There was a magnificent mango tree in my mother’s yard. Its spreading branches created a dark, cool canopy where you could sit comfortably out of the Florida sun and tropical heat. There was something exotic about that tree and its luscious fruit which ripened mid-summer.
I often mused about what luscious jam mangos would make. So, if the harvest was good, Mom being Mom, would send me a box of mangoes so that I could make my fantasy preserves, which, if you count the cost of postage, were among the most expensive jams in the world.
My mother lived in a vintage house in St. Petersburg. We visited Mom over the winter school breaks. She adored those visits, planning for months ahead. The house was cleaned top to bottom, roll away beds secured and made up meticulously. She collected information about local attractions and planned for at least one picnic at Fort DeSoto.
We arrived, ready to enjoy warmer weather and spend one exhausting day at Disney World. The rest was up to Mom’s planning, our energy and which child had become ill. Ask me where the pediatricians’ offices are in St.Pete. Mom would suggest a visit to the Tyrone Square Mall, or a trip to the Suncoast Seabird Sanctuary or an afternoon at the turn of the 20th Century Heritage Village. It was all fun but strangely uncomfortable. Mom did everything. She was the chief cook and bottle washer in addition to being the travel agent for the Gulf Coast.
Mothers and daughters have a byzantine relationship complicated by a fierce love and a consistently-negotiated dance of who is taking care of whom.
I wanted my mother to enjoy our company. I didn’t want her to exhaust herself in our service. I wanted her to know that I was a grown up, capable and caring as she. I didn’t want her to exhaust herself. She was getting older.
With that in mind, I would get up very early and make my way to the kitchen intent on making breakfast for everyone, giving my Mom some time off from her duties as major domo. As hot as the days were, mornings were pleasant and when I opened the little window over the sink, that mild morning air would rush in accompanied by the calls of the mourning dove. As I began to organize for breakfast, it never failed, Mom’s mother’s ears were still functioning and she would be standing in the doorway arguing for me to cease and desist. It would be back and forth for a while until we both sat with a cup of coffee and talked. Unplanned and pleasant, these dialogs were about small things … about her little dog, the children, work, her volunteering, the gardens … the everyday things that made up our lives. We made breakfast together.
I absolutely refused to let her do our laundry. The washing machine was in the garage. There was no dryer but there was a clothes line. I would start to hang the clothes when she would appear to help, reminding me to turn the clothes inside out to prevent fading. After the clothes were safely pinned we would retreat to the chairs under the mango, sipping iced tea and continuing our mother-daughter conversations. There were no contentious topics, just questions and declarative statements about our lives, as sweet as the fruit that was ripening on the tree.
It’s only now, when I have grandchildren, that I realize how important it was to my mother to plan for our visits, to prepare the house, plan the meals and outings. It was her way of expressing her love during the few days when we were together with all of the affection unexpressed in the days we were apart, to recapture, in so many ways the lost days when we were children at home and she was the Mom.
My children and grandchildren live nearer to me than we did to her, but I know now how easy it is to want to say “I love you” without words in the preparations, the wrappings, the extras that I do when we are together. It’s my way, like it was her way, to be Mom again.
