MOTHER-IN-LOVE

Back when Art proposed to me (well, when he asked whether I thought we ought to get married), I was happy with the prospect of our new life together, but I had no idea what to expect in terms of his family, which was about to become *my* family. I had already had the experience of one set of in-laws, plus a whole raft of the mothers of my boyfriends. Let me tell you, I was scared.

Over the years I had come to expect that the women who would come to know me through their sons were not necessarily thrilled with me. I seemed to have a knack for choosing men who were just a little too close to Mom, and therefore, mothers who were just a little too attached to their sons. Most memorably, one of these Moms had taken one look at me, scanned me up and down and pronounced, “You’re obviously a very weak person!”.

So on I soldiered in the wilderness of all single girls trying to date their way to happiness.

I was lucky. Art appeared just as I had given up — just as I had reached the stage in my life where I had made my peace with the strong possibility that I would never remarry, never have a family beyond my family of origin, and (the silver lining to all of this gloom) would never have to face another potential (or actual) mother-in-law again.

So it was with great trepidation that I picked up the receiver for the first time to speak to Art’s mother. I was sure she would be resentful of me, sure she would find good reason to be critical of his choice, sure she would cold-shoulder me and find me unworthy of her precious golden boy, her eldest son. I remember gripping the phone with both hands, shutting my eyes tight, and waiting for her to lower the boom. So, imagine my surprise when I heard this sweet, benevolent woman at the other end saying, “Is this Robin? I’m so pleased to finally speak with you. Art has told me so much about you — all good!” and I could actually hear her smiling over the phone. She then continued, “I was so worried that he would be alone in his declining years!” . (Quite a turn of phrase, and it broke the ice!) I opened my eyes, which were now brimming with tears of gratitude, just as I suspected hers were, too.

A couple of years later, Art and I traveled to Connecticut for the first time as a married couple. I met my in-laws in person for the first time. Art’s father was a gentle, soft-spoken man who said little but made every word count. He had played in a square dance band for over fifty years and had the heart of a true musician. He treated me with great kindness and compassion. When Ed picked us up at the airport, I saw clearly where Art had learned how to be a gentle-man. My first instinct when Art introduced me was to give my new father-in-law a big bear hug. But I was still nervous about what would happen when we got back to my in-laws’ house. Would Marge accept me? Had our lovely conversations over the phone given me false hope? Was I about to become that old cliché, the long-suffering and marginalized interloper who had “stolen her baby”?

And what did Marge do? She greeted me with open arms and held me tight. She welcomed me into her cozy kitchen and into her family as easily as if she had been my birth mother. When she introduced me to her friends and neighbors she referred to me as her “newest daughter”. She put fresh flowers in the guest room and brand new sheets on our bed. She tolerated, and even welcomed our lavish public displays of affection. She allowed me help in the kitchen, rather than demanded it. (And believe me, I’m no Betty Crocker!).

Which brings me to the next point: Over the years, Marge has quietly taught me how to be a “balabust”– She doesn’t know the word, but it’s Yiddish and it means a woman who knows how to make a house a home. That’s not to say that I hadn’t learned the basics at my own mother’s knee. I knew how to iron (I’m not patient enough, but I know how), I knew how to put together a dinner party, I knew how to make a bed and I had the good upbringing that gave me a certain ability to be at ease in a conversation and to treat guests with courtesy and respect. (My mother taught me never, NEVER, to allow guests to visit without offering them food.) So I mean no disrespect to my Mom. She was great.

