Even as I publish this post, my mother is at Evins Mill replacing the Inn's Fall decor with a Christmas motif. Two months from now, she'll adorn the property with hearts for Valentines Day, then pastel colors for spring, followed by a patriotic theme for summer - after which the cycle repeats itself. She’s performed this ritual exquisitely and free of charge since 1994 - and a good thing too, as God knows I wouldn't pay someone to do it, or what the place would look like were I decorating it. ~
I suspect the only pleasure my mother derives from this routine is knowing that she's helping me. If true, this inkling would elucidate a seminal feature of our relationship - that is to say, her giving and my receiving. One ambit of this give-and-take involves food, for even as a grown man, I still receive from my mother periodic caches of pimento cheese, egg salad and a bevy of other homemade delights, including meatless chili to accommodate my new found vegetarianism.
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Her helping hand extends beyond creature comforts. As if rooting for me at yesteryear's high school wrestling match, she is consistently among the first to applaud these essays. More welcome than this, she - along with my father it should be noted - routinely hosts my young daughter for sleepovers. While both enjoy Ivy's company, my mother seems dually motivated by the reprieve it gives her son from the duties of parenthood. Though her baby boy no longer seeks such aegis, he remains touched by the maternal impulse that compels it.
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Say what I might, perhaps the best vantage point from which to capture the depth of my mother's devotion is found in a book called The Giving Tree, which portrays the relationship between a boy and a tree as they grow older. On one hand, the story illustrates profound generosity, for the tree bestows everything she has to bolster the boy - at first her apples for the scamp to eat, later her limbs for the young man to build a house, then her very trunk for the older man to craft a boat, and finally her stump for the codger to take a load off.
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As it turns out, the story also depicts gross ingratitude, for the grown man not once expresses affection for the tree nor reciprocates her kindnesses - never does he mulch around her base, fertilize her soil or so much as lift a hand for the tree - unless wielding an ax. Indeed, the ingrate only visits when something's in it for him and fails to utter a word of thanks for all he's received. I am guilty of at least one offense, but it is not ingratitude - at least not toward my own giving tree.
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So as I bask in the thankful afterglow of the holiday just celebrated and anticipate my mother's December 1st birthday, perhaps this public encomium will reinforce my hitherto private expressions of appreciation - and serve as a more fitting birthday gift than anything else I could otherwise tender. And as to the above referenced offense, it is shamelessly tugging on heartstrings of mothers everywhere - especially mine own, whom I love very much and for whom I am most grateful. Happy Birthday Mom!
