Recently, I was having a conversation with a dear friend of mine – Sue. During the course of our conversation we talked a bit about my Mum. Sue said to me, “I always admired your mother.” I kind of smiled and nodded, in that way we all do when someone says something nice, but well, we don’t think it’s all that thought provoking or unusual, it’s kind of expected – almost. It’s more just a matter of, ‘yeah me too’, type thing – than a really deep thought to ponder upon. Then she said, “No. I really mean it. When I was a teenager, a thought your Mum was a real Babe!”
Now that caught my attention. I said, “How do you mean, Sue?” She said, “Only in the most honourable way. Your Mum was a babe, when other Mum’s were soccer Mum’s in mum jeans and button down shirts. She was always made up. Make up done – like a movie star – you know like Betty Grable or Grace Kelly. Her hair done just so (usually some fancy do or other). She was always in nice clothes, with fancy embroidery on them, coordinated just right, little touches of jewelery … you know – a babe.”
Long after our conversation had ended, and Sue had gone home, I was still thinking on her words. My Mum was a babe. Hmmmmm. I’d never quite thought of her that way, but I could see what Sue meant. I could see what she meant, now, but back then Mum was just Mum. She always looked that way. So that was my normal mum kind of mum. Our conversation did get me reminiscing, in my mind’s eye, and recalling all the little things that made my Mum who she was to me.
One of my fondest memories of my mother, which still persists to this day, came to me in blinding clarity. It looked just like a movie screen, in my head, so clear was it. Even now on the fifth anniversary of her passing into glory, this memory comforts me and brings a smile to my face.
Late summer, 1973 . . .
We lived in a large mobile home situated on two cleared acres, with six acres of forest surrounding us on two sides. There was a small creek running down the third side of our property, which bordered on the MacDonald’s farm. Funny thing is, I can’t remember, for the life of me, what exactly the MacDonalds’ farm sold or raised. I do remember often quietly humming or singing the tune of “Old MacDonald had a farm” whenever I walked or bicycled by their place. It was one of those silly things which tickles an eight year olds sense of humour, no rhyme nor reason to it, it just does. My two older brothers use to tease their two sons, incessantly, with the same song too. No wonder they were always scrapping with one another. Mind you, after the scraps were over usually a baseball game (in summer), or a hockey game (in winter), would break out. The funny thing about all of that was, our last names were MacDonald too.
Though I was born a Brown, my mother had remarried, not long after divorcing my father, to a man whose last name was MacDonald. They married in 1970, just a few days shy of my fifth birthday. Mum had us older three children start using her new husband’s name, right away. However, it wasn’t until sometime in 1974 that the legal switch happened. It was about a year after our younger brother, Christopher, was born, that Wayne finally adopted us.
My favourite thing to do each morning was to knock softly on my Mum and step-Dad’s bedroom door, and wait for that quiet “Yes? Come in.” from my Mum. Mum knew I really enjoyed watching her prep for her day. My mother was a jewel. It didn’t matter what she was doing that day, she always dressed up – every single morning. She even dressed up when she felt like just laying in bed, sick with a fever or a cold. When I entered her room, she was almost always dressed in an attractive fancy nightgown, with a matching peignoir. It was my mothers only extravagance, to my recollection. She had the most feminine, beautiful nightwear I had ever seen. They always had something special about them. Almost all of them had matching peignoirs, or bed-jackets, as my mother called them. Each of them had something to make them extra special too. It might be pretty buttons, lace, ribbons, silk flowers, embroidery, puffed sleeves, dainty ruffles, or delicate tatting work – or a combination of a few of those thing. Each year, at Christmas, I was allowed to select one of my mothers special nighties to wear to bed on Christmas Eve night. I loved that tradition.
I would come in and sit on the end of her bed, slightly behind her, but just to the right of her dressing table. I always had a clear view of everything she was doing. We didn’t talk much, but a lot seemed to get said, just the same. I would ask the occasional quiet question, and she would just as quietly answer whatever I asked. As she went along with her routine, she would give little side comments about what she was doing, and why. It was all very fascinating to me, I would hang on her every word, and watch each of her movements very carefully. I now do the same thing with my little girl, though I do not do this same ritual every morning, like my mother did.
Mum and step-Dad had a fairly small master bedroom, as most mobile homes in 1973 did. Mum would be sitting at her small dressing table. There was always a rather alarming array of bottles, brushes, bins, tins and tubes patiently sitting, waiting for her. She had this totally awesome tri-lighted make-up mirror. (Everything on your mother’s dressing table, when you are eight, is TOTALLY AWESOME!) She could select a lighting option from the three possibilities – indoors, outdoors and evening. Mum usually picked outdoors, because “it was a nice bright light to work with”. It also had the option of regular mirror, or flip the mirror over and have a magnified image of your face, staring back at you. I always found the magnified side kind of scary. It made everything become rather starkly and blindingly HUGE, out of proportion, like a fun house mirror would. Mum used the regular mirror for most of her make-up, but always switched to the magnified side to do the eyeliner and mascara part of her make-up routine.