But Marge continued where Mom left off. After all, I had left home at eighteen, so my domestic education had been cut short. Over the past twenty years, Marge has generously given me inside tips about cooking — her recipe for pie crust (hand written and proudly displayed on my refrigerator), her secrets about how to remove all manner of stains from the laundry. She has allowed me to be present while she made delicious soups, and I found out that the trick to thickening a vegan soup is potatoes and a food processor. From Marge I learned the elegant economy of washing clothes in cold water (saves energy, saves you having to sort by color, good for the environment, and good for the pocketbook). How to stretch your money at the grocery store (coupons). The best way to reseal cellophane packages (clothes pins). How to find extra storage space in the kitchen (hanging baskets from the ceiling). The list goes on and on, and every day, it seems, I discover another kindness, another pearl of wisdom she has bestowed upon me. She has demonstrated how to create an atmosphere of warmth and harmony within the home (too complicated to explain in twenty-five words or less). And she has treated me as an honored guest and member of the family when I visited her home — not an easy task, since on the surface, you would not think the two go hand-in-hand. Sometimes I sensed I was underfoot, but she never complained. I could go on and on, but maybe you get the idea.

Mothers-in-law often get a bad rap, and perhaps, many of them live up to their reputation. But daughters-in-law can be less than perfect, too. And with all of my own faults and shortcomings, Marge has treated me with more than respect. She has treated me with unfailing compassion and love. Recently I have begun to call her “Mom”. I couldn’t bring myself to use that word with her when my own mother was alive. I was afraid of being disloyal. She always understood that. But it feels as if my own mom has given me permission. Lizi will always live in my heart as my first mother, the one who gave me life, and the one who was there for me through every sickness, every crisis, every broken heart, every failure and disappointment, my first confidante, my mentor. But Marge is my “other mother”. The one who has, with uncommon grace, taken me under her wing as a daughter, a sister to her other children, and as a friend. The one who has entrusted me with the role of caretaker to her grown son. She is much more than my mother-in-law, she is my mother-in-love.

AT HOME WITH FAMILY

Art and I got to Connecticut Friday night. We were lucky because the weather cooperated with us and our flight here was (mostly) okay. (The plane bucked over the Rockies like a bronco buster. You can imagine how happy that made me)!

But we got a beautiful gift today. The sky got pregnant with little grey fish-belly clouds that seemed to get heavier and heavier with each passing hour of the day until at about 2:00 it gave birth to a beautiful baby snow. Now, for two people who have lived in California for most of their adult life, this was an enormous thrill! I can’t remember the last time I saw snow, but it was probably about five years ago (when we lived in Tennessee).

Tonight as I looked out across the street there was a thin layer of white outlining the trees and the houses. Our neighbors had all thoughtfully put up their Christmas lights early this month, so the whole street was glittering and shining. For just a moment we both agreed that this was the only place to be. We could imagine living here year round. We made ourselves a cup of tea and sat in front of the fireplace (although we didn’t have any logs, so we could only imagine the roaring fire).

Of course, we then realized that we would miss California way too much to be here year round. It’s a sad fact that, no matter where we are, we are missing somebody, since Art’s family is here and my family is in California. We decided that the only solution was to have a home in both places, which is what we have finally managed to do.

I don’t know if this was our wisest possible financial decision. I would need a CPA and a crystal ball to tell you that. I do know that it was the best decision for our souls. Family, I have come to believe, is the bedrock that keeps you firmly grounded and centered.

When we moved to Tennessee some ten years ago, we were so foolish that we thought we could just pick up and move to a place where we had no roots. In the six years we lived there, although we had a few very dear friends, nothing could fill that gap. When I got sick back in 2000, it was crystal clear that I had to return to my family. We made a beeline for California. And I’m so glad we did!

But as soon as I was better, I found that I missed Art’s family, too, maybe almost as much as he did. I remember being in Sunday school and learning about Ruth in the Old Testament who said, “Thy people shall be my people.” At the time I didn’t understand how that could happen. Wonderful thing about marriage – it really does.

So we’ll be here for another week, enjoying the nippy weather and setting up house. Hoping for more snow (and hoping it will stop in time for us to make our way back to Sunny California). But mostly, we’ll be enjoying being home with family. I guess the truth is, whenever you’re with family, you’re home.

