I've posted this before. It's an entry that honors my mother. I think of her every day. I miss her.


*****


On a good day my mother was outrageously difficult. She was schizophrenic and her disability grew bigger and uglier with each passing year. Though my mother was a lunatic, she was my lunatic and I loved her. She was my mother.

Despite her troubled thinking, she once said, "Irene, you've been the love of my life."

That's quite an amazing statement, because schizophrenics usually don't express themselves that way. In fact, I don't think healthy people express themselves that way often enough.

*****

A relative once snarled at me, "You're just like Dorothea." I smiled and thanked her.

My mother was beautiful and brilliant and one of the most creative people I ever knew.

She was also a hard-working, dedicated social worker. An article was once written about her and it observed, "The world needs more people like Dorothea." Hmmm, that suggests all kinds of quippy remarks, but instead I'll state my obvious - my mother could pull off normalcy when it was required, but it was a fragile balance. She was on the brink all the time.

As a social worker, my mother gave more of herself than most. She had her Masters in Gerontology long before it was a widely known field of expertise. As a caseworker, she went far beyond the scope of her job description. She was a remarkable humanitarian - known to wash the feet of the people she visited - and clip their toenails. She cared deeply for the elderly and the plight of their loneliness.

My mother was also a trained Sous Chef. Bet few of you knew that fast fact! A touch of nutmeg in her mashed potatoes was her secret ingredient. Shhhhh.

She planted a victory garden every spring because I think every year, month, week, and day was a victory in life for her.

She had a fearless flair for color and design. I think it's pretty safe to surmise my mother never colored within the lines. Good heavens! Why would she when there was all that freedom beyond the lines!

She never thought outside the box either - because she never had a box.

She was one smart cookie.

She was a fine equestrian who rode the hunt with the best of them. I remember as a child attending lavish hunt breakfasts while she was out chasing down God knows what.

She allowed my sister and me to have chickens as house pets.

She played the piano and sang Gershwin tunes and brought homeless people home so they could have a night with clean sheets. She had organic foods trucked in from Pennsylvania to our Long Island home because she believed in organic foods long before anybody really thought about them. She took the second largest room in our little Cape Cod home and declared it The Music Room. She once dragged a garden hose through the kitchen window for a water fight with my Uncle Richard. OMG! She could be yummy fun. I remember running around squealing with laughter and water spraying all over the kitchen and dripping down the walls & ceiling and everyone getting wet and laughing.

My mother.

She was amazing.

She drove a Borgward Isabella Coupe - no ordinary family station wagon for this woman!





I can remember sitting in our living room and my mother pointing to the treetops visible through a large window. In a prayer-like wispy whisper she said, "Look... see the spirits in the trees." I was still quite young and tried my very best to find them, but only saw branches and leaves. Yet, I thought my mother was magical and so very, very special, and I knew that the spirits were there - I just knew they were! And if I kept looking, I was certain I'd see them someday.

There's so much more that was remarkably beautiful about my remarkable & beautiful mother, but the point I especially want to make here is that you understand why I thanked the snarling relative who thought she was handing me an insult.

I was pleased as punch.