What is important

October 6, 2011

The pool area shimmers, a raucous display of glistening skin and gold. Gold everywhere–rings, bracelets, watches, necklaces.  At a resort like this, even sunbathing is an occasion.

“You have to admit, this is grade-A people watching,” Mama says. She is clothed from head to ankle, beach hat firmly secured on her head, shaded by a large umbrella. She cannot tolerate sun.

I can, but I’m under the umbrella with her, reluctant to leave her side. People watching is always better with Mama in earshot.

“That guy over there’s getting a crust on him,” I say, gesturing to a stocky man sprawled on a deck chair. “Brown as a bad baguette.”

Mama eyes his heavy-link necklace and Rolex watch. “East coast. They always fry themselves to death.” She pulls her long-sleeved t-shirt down so it covers her wrists.

“Remember that beach in Spain?” I say. “All those pale women, wearing nothing but jewelry and thongs?”

“Oh, God. What were they? Russian? Bulgarian?” Mama rolls her eyes. “Your poor dad. What a disappointment.  He was expecting miles of sand and Spanish beauties, and instead he got those Eastern bloc ladies, with thighs like kielbasas.”

A girl with a thick blond ponytail brings us chilled washcloths and icy glasses of Pinot Grigio.  We toast to Tuesday. The wine sluices down our gullets– we feel the chill as it works its way down–and we watch her tanned legs as she walks away.

“Look at that hair,” Mama says wistfully. “In my next life, I’m going to have hair like that.”

I watch the hair bob and sway as she walks, audacious, like the tail of a Palomino pony. “We did get the bummer hair gene,” I say. “Mine’s like duck fuzz.”

“Hey. Careful,” Mama says, pointing to her hat-covered scalp, and we laugh.

“Well, if God’s taking orders, the next time around, I’m having hair like Catherine Zeta-Jones.” I put the cold washcloth behind my neck and press down.

“Agg, why bother?” Mama says, worrying her washcloth around one ear. “She married that wrinkled old goat. Talk about a waste.”

“Good hair is never a waste. Not that we’d know.”

“Eh, it’s all right.” Mama waves her hand dismissively. “We got the skinny butts.”

She’s got a point. We toast: “To skinny butts.”

A fifty-something woman, not blessed with the skinny butt gene, walks past us in a leopard-print bikini. “Now that’s confidence,” I say. “Good for her.”

“You could wear that.”

I look down at my chocolate brown one-piece and matching cover-up. “Um, no. There’s a statute of limitations on bikinis.” I knead the doughy lump just South of my belly button. “An over-forty, two-kid jelly belly need not apply. My bikini days are over.”

Mama pulls a face. “Always the critic. Just wait ten years. You’ll be dying for that body you’re sneering at right now.”

“I know.”

I fuss with my cover-up, move it down to mid-thigh, then feel stupid doing so. “Why do I do that? Why have I always done that? I mean, now? I look at pictures of myself in my twenties, and I was cute. But at the time? Never knew it. Felt like dogmeat. Never appreciated one thing about that body or that face.”

“I think it’s called human nature. Or at least the nature of females.”  Mama scans the sea of oiled bodies. “Would you go back?”

“Fuck, no! I was a moron in my twenties. Look who I dated.”

I study the poolside menu. “Do you want a bowl of 30 chilled grapes?  Sounds fancy, right? How did they come up with 30, exactly? Do you suppose they experimented? ‘Let’s go with 15…nah, too skimpy…how about 20? Eh, not quite right…how about 30? Brilliant! 30 is the magic number.’  Kinda weird, don’t you think?”

Mama lifts her Pinot Grigio. “I have grapes here, thanks. I’m not hungry. I’m perfect.”

And she is. It is. There’s this crazy ivory fountain nearby that bubbles and spurts like something out of Roman Holiday.  The weather’s not too hot and not too cool, and the Pacific breeze licks our heels every so often; we wiggle our toes at the joy of it.

We have books. Juicy ones, and sometimes we share little bits that are especially tempting.