© 2004, Robin Munson

GIVING THANKS

Well, it’s Thanksgiving again. Time to trot out the old turkey (or tofurky, in our case) dressing, cranberry sauce, and the sweet potato casserole with tiny marshmallows. We have mixed feelings, of course, about the green bean dish with French fried onion rings on top, as well as the lime jello mold with bananas suspended in the middle. But nobody can argue with apple pie. Some things are just plain good.

I love Thanksgiving, but it wasn’t always how I felt. There was one dreary Thanksgiving during the year I spent living in an efficiency apartment on East 38th Street in New York City. I was divorced and had no family whatsoever in Manhattan (or any of the neighboring boroughs, for that matter). My so-called boyfriend was living in Washington and apparently could not be bothered. (Is there anything lonelier than being attached to a selfish person)? My father and stepmother were in Pittsburgh. My mother and sisters were in California.

So I took myself down to Grand Central Station. There was a little diner there, and I got a Thanksgiving special: a slice of turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, a little cup of cranberry sauce and some kind of bread stuffing. Along with a cup of coffee, I think the whole thing came to about $1.49. (This is back in the seventies).

The thing is – I had planned on having a miserable time. I figured this was about as low as I could go. All alone. Thanksgiving. Too poor for a nice dinner. Boyfriend absent. Out there in the cold, and – Did I mention? – All alone.

But you know, I sat up there at the counter in this little diner, and it was toasty and warm in there. Everyone began talking. We introduced ourselves and wished each other happy holidays. It was like a little club. We, the solo diners at the counter, including the homeless guy at the other end, and the waitress, and the kid back in the kitchen preparing the food and washing the dishes – we were all in this together. There was comfort in that. We were slogging our way through what logically should have been a perfectly miserable night. Quietly, and without even realizing it, we were having a good time. It was a reminder that, after all, if you climb far enough up your family tree, we are all related.

I don’t remember any of their names, but I remember the feeling that I had when I got back to my tiny apartment. I was grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and all your family.

© 2004, Robin Munson

SAYING GOODBYE

It is our last day in Connecticut. Tomorrow it’s back to Los Angeles after a three-week sojourn in New England.

Goodbyes are so hard, and even harder in autumn. Autumn is the time of year when we say goodbye to summer, to warm weather, to ice cream, to green, to bare feet, to skimpy outfits, to drive-in movies, to suntans and convertibles and all that they imply. We say goodbye to so much, and now we have to say goodbye to autumn itself, since we are going back to Los Angeles where autumn is mostly a non-event. After all, the palm trees stay green, the weather stays warm, and some fools even go swimming in the ocean in December! So, not much changes in Los Angeles.

I am especially sad right now because we have just learned that our darling baby kitty, Natasha, is a very sick girl. She has always been a delicate flower. She was a foundling who showed up in our carport one very rainy morning the day after Christmas. She was obviously of Siamese ancestry, with something softer mixed in. She had piercing blue eyes and a commanding voice that said, “What are you waiting for? Take me home!”. But underneath the regal bearing was a vulnerability that was even more compelling. We dutifully tried to find her owner, hoping that we wouldn’t. No one claimed her, and from that day forward, we felt that she had been sent to us straight from God. We have had Natty with us for almost fourteen years. There have been many illnesses to contend with. She has had asthma, infections, “Bird fever” and often what the vet referred to as “NQR” – “Not Quite Right”. But she was always taking care of us. We have often called her “Nurse Natty”, because when one of us is feeling under the weather, she will simply sit on us, purr, and within seconds we feel better. Natasha has always been an angel. I guess she is being called home.

