Happy Birthday to You

Today is my mother's birthday. I don't say "was" her birthday because, even though she died over two years ago, December 16 remains the day she was born on this Earth. She was named Carol in honor of the Christmas season, and she used to say that she was lucky that her birthday was the 16th and not the 17th, or she may have been named after an aunt who had a much less melodious name.

Fourteen years ago, I wrote her a story for a birthday gift that actually recounted a Christmas memory. Tonight, as I arrived at the Relief Society party/dinner/entertainment, the president asked me if I had anything I could contribute to the program--quick--because someone else had cancelled on her. I went home and printed off that story, and as I introduced it, I suddenly realized it was Mother's birthday this very day. So, in honor of her, I will post that story. But it is longish, so I'll divide it into two posts--today is part one and tomorrow will be part two.

The title is "The Year of My Amazing Discovery"--autobiographical, as usual.

That was the Christmas when I learned that my mother was a person, too. This was only a unique concept because I was in my early teens, just fresh from junior high, with the point of view common to the age group. The world began and ended with me. The important questions of the day were:

“Did my hair look okay?”
“Were my clothes cool enough?”
“Could I get through the day without saying or doing something so stupid the whole school would notice?”

I usually thought of Christmas in those terms as well. I was focused on my wants and desires. It was hard to be a teen at Christmas. There wouldn’t be any surprises from Santa. I was too old for that. But I knew my parents weren’t prosperous enough to give me the kind of gifts I’d seen at a friend's house: skis, a stereo, go-go boots.

That is why the whole event was so amazing to me, and significant enough to catch my attention and cause a shift in my view of the world.

We’d gone shopping in the “city”. It was a two hour drive, but it was the closest community to ours with stores where you could buy the items we usually got only through mail order. Plus, my aunt lived there. She and my mother were close in age, and we visited them, or they visited us, at least once a month.

We were in a department store looking for Christmas dresses for my sisters and I, when I heard my mother exclaim to my aunt, “Oh, Lila, feel this coat!” We all came over to inspect it. It was a truly wonderful thing. It was deep navy pile, but unlike most of the late Sixties fake fur, this felt like the real thing. It had a subtle, lustrous glow, and the plush-ness of the nap was unlike any other garment on the rack.

Mama pulled it off the hanger and slipped into it, letting her aging plaid car coat slip to the floor. She snuggled the collar up around her cheeks, pushed her hands deep into the pockets folding it around her like a fashion model. Stepping up to the mirror, she did several half-turns, admiring the way the color complemented her complexion, and practically cooing about the sensuous feel of the fabric.

Without a doubt, it was one terrific coat. She looked good in it, it was different than anything else in the store, and she really did need a new coat. It was Christmas, after all; why not get it?

One hundred dollars, that’s why. The price tag, usually the first thing consulted when we were shopping, had been overlooked in the excitement of the beauty and luxury of the coat. She gasped, took it off, and replaced it on the hanger. As she returned it to its place among the less worthy wraps, I saw her hands linger on the pile for a final caress.

But, my real mother quickly emerged from the reverie, as she briskly gathered her things from the floor, with a laughing comment on how impractical it would be to own such a coat, and how the current jacket was certainly good for at least one more season, probably two. And hadn’t we better get a move on so we’d get home before it was too late?

However when she dressed again in that woven green plaid coat, with the three-quarter sleeves, knit cuffs, and shawl collar, it seemed so bland, so outdated, and, so, so practical that I was conscious for the first time at how adept she was at accepting her circumstances, and making the best of the inevitable. Her uncomplaining way of going about the business of being the mother of eight children on a family dairy-farm budget had never seemed remarkable until now. I wanted her to buy the coat. I wanted her to own it. Whenever any of us had needed something, glasses, orthopedic shoes, dental work, even just a bicycle, my parents always made it happen. I hadn’t been aware of how they did it. They just always somehow figured out the way. Surely they could figure out some way to buy this coat.

(to be continued)