“Hey Mama, listen to this: ‘So when her boss, a doughy dickhead with a 7 handicap and an American flag painted on the tail fin of his Gulfstream, came to Boston to thank me personally, I shook his hand firmly enough to make his man boobs shake.'”*

She laughs. “Jesus.”

“I like it. That’s some sassy dialogue.”

We’re quiet for a while, absorbed in the words of others. Palomino ponytail asks us if we want anything else. Mama declines, but I take another glass of wine, just for thrills.

Mama gazes at the aquamarine stream burbling from the fountain, adjusts her hat, and spies a little girl with springy curls who isn’t sure she wants to brave the water.

“God, look at her.”

She’s got the tender, cherubic layers of fat on her thighs that my girls never had–my scrawny, alien-looking girls, all bone and sinew–and she puts her thumb in her mouth, sucks twice and startles. She removes the thumb immediately, scanning out of the corner of her eye to see if her mother has noticed. We’re smitten.

“She’s delicious. It almost makes me want another.”

“Don’t you dare. I’ll come down and strangle you myself.”

“I know. I’m done. But still. God. Look at her.”

Mama drinks the last sip of Pinot. “Do you think she’ll remember this afternoon? This amazingly beautiful place? She can’t be over two.”

“I don’t know.”  Curly girl finally gathers courage, sticks one foot in the water. She squeals, shakes the water off her foot, and her mother laughs. “Memory is so weird. So much of it is fuzzy for me but then there are these bright flashes…these moments that run through that are so clear. Almost like I’m still there.”

Mama turns to me. “Tell me. Growing up. What do you remember?”

I falter, clumsy and rattled by the question. It seems both too personal and too late.

I take off my sunglasses and blink at the daylight, buying time.

“Okay. That Christmas Eve when we drove around looking at Christmas lights–C and I were in our pajamas–and then it got so icy that Daddy couldn’t get the car back up that big hill. And he told you to get in the back of the TravelAll with us, because your weight would add traction?” I laugh. “You reacted with so much outrage…’Oh thanks, Ronald, as if I weigh so much.”

Mama smiles. “Damned if it didn’t work, too. Ack. Your father.”

“That day in seventh grade when you decided I could wear makeup. You took me to that little French boutique store, and that henna-haired lady gave me a makeover. You bought me a handful of those really pricey, quality cosmetics after. Then we went for ice cream. I felt so grown up. And so loved. You didn’t take me to the drugstore–you got me really nice things, like you trusted me with them.”

Suddenly I feel thick in the throat and take a big sip of wine. “Believe me, that rite of passage is getting passed down to my girls when it’s time.

Being snowed in in that small North Dakota house, baking bread. Remember how the kitchen had those saloon-style doors that you walked through to get to it? God, I loved those doors. You always let me make my own little loaf. I was so proud of it when it came out of the oven, like I’d done some amazing thing.”

I look down at my glass and extend it to Mama. “You want some?”

She shakes her head. “Thanks, but I have to be careful. Lately it makes me tired.”

“Ah, you’re the perfect traveling companion,” I say, putting the glass by my side. “More for me.”

“You know, those things you mentioned…those things you remember…they weren’t the big things, were they?” But Mama doesn’t look surprised when she says it.

I am, though, when her point hits mark. I am surprised. Because she’s right. My parents took me to London, Paris. I kissed the Blarney Stone in Ireland and walked Hawaiian beaches. I got new cars and an expensive education and diamond earrings in my stocking one Christmas.

And I do remember those things, I do. But the first morsels of memory that pop into focus aren’t those things at all. Instead, it’s pajama-clad ice storms and the cashmere feel of French lipstick and the smell of warm bread, waiting for jam.

I lean into Mama, resting my cheek next to hers. The curly-haired girl stuffs Goldfish crackers into her mouth and her mother says, “Annaleise, slow down. Don’t cram it into your mouth like that.”  Brown baguette man rises and gathers his towel, done for the day. The Pacific laps against the rocks and the fountain burbles. And I know that I’ll remember.

