My mother changes her clothes at least three times a day. It used to be five. Was this necessary in Bakersfield? Had she learned this growing up in Weedpatch?
It seemed normal to us five kids to wake up to a hot breakfast, served by a woman in a crisp skirt and ironed blouse. That was after her first shower of the day following her Air Force exercises. Bread she had kneaded into submission at 5 a.m. was baking in the oven, and lunches were lined up on the counter.
After we vacated the house, she changed into her tennis whites, always shorts and a polo shirt, never a skirt, and always K-Swiss tennies and socklets with the ball on the back. She played for a couple hours, necessitating shower No. 2, then redressed in the skirt and shirt in readiness for my dad's arrival home from work at 12:06 for lunch. Homemade saltless soup (she majored in Home Ec at Cal) or a salad, discussion of the morning's events and then a nap for Dad. I never really knew what she did during that hour and a half. After his return to work, she gardened in her vegetable patch (producing enough tomatoes to stuff a full-size freezer full of sauces and enough raspberries to keep us supplied with jam) or flower beds (600 bulbs planted yearly for her annual garden party), did laundry, which included running the cloth tablecloths and napkins my dad insisted upon through a full-size mangler we had in the laundry room, and executed a gourmet dinner — three colors on the plate, plus salad and homemade dessert.
We came home to oatmeal raisin cookies, freshly baked, and then it was shower No. 3 as Mom dressed for dinner, every night, with pantyhose (always nude) a dress, heels and jewelry, in preparation for my dad's 5:06 arrival from his office down the road. He made the drinks.
Alison Biggar
No comments :
Post a Comment