But, I remember her today. And a few things things that bring her back to me.
She wore White Shoulders. Syrupy sweet gardenia, and other florals. It smelled like her. When I smell gardenia anything...it's my mom. I don't even know if you can find that anymore. I loved that smell. In fact, for awhile there was a bottle left from her house, and I wore it for awhile. But it wasn't the same. When I encounter that scent, either on another woman, or a fleeting memory scent; it's like she's here. It only belonged to her. Sure my sister and I would try to find our signature scents, we ran through a collection of Estee Lauder and high priced designer fragrances, I don't know if we've ever settled on "our fragrance". But my mom did. Probably for more than 50 some years, she never strayed (at least too far- there was a moment when she was Elizabeth Ardened by the sales woman at The Bon) but White Shoulders defined her. In fact,when I was little I would look at the cameo silhouette of the woman and her naked shoulders on the bottle next to my moms lipsticks and jewelry box, I was convinced it was my mom.
Her handwriting. It was perfect. You don't even see it anymore. Completely stylized, perfect formed cursive writing. Since she was deaf, her handwriting defined her personality. Somewhat formal, deft, intricate, and perfect. Like her. It sort of was a sense of frustration to us as a family, because her handwriting if anything was a production. Writing a check at the grocery store; took preparation, the correct pen (never red, or black-only blue) and the check at the right angle, and it would take her at least 3 to 4 minutes to write out the check. Forty-five dollars and 69/100 ~~~~~~~~~DOLLARS. Certainly not a swipe of a debit card or a hastily scribbled out check. Her signature was the same-every time and there was never a short cut. Perfect F E H p e. Always.
To the check-out clerk and people behind her in line,what that was about they could never figure out; but for my mom it was her purpose to write the perfect note, letter, phrase or assignment on the blackboard or white board. In a cursive or print style that was so perfect it was text book. I've often wondered why she was so attentive to her writing style. Was it something drilled into her during her years at the Deaf school? "Make sure you write clearly so people will understand you, and make sure it is graceful and beautiful because that is the impression you leave?" I think so. Because that is the impression she left on many people.
I came across a heartbreaking memento recently in my moms collection of things. It haunts me. My mother spent her life not in her family home, but in a school. A school she was sent away to because of her deafness. For her it was a refuge, because there she was with people who could communicate with her, teach her, and help her become the wonderful woman she became. Her family home, was perhaps difficult at times. Her parents were not communicative with her. They tried to learn her sign language, but I know it must have been a barrier. So in her family, she was isolated. But these mementos I found recently sort of are a peek into a loving relationship with her mom and dad- it was something she obviously treasured.
My mom had a "notebook" of signatures, poems people would write, maybe an autograph or two. I think it was sort of like a personal "year book". The book is gone, but she saved two of the pages. I ALMOST threw them away thinking they were scrap notes that she had hundreds of because deaf people always save notes. I'm so glad I didn't.
Her dad wrote in it: July 1945 - She was 13
" Blue waters may between us roll and distance be our lot; but if we fail to meet again dear Flo, forget me not." Dad.
Her mom wrote in it: July 1945
" Be good sweet maid and let who will be clever. Do noble things, not dream them all day long. And so make a life, death and that vast forever- one grand sweet song." Your mother.
I cried the first time I read those notes. I keep them now as a memory of her and her life.
Happy Birthday Mom. I love you.
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| Mom writing a order for the waitress |
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