*dialogue courtesy of Harlan Coben

{ 57 comments… read them below or add one }

unicorn October 6, 2011 at 7:26 pm

Your banter made me tear up. *verklempt*

Glad you had a wonderful time.

Reply

Salad in a Jar October 6, 2011 at 8:08 pm

Duck fuzz? I don’t think so. At any rate, I want hair like Palamino ponytail in my next life too.

What a wonderful time of making memories with your mom!

Reply

Kate October 6, 2011 at 9:00 pm

For me, it’s the shining moments when I felt seen and special. They are not the big things, though I had a lovely childhood, it’s getting my own loaf pan and hunk of dough to knead. Memory is funny. I’m glad you just made such a great one.

Reply

TKW October 7, 2011 at 9:25 am

Kate,

You make a good point. About being “seen.” I need to make sure my girls feel that way more often.

Reply

Papa Guy October 6, 2011 at 9:12 pm

you write such wonderful stories…..

Reply

Stephane October 6, 2011 at 9:36 pm

My favorite part is that you’re writing all this down so your girls will share these memories and know *you* so much better. Gotta love “thighs like kielbasas” and Coben’s “doughy dickhead,” though.

Reply

Naptimewriting October 7, 2011 at 1:02 am

It’s nice to just listen to you two. To just sit and listen. I’d love to be at the bar or poolside or on the bus with you both. Funny, poignant, irreverent. That kind of eavesdropping makes my day.
Thanks.

Reply

TKW October 7, 2011 at 5:08 am

Nap,
I’d love to have you on the beach chair, next to me. Think of the funny banter we’d come up with! xo

Reply

camilla October 7, 2011 at 2:13 am

I agree with Naptimewriting, I felt the sun an can see you both sipping wine. It makes me look at my life too…

Reply

Maria October 7, 2011 at 4:17 am

Oh Kitch! You did me in this morning…Now I’m all weepy BEFORE I even walk in my classroom this morning!

Beautifully written, as always…Thanks for giving us such a delightful taste of that adventure.

Reply

Tinne from Tantrums and Tomatoes October 7, 2011 at 5:00 am

Now I am teary eyed behind my desk. Thank God for waterproof mascara…

Reply

Abby October 7, 2011 at 5:31 am

This is my favorite post from you ever.
Ever.

Reply

Stacia October 7, 2011 at 5:32 am

I never give my kids their own loaf pan. Sounds like I better rectify that starting … now. Raising my glass to you and your lovely mom!

Reply

Lance October 7, 2011 at 5:35 am

great writing

First time I’ve been by here. I’ll defintely be back.

Reply

TKW October 7, 2011 at 5:55 am

Lance,

Thanks for stopping by! I hope you will, indeed, be back!

Reply

Wendi @ Bon Appetit Hon October 7, 2011 at 5:42 am

I’ve got tears in my eyes reading this. I hope that you will hold on to the memories, especially the ones of quiet moments spent feeling special. Much love to you friend.

Reply

Sherri October 7, 2011 at 6:03 am

Like I’m sitting there with you…. so cool.

Reply

Erica@PLRH October 7, 2011 at 6:43 am

Thank you for letting me eavesdrop on such a precious memory. Oh, and for making me cry for about the 14th time today.

Ok, time to go plan a weekend getaway with my mom.

Reply

Phoo-d October 7, 2011 at 7:06 am

*Snif*, now I’m all teary. You both are beautiful together, you do know that? Inside and out. xoxo

Reply

TKW October 7, 2011 at 6:17 pm

Sweet Phoo-D…You know, you’re right. Together, we’re quite something. It’s something you can look forward to with your adorable baby A. I know you’ll be brilliant.

Reply

Eralda October 7, 2011 at 7:32 am

Simply beautiful!

Reply

Elly Lou October 7, 2011 at 8:30 am

I’ve been sweating for two weeks solid and you just gave me chills. That was just lovely.

Reply

Camille Brightsmith October 7, 2011 at 8:31 am

Weepy, slobbery love all over you. Thanks.