When we left Los Angeles, we had just taken her to the vet. She appeared to be in pretty good shape, considering her age, with some suspicion of problems with her thyroid, a common ailment for aging cats. We thought that when we got home she would be seated on the living room sofa pretending to ignore us, as she usually does when we are guilty of abandoning her for a week or two. We had left both the kitties in very capable hands. We have the best pet sitter in the world – a woman who appears to be a cross between Mother Theresa and a women’s basketball coach. Very practical, no nonsense, and totally caring. She called me a couple of days ago, concerned that Natty was losing weight and acting lethargic. I knew she would never have called for something even remotely frivolous, so I asked her to take her to the vet in my absence, which she graciously did. My heart sank, even before I had called Dr. Basilius.

But when he called me to say that Natasha had a mass in her abdomen – that had not been there at all two weeks ago – my heart sank further. I was seized with guilt for having left her for too long, but then realized that, although our absence may have been the proverbial last straw, her illness must have been waiting in the wings for any excuse to rear its ugly head.

The doctor will do all he can to make our girl comfortable, at least until we can be there Friday morning. He says we can take her home, at least, for a little while – for which I am grateful. So long as she is not in pain or suffering, I would like to have some time with her. I would like to bring her home. I would like to have her cuddle up with us in bed again.

When we flew to the East Coast three weeks ago, we were on a “mission of love”, coming here to help Art’s parents move out of their beautiful old house and into a more comfortable and practical smaller home. We were coming to help and be of moral support to Art’s brother who was facing a difficult medical challenge. We were coming to buy a small home of our own here in Connecticut so that we could spend more time with Art’s family.

Now we are flying back to the West Coast. This time our mission is to spend whatever time remains with our beloved Natasha, to comfort our poor “orphaned” cat, Henry, who has been alone for the past few days in the house, save for Mary, his sitter. To reconnect with our family in Los Angeles, whom we have missed terribly and who have missed us.

There is so much melancholy in all of this, and yet. How sad it would be to fly back and forth, without connections, without the tug on your heartstrings saying, “Stay – Don’t go!” “Come here! We need you!”. So it is with very full hearts that we bid adieu to our home in Connecticut and travel back to our home in California. We are very grateful. We are surrounded by love.

FAMILY

When I was very young and stupid, and even when I was not-so-young and stupid, I thought nothing of pulling up stakes and moving to a strange city. I had the peculiar notion that I could simply uproot myself, transplant my life, and thrive anywhere I happened to land.

What I have learned is that it just doesn’t work. If I am a rose, I simply can not plunk myself down in the middle of a cactus patch and expect to be happy. Maybe some flowers are different, but for me, I need family. I need roots. I need to feel connected.

All of this has been becoming crystal clear to me for the past couple of days. Art and I came back to Connecticut in order to connect with his side of the family. His parents are in the middle of a very emotional move. They’re leaving the ancestral home of forty-eight years – It’s just time for them to consolidate a little. To live in a less demanding environment so that they can relax a little. And while there is ample reason for them to make this move, it is nonetheless extremely difficult for them. At the same time, Art’s brother is facing a serious health challenge. How could we not be here? Finally, we are in the process of buying a condo here in Connecticut so that we can spend more time with Art’s family. For most of our married life we have lived in Los Angeles, and this has been wonderful for us – especially since my mother and two sisters and their kids live in L.A. But it has meant that Art’s family gets short shrift. Neither of us wants that – so here we are.

Today we spent the day packing boxes and lugging them out of their old house. We spent hours just sitting at the trestle table in my in-laws’ kitchen talking about anything and everything. We took out pizza for dinner from the Italian restaurant across the street. It’s been a hard day, in some ways, and to tell the truth, I’m pretty wiped.

But I just want to say this – Family is not something you are born into; it is something that you create with your heart and your hands. What makes people family is not blood ties. Blood ties just create genetics. To be truly related as family requires many small acts of kindness. If you think about it, your mother, your father, your aunt, your sibling, are not important to you because of an accident of birth, but rather because they made you chicken soup when you were sick, or because they took you to a Twilight Double Header, or because they let you cry when you needed to.

Family is a blessing. I’m tired, but I’m happy.