She would select the tubes, bottles, brushes and containers she planned to use that morning, then proceed with her daily ritual. One would think, considering all the little pots and containers she opened and dabbed here and brushed there, that she would look quite “tarted up”, when she was done. I never thought she did then. Now, as an adult, looking back at old photos, I still don’t. She had a light hand, and a good eye. She applied her make-up with a precision and professionalism which many a pro make-up artist would envy. My favourite part of the make up process was her eyes. She had beautiful sage green eyes, just like my nine year old son, Keigan Michael, has now. When she was done applying her eye make-up, her eyes were amazing. You saw each and every fleck of colour, each tone, each colour change. Her eyes were her best facial feature, even before a single thing was added. Whatever she did with her pots and containers of eyeliner (liquid stuff too!), eye shadow and mascara, made her eyes just look amazing, bright and vividly full of life, when she was done.
With her face “done” as she always said, she would move quickly onto her nails. She never had long, lovely nails, though she always wanted to. However, the ones she had were clean, nicely shaped, with a soft coloured polish applied to them. It was rare that she would have a flashy colour on her nails. Once she finished her nails and face, she moved on to her hair.
What my mother could do with her hair, just isn’t done anymore. Well, unless you are heading off to the CMA awards or the OSCARs. Hollywood still does what my mother use to do to her hair, to it’s bounty of starlets and performers. She did some of the most beautiful ‘up do’s with her hair, and on occasion, mine too. You would think it would look weird, or odd in everyday life to see a lady with her face all nicely made up, and her hair piled in artfully created hairdos. Strangely, it didn’t. She rarely did just a simple anything with her hair. She had this beautiful thick auburn hair, that softly rippled down her back. I was long by some folks standards, but it reached about mid upper back. When she washed it, it would dry into little ringlets, softly laying over her shoulders and down the bodice of her blouse. Then she’d finger comb it out and achieve a style that most women would pay a stylist $50 or $60 to produce. She rarely stopped there though. She would use combs, barrettes, bobby-pins, bows, ribbons …. head bands, scarves, whatever was at hand which would serve it’s purpose in her latest creation. It was a very uncommon day to see Mum with her hair in a simple pony-tail, or a utilitarian braid.
All of the above was generally handled in a short thirty minute time frame. She was very practiced in what she did, and could accomplish, what to me would be a good two hours work, in a very short time.
Once everything else was done, she would have me scoot over to the side of the bed which faced her closet. I loved my mother’s closet. Mum had a sea of colours in there. As I child I thought she really did have every colour under the rainbow in her closet. Each top had a matching something in there to go with it. Most of it was handmade by her. Some my Aunt Hedy, her sister, would pass on to her, but most were made by her own hand. Even when she was no longer a small lady, she still made many of her own garments, and really enjoyed the process too. Although, most of them were quite simple in design, all of them had some special bit added to them, to bring them from just ordinary, to something extraordinary – and so my mother, so Judith.
She was an excellent seamstress and her work showed this. She also could do extraordinary embroidery, and often times her items would have something embroidered on them. She had this jean jacket she bought at Sears bargain basement. It was just a plain Jane, man’s jacket, actually. She embroidered this gorgeous golden sheaf of wheat on the back, and then added small tiny intricate trails of flowers and a lady bug, coming down off the sheaf. On the front pockets, she had added a tiny smattering of the same flowers with a lady bug on each one too, as well as the lapels and collar. It took her hours to design the artwork, choose her colours, and many more hours to actually accomplish the work.
Each of the simple garments she made herself, from tops, to jackets, to shorts, skirts and pants too …. each had an added something. Sometimes that something was a big thing, like the gorgeous embroidered full dress indian head on the back of a simple cotton short-waisted jacket. Most often it was a subtle small thing, like a tiny bouquet of nosegays, embroidered on the collar or pocket flap, which made it uniquely Judith. She’d find special buttons, which she’d pick up on sale at K-mart or the local fabric store or pretty lace or ribbons added. A plain top would be made unique and interesting by adding hand-sewn patchwork pockets, or a coordinating yolk created from a unusual remnant she’d find in the 75% off bins.
All in all, once the package was complete, my mother went from drab to babe in 40 minutes flat, every morning. She used to tell me that 40 minutes was her special time to charge up and ready for her day. It made each day just sparkle some how. Life wasn’t always easy, but she said it helped to always have her best face, facing the world each day.
What did she do after getting all done up each day? Whatever was the plans for the day. If the plan was to do laundry, chores, and mow the lawn, that’s what she did. I’ve seen her put on her ‘face’, do her nails, fix her hair up in an elaborate design, chose her clothing with care, then don a large homely apron, and clean and scrub the oven! She dressed the same whether she was going out back to limb up some trees with her own personal chainsaw, or going to town to buy groceries and to the eye doctors. The only concession to whatever job or chore she set her mind to, was the jacket or apron that she would use to protect and cover up her clothing, so they wouldn’t be soiled. She did everything with style, and in style.