Reply

Jennifer October 7, 2011 at 8:49 am

I just… I don’t want you to stop having her.

Reply

Camille Brightsmith October 7, 2011 at 8:57 am

You know, the impermanence of things is really shocking sometimes. But inherent beauty is permanent and you keep it our faces Kitch. Its so strange how beauty doesn’t equal happiness either – it just equals beauty. I am so thankful for your work – truly, TRULY!

Reply

Jenna October 7, 2011 at 9:17 am

I’ve got chills running down my arms.
And I think I’m adopting that rite of passage if I ever have girls. In fact, I remember a (well-to-do) mother of my youngest sister’s friend taking us all to get make-overs one summer, and buying us each a bunch of Clinique make-up. I was 17, and it was such a great experience. I felt beautiful, and adult, and wonderful. She must have spent $100 on me, but it felt at the time like $1 million.

Reply

Sarah October 7, 2011 at 9:39 am

Dana, you slay me. With tears in my eyes and a smile on my face. You’re amazing. Just like your Mama. I love you to the moon and back.

Reply

TKW October 7, 2011 at 6:22 pm

Love you to the moon and around the sun and back. Jen and GG, too.

Reply

Kristen @ Motherese October 7, 2011 at 10:57 am

You are such a great storyteller, my dear friend. I want to sip up your words just like I would that chilly glass of Pinot.

Giant hugs to you and Mama both.

Love you, girl. xo

Reply

TKW October 7, 2011 at 6:25 pm

Kristen,

Mama and I are working through the book you sent us by Jon Stewart and co. It totally adds pizzazz to a chemo infusion. I cherish your friendship, and your big heart.

Reply

Jen @ Momalom October 7, 2011 at 11:26 am

Your words leave me without any. But with plenty to think about. Thank you.

Reply

Tiffany October 7, 2011 at 11:58 am

I am so glad you had this trip with your Mom. I think about this so often…how it’s not the big things kids will remember most, but those really special moments. Thanks for sharing your heart today.

Reply

Becky October 7, 2011 at 12:31 pm

Beautiful story!

Reply

Lindsey October 7, 2011 at 12:45 pm

Crying. Hard. So beautiful, so true. Thank you. xox

Reply

Cathy October 7, 2011 at 1:31 pm

I think back to memories with my mother and they are all the little things. Her experiments in the kitchen that went immediately into the fire (literally because my mom cooked on the wood stove instead of the electric – at least in the winter). Baking cookies and stuffing all the containers she was going to give to friends. The last days before she was gone and yelling at her to get out of the kitchen because my sister and I had it all under control and she should go hang out with her grandchildren while we prepped dinner. You are so lucky to have this time.

Reply

Contemporary Troubadour October 7, 2011 at 4:49 pm

Mother-daughter intimacies — so casual and unforced and deliciously uncensored — are one of those things in our lot as women that I would never, ever trade. This sketch is a tribute to that kind of love, Kitch.

xoxo

Reply

Klz October 7, 2011 at 5:17 pm

Indeed.

Reply

pamela October 7, 2011 at 5:30 pm

Lady, your write like your hair was on fire. Honest. You have gobs of talent and if all you ever wrote was a grocery list, I would read that.

Such a day you had. Thank you so much for sharing it – every sumptuous detail. I love you and your Mama so much and your husband for giving you this trip. And your two beauties too. Of course.

Reply

TKW October 7, 2011 at 6:05 pm

Pamela,

I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in a while. Although I hope that my hair isn’t, truly, on fire. It’s duck fuzz as it is. xoxo

Reply

Wolf Pascoe October 7, 2011 at 5:47 pm

What a perfect poem/story/novel/play/movie this is!

Reply

TKW October 7, 2011 at 6:06 pm

Wolf,

Thanks for coming by! I think you hit the nail on the head–I have no idea what this is, beyond an afternoon with my mother. But I sure hope you’ll come back.

Reply

Elizabeth@LifeinPencil October 7, 2011 at 6:30 pm

Gorgeous; every word of it!

