the cutting right in the garden, and sometimes put a glass jar on top - you have to make sure it's in a shady place, though - don't do this in blasting sun.

In a couple months, you have a brand new rose bush - for FREE!

Although people associate this with old roses or wild roses, it works with almost any rose. When my mom visited me in Seattle, she was so impressed with an Austin rose in my garden called 'The Yeoman' that she took a slip home to Texas. A couple years after moving to California, I came home from visiting Mom with a slip of 'The Yeoman' from her now mature and blooming shrub - and planted my own shrub.

In some parts of the country there are groups of rosarians who scout old cemetaries and abandonded homesteads searching for old, unidentified roses that they can propagate and save from obscurity. They give their finds temporary names - "Old Cemetary Red" - until after much research, collaboration and discussion, someone manages to identify what it is.

There's something I like about this. We can gift one another with fragrant roses, we can save precious cultivars from dying out, and we can coax life from a green stick and a pot of dirt. Isn't it wonderful?