My Mom Was a Writer

The writing apple didn't fall from the tree.

My mom’s notebooks still smell like the bottom drawer of the metal cabinet that was in our dining room, later her bedroom. It’s a weird mix of cigarettes, dust, and incense, and the nostalgic scent is overwhelming when I open the bins full of her old papers.

I recently put some of these notebooks on a shelf in my office to refer to while I write, and now my office smells like the drawer. I wonder if the pages will lose their scent as they are out of the bins and in the open. I’m simultaneously comforted and disturbed by the smell, and I honestly don’t know if I’d prefer these pages to keep it or not. My ambivalence about it is as surprising as the fact that they still smell after all these years.

Just some of my mom’s many notebooks.

My mom wrote a lot. Poetry, stories, notes about her dreams, random thoughts, and anything else under the sun. She kept logs and journals. At various times, she was interested in rocks and minerals, Wicca, plants, oils, candles, dolls, genealogy, and seemingly a thousand other things, and she kept notes on all of them. I could spend months reading through it all.

There was a time she was putting all of her writings together, though I don’t know for what purpose. I think she was hoping to publish them. If she’d been around for it, she absolutely would have been a blogger.

I’ve been reading a notebook full of her poetry. It seems like she’d write multiple poems in one day, then nothing for months. Some of them don’t make much sense to me, and I’m curious to know who she’s writing about or the meaning behind them.

One of her poems.

Here are two of them. I read the first one many years ago. I only read the second one for the first time a few days ago. These have been transcribed just as she wrote them.

I.

“Oh, no!” —
She is a sweetness,
a sly, teasing smile,
an imp in a dress;
Giggling and whining,
Screaming and chatting,
Determined.
Her eyes say more
than her words can.
Her world now is
a cuddly doll to hug
and kiss
and throw on the floor.
She moves constantly
touching everything in her path
Running + running,
Endlessly to everywhere.
Her answer to everything
is just “Oh, no…”
Soon, she will be
saying what she thinks
and feels
Soon she will let me know
Just who she is
Loving her now I know I
will love her then.

August 25, 1977 (This is about me. I was 15 months old.)

II.

OPEN LETTER
To Whom the Shoe Fits:

I thought I’d found my prince.
I thought you heard me say: I’m no Susie Homemaker.
I thought you meant it, when you said you’d do right by me.
I thought you would try for the kids.
I thought you knew I’d stand by you and help, because I loved you.
So, I was wrong.

I believed you when you said it was a starter home—we’d move on from here.
I believed you when you promised to try to stay sober.
I believed you when you said you were sorry for hitting me.
I believed you when you said you loved us.
So, I was wrong.

I knew you were right when you said I’d never make it without you.
I knew you were right when you said I was worthless.
I knew you were right when you said you would get the kids.
I knew you were right when you said you’d kill me before you’d let me leave.
So, I was wrong.

I had to change my life, for me + the kids.
I had to survive on $20,000 a year—you couldn’t send support.
I had to be mother + father—you didn’t try for visitation
let alone custody.
I had to write this letter.
So, I was right.

But,
It’s too bad you don’t know your children.
It’s too bad you didn’t see your son graduate
first in his High School class or see his dorm room
It’s too bad you haven’t seen your daughter cheer at a football game or go to a prom.
It’s too bad you will continue to miss moments
in their lives, by your own choice.
Sometimes I feel sorry for you,
But,
Usually I don’t.
Sincerely,

September 30, 1993

All four of us. I rarely find an undated photo, but I’d guess this is early 1977.

Sixteen years separate these poems, and it’s almost as though a different person wrote them. I wish I knew the first woman.

There’s more. So much more. But this is enough for one day.