Reply

faemom October 8, 2011 at 12:52 am

This was a lovely piece of time. Thank you for that.

And I’m so like you comparing myself with other woman and with the belly thing under my belly button (thank you pregnancy) and I look back and wish I had more pictures of myself when I was in my 20s because at one point I looked hot. I would like the proof of that one day.

Reply

Frelle October 8, 2011 at 6:09 am

This was some stunning storytelling. Wow. I loved so many details about this, but mostly that I felt like I was in the chaise the row behind the two of you because the detailing was so vivid. Thanks for sharing this!

Reply

SuziCate October 8, 2011 at 7:37 am

You have me all misty eyed. You, my dear, do know exactly what is important in life. You brought back some memories of my mom and I having make overs…I think I need to write about that time now…just the other day I was trying to come up with specific memories of times of my mom and I , thank you for jogging my memory. I’m so happy you and your mom had this special trip together.

Reply

Barbara October 8, 2011 at 8:30 am

Pure pleasure to eavesdrop, Dana.
I know there were really BIG things my parents did for us, but you made me think. I remember three separate times of pure pleasure. They were simple things, too. And my parents (even if they would have thought to ask that question, which they wouldn’t….you have a loving and clever mom) would have been stunned into silence if I told them the three things I remembered.
Now you are making me think I should ask my kids the same question.

Reply

TKW October 8, 2011 at 9:25 am

Barbara,

I asked my girls, but just asked them to tell me one memory. Both had the same one. A few summers ago, it was 105 degrees outside, and the girls were playing while I was gardening. Suddenly, I turned around and drenched them with the hose. Our neighbors saw and yelled, “Let’s have a water fight!”

Adults and kids all donned swimsuits, got out buckets and hoses, and we got completely silly. That they remember this so well made me vow to get silly with them more often.

And now I’m curious about yours…

Reply

Liz @ PeaceLoveGuac October 8, 2011 at 12:26 pm

This is just perfect. And I’m all teared up.
You’ll remember that day…and you know what? We will too. Thank you.

Reply

bryan October 8, 2011 at 3:26 pm

What a great little peek into your life, I love the casual conversation and how well you pass it along to all of us. Just out of curiosity what Harlen Coben book? he is one of my favorites.

Reply

Jana October 8, 2011 at 4:28 pm

Wow, lady. You can write.

Reply

Anastasia October 9, 2011 at 3:46 am

Fabulous writing. I felt like I was eavesdropping.

Reply

Cindy M. October 9, 2011 at 10:04 am

So beautiful and moving. Reflecting on my own memories with my mom, it always starts with the softness of her cheek and the sweet smell of her skin. Thank you for sharing your moments.

Reply

Mary Lee October 9, 2011 at 7:16 pm

I love you, your momma, and Harlan Coben.

Your writing is beautiful and so is your relationship with your mother. Any woman who can come up with a phrase like kielbasa thighs is a force to be reckoned with.

Thank you for sharing this very special time with us.

Reply

Kelly October 9, 2011 at 9:03 pm

Damn woman. You and your mama are so much more than you know.

Reply

Privilege of Parenting October 10, 2011 at 3:42 pm

Too perfect for more words from me. We’ll leave it at Namaste with an XO for good measure

Reply

Heather October 10, 2011 at 7:34 pm

I am touched by the amount of emotion carried throughout this post. You are amazing. And, once again, your mama is… well, there are just no words for how precious she is.
Your moments with your mama continuously remind me of my moments with my sister. So special, so treasured, so beautiful. I love that you have this for however long you have it. I love that you see it for the important thing that it is. I love that you remember the little things. They truly are the most important.
Love you.

Reply

Katybeth October 12, 2011 at 12:22 am

What a beautiful, touching story. And you know when it comes down to it…when all is said and done..I do think it will be all about our hair.
Hang on to those precious “little memories.” I can not even begin to tell you how much they matter to this mother and her child.

Big Hug to you and your mama.

Reply

Leave a Comment

Previous post:

Next post: