Memories of Mom for Mother's Day

On Mother's Day, 1986, my mom went into labor, and hours later, at 1:08pm (?) on May 12, I was born! She always commented on a specific piece of classical music that was playing on Blue Lake Public Radio that day, and though I can not remember what that piece was, the association of my birthday and Mother's Day each year always comes to mind. After church on Mother's Day our family would go home and enjoy the day outside doing yard work in the sun while mom laid out in her lounge chair, there was one year where I think our intentions of good will toward mom went a little awry. We usually got some hanging flower pots for my mom with a card, but this year, on top of the flowers, we went to Wendy's, of all places, for a Mother's Day lunch. It was something she never let us forget and in the days leading up to subsequent Mother's Days, would remind us that she did not care what we did as long as it did not include a lunch at Wendy's!

So this year, I thought I should dredge my memories for some times spent with mom that meant more than a lunch at Wendy's:

The Basket

In the summer of 1994, my family took our second annual summer road trip. I had just finished second grade and our destination was New York City. We made numerous stops along the way such as Hershey Park, Gettysburg National Military Park, Johnstown Flood National Historic Site, the Liberty Bell, and Independence Hall in Philadelphia. We never really were inconspicuous travelers on these trips. The five of us - Dad, Mom, my brother Ryan, and my sister Lizzie - were crammed into our Chrysler or Dodge mini-van, usually with one or both of my grandmothers. The trunk was packed with a few suitcases, pillows, bags of food, and backpacks, and on the roof of the van was our trusty car-top carrier, filled with more suitcases, toiletries bags, and any souvenirs we happened to pick up along the way (usually Christmas presents our parents did not want us to find while snooping through the trunk for snacks). On this trip, my Grandma Portenga was in the car with us and sat in the middle seat with my sister and my brother and I fought for space in the back seat.

One of the lesser stops we made was at an Amish marketplace as we were driving through Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. I learned about the Amish before and we saw many of them riding their horse-and-buggies on the country roads, but the marketplace was where I saw their amazing furniture and wood-working craftsmanship. We did not have much room in the car for extra items, but there was one thing Mom saw that she just had to have: a basket. Now, this was not your run-of-the-mill basket. This was was made of twigs. It was wicker-like in that the twigs were sort of woven in and out of each other, but the thing that made this basket special was that the ends of each of the twigs was sticking out half a foot from the basket in a sort of spiral pattern. What really only needed to be an 8-inch wide basket you could easily pack in a car became a 20-inch wide, very fragile, piece of art.

While Mom never really ever wanted anything from our trips except books and music, there was the occasional item that when she decided she liked it, she would get it and there were no questions asked. Back at the car, with the stick-basket in hand, there was an argument because the basket didn't really fit anywhere in the car: it was too big to fit in the space between the driver and passenger seats, my sister was too little and rambunctious for it to be near her in the middle seat, my brother and I were not going to have it anywhere in the back seat, and Mom would not let Dad put it up in the car-top carrier. But we had to put it somewhere, and Dad arranged for some of the luggage to go up into the car-top carrier, and so for the rest of the trip - at least until we dropped my Grandma off in New York City - the basket sat on top of a picnic basket of food in the trunk, the sticks poking my brother and I in the head each time we tried to take a nap.

Mom got a lot of grief on that trip from us all for buying that damn basket, but she was steadfast in her decision to purchase it. I am amazed that we actually got it home in one piece! The basket is still around to this day and it was used constantly at home as a flower vase of sorts where it sat perched up on a wooden pedestal in our dining room. And while that basket caused us so much grief over that trip, I am glad we still have it as a reminder of all the good memories my family shares from our trips.

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The Chair Lift

Mom was deathly afraid of heights. She was one of those people who could do fine in tall buildings and elevators and even roller coasters and airplanes. But she could not handle the kinds of heights where you were just dangling or moving slowly or felt even somewhat insecure. For these reasons, in the summer of 1995, on our summer road trip out to Jackson, Wyoming, she decided that she would accompany my brother and I in hiking up the mountains at the Jackson Hole ski resort instead of riding the ski lift to the top.

Dad and Lizzie (and Grandma Portenga, too, I think) took the ski lift up and waited for Ryan, Mom, and I to hike up. Well, Ryan kept going, but my Mom and I decided that the hike was going to be too much work, which left us with one option: the ski lift. For a few years, Ryan and I learned how to ski with my dad at Crystal Mountain in northern Michigan. While we hit the slopes, my mom stayed back at the condo undoubtedly enjoying her magazines in the jacuzzi tub while listening to Interlochen Public Radio. I still think she would have enjoyed skiing, but she would never try because the ski lifts were too high. But in Jackson Hole, I am sure she was conflicted. She was not going to miss out on the opportunity to get to the top of a mountain and view the valley from up high, but in order to do that, she was going to have to face her fear of heights and take the ski lift.

I remember we got in line and as our chair swung around to pick us up, she mentioned to the operator that she was terrified. So he stopped the lift to ensure we were seated properly and lowered the safety bar, telling her to hold on to that if she got scared. With those instructions, she gripped the bar, and we were off. Now, anyone who has been out west knows the mountains are very high and ski lifts in the early 90s were not the speedy-powerful lifts like they have today. They were rickety, swayed much more, and bounced a lot as you went past a post. I wanted to look around so badly because the views were fantastic. I think I managed to squirm around to get a view of the valley lowering behind us before I felt a firm hand grip my leg, saying, "Stop. Moving." It was then I realized Mom had not loosened her grip from the safety bar and though her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, she was crying. This was new to me. Mom never cried. She was a strong, independent, woman, firm in her beliefs, and daringly aware of the world around her. She also had a stubborn Irish pride and bold Polish countenance that was not to be messed with. So when I saw tears streaming down her face, how could do anything but sit still, hold her hand, and tell her that everything was going to be okay? I explained to her that lots of people rode the lifts every year in all sorts of weather and they were all right. It was sunny and not windy and we were going to be fine.

Soon enough we had our feet back on solid ground and Mom could not have been more happy. At the top of the mountain, we had beautiful views of Jackson Hole (the name for the valley itself) and the town of Jackson in the distance. Our excursion was in the later afternoon, and by this time, the sun had started to set and the valley was just alive with colors and a few shadows from the clouds swept across the grassy floor. Finally, Ryan made it to the top and we stayed up there as a family for a while longer before having to go back down. My mom met another woman at the top of the mountain who, like her, was afraid of heights. This woman, though, was also a skier and was able to manage ski lifts. So she gave my mom a few tips for the ride down the lifts - mainly, to keep her eyes looking straight out in front of her and not look directly down. Mom chose me to ride back to the bottom with her and I do remember she was remarkably more calm on the way down. She even talked a little bit. I am just glad she was able to enjoy the nature of the mountains because she had a passion for this Earth and I can just imagine the regret she would have had to live with if she had not gotten the full mountain experience.

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So on this Mother's Day, I look back fondly on a few of the many, many moments I got to have with Mom on our different adventures. Mom was challenged frequently in life, and whether it was, as mentioned here, for having to defend and put up with the criticism of her stick-basket purchase or coming to grips with her fear of heights and refusing to let regret be an emotion she ever felt, she persevered and ensured that she was in control of her life. To this day, I try to follow in her footsteps, and when faced with a decision of right or wrong, I try to choose right; when given a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I take it; when I see something I like or want (within reason), I get it. It is the simple things in life that when added together, make a memorable life-story. Mom had a great story, and I can only aspire to make mine as good as hers.

And now, since the weather is beautiful here in Burlington, I am going to go outside and enjoy it!