"Sticking" to Context

There are things my Mother tried to teach me that never quite stuck.

I was taught, when I came of dating age, never to leave the house without earrings on. In fact, on the occasions that I came downstairs to greet my date without a pair, she sent me right back upstairs. It was her view that not wearing earrings for a date sent him the message, however subtle, that I did not value him, his attentions and/or his company. My Mother may have had a point. But to this day, it is hard for me to remember to wear earrings, date or none.

My Mother also tried to instill within me a sense of fiscal responsibility. Instead of herself, she used my Grandfather as the example. He started out milking cows in High School, running his own small dairy farm in the hours before and after school. He has since paid all of his down payments in cash, most recently, while buying a house in Colorado. Following the example of my Grandfather's work ethic, my Mother and I both worked at the same fast food restaurant while in High School. It was his complex checkbook-balancing technique, however, that my Mother could not pass on to me. And the system doesn't account for bank cards, my ever-increasing dependency. So I bounced another check to my landlord.

And Thank You notes. I cannot write them unless forced. I know this makes me an ungrateful cad and uncouth rube. I can't help it.

One of the things my Mother did instill in me was done rather unconciously. She entertained a lot, and each time she did, the house was scrubbed from top to bottom. I was not raised in a home with a cleaning lady. I was in charge of organizing my own room while my Mother scrubbed everything else from top to bottom, readying our Brooklyn apartment for the 20+ people she had arriving that night. This was alwas done, without question. While some of her other, older, more liberal friends might entertain with a dusty bookshelf, my Mother would not.

Now, I am a messy person by nature. I cannot breathe in too much organization. But before I let anyone I care about see my living space, I will do a Mother-Mad Cleaning-Dash. My roomate in college used to know, without having to ask, when I had a boy I liked coming over to study. I would be frantically throwing clothes in my closet, making neat piles of my desk. It was uncharacteristic enough to be noteworthy. Any date, then or now, who is able to see my bedroom floor should feel honored. I like(d) you.

I attended a party today thrown by a Sorority sister of mine. I had never met her Mother before, but sitting across the room from her I was fascinated. All of the sudden, Angela was put into context. Her mother made her make sense.

My Mother may have lost the Battles of The Earrings, The Checkbook and The Thank You Notes, but I have her laugh and smile. I have her veiny hands and pale skin. I have her vivacity and her argumentative streak. And I have her hang-ups about "company" and a clean house. My republican Mother is my context.