I don’t speak often of my mother. She wasn’t terribly maternal, let’s just say. When I encounter a memory of her, though, I greet it more warmly with each passing year. As a mother, myself, no surprise that I’ve become more forgiving of my mother’s parenting flaws, just as I hope that my daughters can be about mine (my flaws differ from my mother’s, but are flaws nonetheless).
My mother stood six feet tall, was outspoken and hot-tempered. Gentle and patient, no. Emotionally distant and intimidating, yes. Growing up with my mother was not for the faint of heart. Strangely, perhaps, I’ve become almost grateful for that. The grade school bullies and high school mean girls didn’t stand a chance in their efforts to intimidate me. They didn’t live with my mother. My mother. Some part of her has always been with me — from school yard to board room, from powder room to podium — like an armour. To this day, feeling intimidated by someone is something I’m not quite sure how to do. I am thankful for that, thankful to her.
What else is there to say about my mother? Well, she insisted on a home that was clean yet comfortable. She was quick-witted, highly organised, knew how to work hard (and did). There were very few luxuries that mattered to her, but one of them was a good stereo system, so there was music playing every day. On weekends, it was loud. She would dance around the house and I remember asking her, once, when I was very young, how she knew how to dance. “You just listen and feel the music,” she told me.
My mother died when she was in her forties. I have now outlived her.
On the second Sunday in May, when I think of my mother, I think of each day that I have had, that she did not, and I am thankful for each one, and for her. Then I put on some music, turn up the volume, loud, and dance around the house … on this day, in honour of my mother.
a few words ... from Montréal 