My Surrogate Moms

I have had several surrogate moms over the years.  It’s not that I didn’t have a real mom at the time, but there was a darkness and discontent that became more evident as she aged, and she often turned to me to help her feel better.  I remember her asking me to play her favorite piano piece again and again when I was a young girl because it helped her to relax.  Over the years, I have come to understand that she really did the best she could.  She encouraged my artwork, made sure I had piano lessons and taught me downhill skiing in her better years.  I have many good memories of her.

She never shared her secrets with anyone and the facade of fancy clothes, new cars and lovely homes became her identity.  She had a fierce desire for me to be everything she thought she was not, which was something that I rejected more and more as I grew up.  I wanted a more casual mom who didn’t mind wearing something old, someone who laughed easily and hung out in the kitchen doing yummy things with food. I wanted a mom who was grounded in the love of her home and family.

My first surrogate mom was my former husband’s grandmother.  Grandma Helen and I shared a close and special relationship of love for my young family, gardening, good food and laughter.  I could tell her anything and she would listen without judgment.  It seemed like an extraordinary gift to me at the time. Whenever I see a peony, I think of her and her little garden that was filled with them. 

My second surrogate mom was Marie.  I met Marie when I fell through the ice while skating on our lake.  I could never resist skating on the first clear ice of the season.   Since the water was only about two feet deep around the shore, I often took the chance and glided on that transparent icy surface when it was still fairly thin.  It felt like I was flying over the visible fish and sandy bottom below. The year that I fell through, I was in front of Marie’s house.  I was wet up to my knees and my skates were filled with icy water.  I knew I had a long cold walk home, until a sweet elderly lady called out her door and asked if I needed help.  I came in and warmed up while we got to know each other.  She lived alone and was partially blind.  She never complained and was always ready with stories of her beloved dogs that she had shared her life with over the years and of her dear husband.  I brought her dinner each Sunday evening for many years.  Marie always had to show me the gloves she had saved, one of hers and one of her husband’s.  She kept them carefully displayed on a table….holding hands.

I met my last surrogate mom when I purchased 10 acres of land for my log cabin in the mountains of New Hampshire.  Bertha lived down the dirt road from my newly acquired land.  The road was named after her family and must have been the last parcel that she owned other than the one her home was on.  She lived in what was basically a converted garage.  As the building of my cabin progressed, mysterious dishes of delicious food appeared for the workers at the site.  It took us awhile to realize that they were being left by Bertha. 
 

She made it her mission to help me feel at home in those mountains.  I often walked down the road to visit and never left without the gift of something she had made.  Bertha loved to make houses out of scraps and cover boxes with fabric.  Her little converted garage was crammed with projects that she had created or was working on.  Once in awhile she took me to visit “her girls” who were the waitresses she had befriended in the little cafes and restaurants in several little towns down the mountain.  She always had little gifts she had made for them from her stash of crafts. 

I remember each of my surrogate moms with love.  They simply were exactly who they seemed to be.  No frills women who loved and accepted life joyfully in the moment, just as it was. They are all gone now, and I smile each time I think of them.  I also smile and send love to my own dear mom.  I honor her attempts to give me a wonderful life and to show the world a happy face despite her darkness.   I think I finally understand how she struggled and tried to do the best she could.  I wish I could hug her now and tell her again how much I love her. But I think she knows.