Sunday, October 4, 2009

My Mother

My mother was a pip. Warm caring with a touch of devilishness. Cute and funny and one who never shied away from "what must be done." She loved giving and would feed an army if they dropped by. She loved my dad and all of her children. There was another side of her that never complained of her place in life or the great potential within. She was a marvelous untrained artist who used color like Van Gogh and Matisse. She cared for her brother and sisters when her mother passed away and her father Isaac worked all day for their reunion as a family.

Her cooking was superb a mix of Lebanon and Louisiana with instinctive dashes and splashes of spices only she knew. It wasn't just the Lebanese food but shrimp to die for as well. Sharyn learned many of the dishes and Elaine and Maggi picked them up as well. I know she taught Matt to make that wonderful pocket bread mother called Syrian bread and I'm still trying to duplicate the warm aromatic softness myself.

I'm convinced she could have done anything better than well and yet she chose family over fame or fortune and perhaps a little of that was the times and circumstance. In many ways she is famous and her life endures like her smile. I do know I am a better person because of her.

I wish I had dug deeper into her enjoyment of Edgar Cayce who said ""Keep sweet, keep friendly, keep loving, if ye would keep young," and that's what my mother always did.

My mother also wrote and my favorite of her writings was this:

by Margaret

At dusk I lie and gaze out the window pane
Upon whose face the raindrops slowly then swiftly run
And am reminded of countless tears that dormant remain
When skies have cleared and there comes a bright sun

The tears never were shown for all the heartaches in her life one of which was my arthritis and others were seeing her younger siblings pass before her, her never taken trip to her parents birthplace in Lebanon before that country was nearly destroyed in bitter conflict. She talked of Lebanon and it's reputation as the Paris of the Middle east, and the Cedars and Olive trees. How the bulldozing of the olive trees was like ripping the soul out of the people there.

Despite her love of her parents birthplace she was never a believer in the conflict only in the desire for peace.

While there were dormant tears there was always warmth from the dollar hidden in her bra to the smile at winning another Scrabble game.
Love you mom

1 comment:

MailLady Martha said...

Thanks, Paul, this is a fitting tribute to your Mom. I'm glad I knew her, and I loved her Syrian bread!