My mother-in-law loved rhubarb. But she really loved springtime. Because springtime meant fresh local rhubarb, and that meant rhubarb pie. I think that she loved making the pies for her son and husband more than she loved the unique sweet-tart confection.
Since I planted for both of us, we always talked about what to put in the garden. Besides the usual tomatoes (pronounced to-mah-toes), beans, and squash, she would tell me how much she loved new potatoes with the dirt still on them, mesclun greens, blueberries and raspberries fresh from the garden. But what she really wanted was rhubarb. Rhubarb still warm from the sun. So I planted some. Over and over again. Each spring I would wander out to the garden searching for signs of rhubarb. And each spring, when my mother-in-law would ask me, I would shake my head and sigh. “Well, luv,” she would say, “there is always next year.” And so it would go.
My mother-in-law died suddenly last July, before the tomatoes were ripe, and before we had the opportunity to plant again. But this spring, as I sloshed my way out to the garden, I glanced over to the place where I perennially planted rhubarb. There it was, Rosemary’s Rhubarb.
So this year, these hands and this heart will honor the woman who called me her daughter-in-love. I shall make a rhubarb pie.
****
My Town Monday is where folks like you and me share a bit about their lives in the places they call home.
Nancy Friday wrote, “When I stopped seeing my mother with the eyes of a child, I saw the woman who helped me give birth to myself.” My mom, who died 12 years ago, birthed me under a fog of drugs, my dad pacing in the waiting room. The doctor emerged, and informed him that all 20 digits were present and accounted for; this pleased my Dad greatly. Babies were taken from their mothers in those days, and scheduling feedings and sleep was encouraged. My mom wanted desperately to nurse me, but she was told that it would not be safe since she had a heart condition. (Really) Days later, she returned home with this free-spirited number two daughter, who, from the day she was born, didn’t play by the rules.
Last year, I wrote about my mom in this space. I ask your indulgence as I repost it now.
I have mixed feelings on this day of days. I am reminded that I am a motherless child and that there are so many things I would ask my mom if she were here. I can still hear her voice on the phone, “Hi, Doll.” And I can see the young mother with 2 daughters making grilled cheese sandwiches to go with the tomato soup that came out of the red and white can. I think of the woman who witnessed this daughter’s journey for independence and to find her own way. The woman who didn’t understand the choices her daughter made and had her own struggle to accept them. The woman who loved her granddaughters unconditionally.
I remember my mother in her ICU bed, telling me that I had taught her a lot about being a mother, and thanking me. I remember one of her gifts to me when I didn’t know where to be—at her bedside or at home with my husband and daughters. She said, “I love you. Go home. With my blessing.” I came home on February 15th to my husband playing outside with our daughters. There was a sign on the door. Happy Valentine’s Day. They had moved the day on the calendar so we could celebrate it together. On this day, as I walked with the dogs, I thought of the sweetnesses that I have experienced in these woods, of #1 daughter being a pony or a unicorn, galloping through the woods, hair flying as her spirit soared. Of #2 daughter stopping at each Jack-in-the-Pulpit to make sure Jack was home. “Hello, Jack,” she said each and every time. Of my mother-in-law, reminding me that I am her other daughter, her daughter-in-love.
Happy Mothers’ Day to us all. Those of us who are one, who made one, and who have or had one. Take a moment to cherish those you love.
Thanks to these fine women, among many others, who have shared their thoughts on this day, we who do the very best we can with the tools we have at any given time:
Saturday was the 65th anniversary of D-Day. Many men and women on both sides of the Pond, from all walks of life experienced things that changed their lives in ways they could not have imagined. They were from all walks of life; from cities and from villages. They wore olive drab and navy blue, uniforms, work clothes and house dresses. They lived in the dark at night, and spent hours in shelters. They experienced shortages of food, clothing and fuel.
Their courage and their stories have no boundaries. They teach us that we do live in the same town, on this beautiful blue planet we call Earth.
Please click here and here to read about my family’s experiences at that time.
My mother-in-law loved rhubarb. But she really loved springtime. Because springtime meant fresh local rhubarb, and that meant rhubarb pie. I think that she loved making the pies for her son and husband more than she loved the unique sweet-tart confection.![[Bloglines]](http://fromskilledhands.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/bloglines.png)
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Nancy Friday wrote, “When I stopped seeing my mother with the eyes of a child, I saw the woman who helped me give birth to myself.” My mom, who died 12 years ago, birthed me under a fog of drugs, my dad pacing in the waiting room. The doctor emerged, and informed him that all 20 digits were present and accounted for; this pleased my Dad greatly. Babies were taken from their mothers in those days, and scheduling feedings and sleep was encouraged. My mom wanted desperately to nurse me, but she was told that it would not be safe since she had a heart condition. (Really) Days later, she returned home with this free-spirited number two daughter, who, from the day she was born, didn’t play by the rules.