Keepsakes

"Don't go around saying the world owes you a living; the world owes you nothing; it was here first. " Mark Twain

I'm more than half way through the 3 hour and 40 minute Ken Burns PBS special about Mark Twain. I didn't plan it this way but it's a delightful way to wind down my longest running job as a writer and as usual when I delve into a biography of someone I should have learned more about in high school, I am amazed at what I'm learning for the first time (which is not necessarily the same as being amazed at what I'm hearing for the first time I do realize). Among the things that escaped my notice when I first read Huck Finn, was the fact that the life of Mark Twain overlapped the lives of 2 of my grandparents, which I find such a delightful notion.

However, Mrs. Mark Twain, or Olivia Langdon Clemens is on my mind this week as I sort of, kind of, most of the way am not too sad that I am saying good-bye to my trusty job and scads of easy access to friends around the world. In the documentary, a narrator reads as passage from a letter from Olivia to her mother during one of the periods when she was home caring for her 3 children while Sam Clemens (MT) was on the lecture circuit. I could not find the exact words to copy them here, but I was so struck that she confided to her mother that in the midst of the taxing duties of running the house and taking care of her young children she wished she could put her head on her mother's lap and 'be somebody's baby' at times during this period.

Her honesty took me by complete surprise when I would have imagined that being stoic all the time to everyone, most especially one's parents was 'the thing to do'. After all MT hadn't published Tom Sawyer or Huck Finn quite yet so he was lecturing to pay for all the luxuries of their opulent Connecticutt home and accompanying lifestyle.

However, I'm just projecting wildly on her that she felt so completely at home in her own skin that she didn't feel the least bit timid to reveal that to her mother. My first thought when imagining telling that to my mom is that I'd feel so bad doing that- not because she would mind- in fact I think she'd be flattered to know I still feel that way at my ripe old age (and she being only 22 years older than me gets closer to my age all the time it seems like-oh ok the other way around but still!). I thought I'd feel bad letting her know because she hasn't had the benefit of a mother to express that to for a period even longer than she's been a mother or a wife. My maternal grandmother and name sake died just 8 weeks before my parents' wedding when my mother was just 21.

My mom, though much more of an introvert than me, never shied away from speaking up on our behalf. When we would take the train to Manhattan from our Brooklyn home (we lived on the first floor apartment of a two-story brick house owned by her father, who was such a wonderful buddy to me, my brother, and my sister that he deserves his own blog entry)-- on a vacation day from school to go to Radio City or visit the Museum of Natural History and have to ride back to Brooklyn during rush hour on the hot, crowded subway cars, she would look out for open seats, two together always, and my brother and I would sit. One day a commuter chided her for not forcing us to give up our seats to the surrounding adults. We couldn't have been more than 6 (me) and 3 (my brother John) at the time, and she unflinchingly said that we were tired from a long day out and had every right to sit down, all the while she scouted out no seat for herself.

When we were sick we got to eat teenie tiny pasta, resembling cous cous called Pastina. Three decades later, and 3,000 miles away, my daughter Alice looks forward to Pastina for any reason at all, as do I. On the few occasions when my parents travelled I would get so homesick for her, and feel so bad in hindsight for my Dad's mom who was left to pick up the pieces, because of all things, no one could fix my hair or tie a bow on my dress like she did.

With the blessings of good health and one-price long distance calling my mother is very much with me this week. Much like we used to play a full Monopoly game during school vacations but playing a little bit each night (to show you the intelligence level and give a hint as to our ages and stages, my sister's high chair with or without my sister in it was the bank, my brother cared only that he was able to hoard as much 'blue money' as possible,' and I just wanted 3 of the same color, *any* color)-- I've been treating myself to one fun thing each day of my last week.

Mark Twain combined with cross stitch figures prominently. Two days left-- time for Pastina. I love you, Mom.

"The days come and go like muffled and veiled figures sent from a distant party, but they say nothing, and if we do not use the gifts they bring, they carry them as silently away."
RALPH WALDO EMERSON