Mother's Day

So I asked Charlie what he was getting me for Mother's Day and he said, "Nothing. You aren't my mother!"

"Yeah," says I, "But I'm the mother of your children".

This conversation has taken place every May since our firstborn. Why should this year be any different?

Seriously, blog readers. This is one of the most significant days of celebration since Eve. My mother, Esther Brown, passed a few years ago at age 100. I still think about her on a daily basis. Actually I talk to her every day. Some of her ashes are still in a cigar box in my bedroom. She would have objected to such pretentious finery as a porcelain urn. It's a nice wooden box…

Before she died she said she wanted her ashes to be scattered at the corner of Central and Addison on the Northwest side of Chicago. I haven't been back to see her since a few days after her last birthday in April 'o7. But the other day I felt her presence strongly. It could have been the huge package of her oil paintings my brother shipped to me. I asked if he had any mementoes I could leave to her six grandchildren out here. Two packages of paintings have arrived and crocheted doilies are on their way, Harry promised.

When Esther Brown wasn't walking the streets of Chicago…not what you're thinkin'.… my mom loved to walk… she was either crocheting or knitting and in her later years, painting and snapping pictures of all the clocks around the city to publish on postcards and sell to tourists. In her early years she loved to cook up a storm and feed us many wonderful meals. It wasn't her Swedish mother who taught her to cook, it was my other grandma, her mother-in-law, Emma Bruder from whom she learned how to create wonderful German cuisine.

Hilda, the Swede, burned everything she cooked. I take after her. My kids can cook like my mother and their German great grandma.

I am currently going through Finnish and Swedish recipes from which my mother learned. She had one called Swedish meatballs that makes my mouth water to even think about them. Stuffed cabbage rolls was another favorite of mine. Grandma Hilda used to try to bake applecakes (Appelkake), but you could break a toe if you accidentally dropped it on your foot. You get the picture.

When I was a youngster Grandma would have me sit at the kitchen table and wait for her to make a cup of cocoa for me. Then she showed me how to "saucer and blow" 'til it was cool enough to drink. She always had store-bought cookies on hand, or donuts from Schlosser's bakery near her house. In Chicago in those days a bakery truck would drive down the alleys and women would rush out to buy bread fresh from the bakery. One of my favorites was Rubschlager's pumpernickel bread. I haven't tasted anything like it since moving out west.

Back to the paintings: Mother never painted on canvas until she was in her 80s. My brother, Harry, also an artist, encouraged her and she took classes from an art teacher who lived nearby. The teacher took a couple of her pictures to the Art Institute of Chicago to have them checked out by a professional. As a result Mom was offered a scholarship for a semester at that prestigious school and she was off to the races. It really was a race. She began producing canvases and canvo boards, anything she could paint on 'til she had an impressive portfolio. And she didn't stop there. She also learned to make her own frames. She began to speak a new language that included "miters" and "skill saw".

She still crocheted and knitted doilies, scarves and hats and colorful afghans and near the end in a nursing facility she could no longer paint because there was not enough room to keep all the gear. So she took her tote bag full of yarn and needles and found a comfy spot in the lobby and went to work. One of the residents asked her to make a doily for her and she said, "I'll show you how so you can make your own."

I wish I could give my mother one more kiss and hug. Happy Mother's Day to all mothers, sisters, aunts, daughters and sons of mothers out there.