An article in New Yorker, on Tennyson, the poet, took me to my mother today. To start, a question: the formative sound of your childhood? A paragraph of possibilities followed, none of which fit for me. Thinking through, I came to an answer.
My mother in the kitchen with the local radio station on, doing what most in many households would be doing, listening to the voice of the morning telling of the local news and weather, insights and interesting happenings.*
Quietly and (I project) contentedly alone, she'd be making the coffee, assuring we were up, monitoring bathroom use (we only had one, so time was of the essence), making my lunch (tuna fish sandwich every day), starting breakfast (mine an Instant Breakfast whipped into a foamy shake in the blender, with a Chocks daily vitamin; theirs, eggs and bacon, toast and orange juice). The radio with my mother listening was the formative sound of my childhood.
Mom was a public health nurse for the south end of the county. She had an office, but much of her time was spent traveling to homes where she would tend to the needs of the people in our community. She came home for lunch. I picture her puttering around doing minor chores, making her lunch, and then sitting at the table eating and writing.
Every day we'd come home from school and on the kitchen table there'd be a note in her cursive hand with a couple chores for us: start the dinner, put the dishes away, take the trash out or scraps to the compost pile. Nothing huge, nothing difficult, and yet we'd be jumping to do them just minutes before she walked in the door.
Once home, Mom would change her clothes, maybe meander the yard or work on her sewing til time to start dinner. Then she'd sit in her chair at the table, reading the local paper. Her after work quiet time (if we weren't fighting). And later, finally, at the end of the day, she'd be in bed, doing the crossword puzzle.
The rhythms and consistencies of a day: listening, writing, reading, doing. My mom was the most formative part of my childhood.
Funny, how a rhetorical question to begin a book review on a 19th century writer could entice my mind and take me back.
To My Mother
*Afterword: Talking to another yesterday, we did a bit of research and found the station and the man, WHCU and Jack Deal. Injecting the right input into our screens gave us the answer. I guess Mom wasn't the only ones listening! (click on photo to enlarge.)