Not for her was the mad dash out of old sweats, or worn jeans, or a stained or torn sweat shirt and soiled skirt, into something presentable just before her husband drove in the yard. When her husband drove in the yard, she’d quietly freshen her lipstick, giver her ‘do’ a tweak, straighten her clothes, remove her utilitarian apron, hanging it on a peg. She’d slipped on her cowboy boots, or walking shoes, or knee-high black patten-look boots, and run out the door to meet him. In the winter, she’d be standing at the door, looking fresh and smiling. No matter what we’d put her through that day, or how much work she did in the house, or baking, or laundry, or whatever – it was nearly always the same. She looked like a babe, when her husband walked in the door, and she looked like a babe when she was scouring the toilet, or changing my little brothers cloth diapered bottom.
One of the saddest things about the disease which eventually began stealing my mother’s life away, bit by bit, was how it took that babe-ness from my mother too. The Multiple Sclerosis, robbed her of her dexterity, and later her mobility which was devastating, in and of itself, for such a vital and physical woman. However, it also robbed her of the simple joys of doing her own make-up, nails and hair each morning. She could no longer sew, do needlecraft, weave, knit, crochet, and eventually couldn’t even hold a book to read, on her own. All those little things which made her, her face, her hair and even her clothes uniquely Judith, slowly disappeared. Throughout most of her life, many of her friends and family called her Judy. I rarely thought of my mother as a Judy. I would think of her as Judith. Judith seemed to embody this special unique lady, who was my mother. Judith, to me, means babe. It means, Mum. It is Mum. Judy, was the lady my mother became after the disease crept in and robbed her of so much of her Judith-ness.
She was still enough like my Mama, in spirit, for me to still ‘see’ her in my mind’s eye, but a lot of Judith became invisible, and Judy emerged. Judy couldn’t do her make-up everyday, someone else had to do it for her. She often looked like one of those dime store dolls, with over-bright cheeks, and too much eyeshadow, when others did her make-up for her. Her hair lost much of it’s shine and beauty, ravaged by the medications needed to keep the disease at bay. It was generally given little more than a cursory brush, and tucked behind her ears, or pulled back in a stark pony-tail. Very un-Judith-like.
Judy’s nails became long, finally. However, they were often curled at the ends, and brittle and yellow looking. Her hands could no longer perform even the most rudimentary of seamstress work, let alone hold a tiny brush or tube of lipstick. They had become bent, gnarled and twisted hands, with these long rakish almost eerie like nails on the end. She would lift her hand to her face to scratch an itch, and do little more than thump a fused almost fisted hand futilely against her face. She would cry out in frustration at how much her body had betrayed her.
The biggest insult? For a Judith to have to wear the utilitarian clothes of a Judy. Gone were the fancy hand embroidered clothes, or the pretty buttons, lace, ribbons and embellishments of Judith’s beloved wardrobe. Zippers and velcro were now the norm. Her beautiful nightwear was replaced with hospital gowns, tied at the neck and waist. Her Peignoir replaced with yet another hospital gown tied on backwards. She rarely could even get her beloved cowboy boots on over her fluid engorged feet. No pants, no jeans, no fancy cowboy shirts with embroidered horses kick up their heals …
Judith’s body had not cooperated with her. It had let her down, big time. Her hands couldn’t button or even zipper anything anymore. Judy could only wear clothing which could easily be yanked or tugged onto her now, mostly uncooperative and unbending body. She had to be dressed like a small 9 month old, who needs your help to guide her wobbly arms into the over-sized garments. She had a personal care worker, who didn’t have even a fraction of the fashion savvy my mother had. They chose things purely on how easy there were to put on her. Little to no regard was given for her preferences, her spirit or Judith side.
There was one thing which she was able to maintain from Judith – her cowboy hat. It was a large dark brown felt cowboy hat. Mum had, years ago, when she first bought it, soaked it in water, and molded it to her head, and styled it just the way she wanted it styled. Mum’s fondest dream for much of her life, was to own and operate a riding stable. This ugly old hat, represented her dreams. She still felt that someday she could still attain her dreams. The cowboy had continued to embody all the hope my mother had in her life.
Years later, this hat of hers had lost it’s new shiny, polished look. It took on the look of a hat just like what you’d imagine a working cowboy, on some ranch in Montana, would be wearing. You could almost see him whipping it off his head, and drawing it across his work-weary eyes. Wiping the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt, which covered the arm holding that same hat. Then he jammed his hat back on his head, and launched himself back into the saddle – back to work he’d go.
Now, imagine this same battered hat, lovingly placed on Judith’s head. Paired with the hat, a large warm pair of extra-big fluffy bedroom slippers, with large teddy bear heads on them. These were hauled on over a pair of wool-socked feet. Add a thick warm poncho over her shoulders, a thick wool blanket tucked around her knees, and a soft cuddly scarf, pulled up to her nose. Add her Isotoner gloves, (the last gift her father gave her, the Christmas before he passed on) and she was ready to go. She’d go for a ‘walk’ in her electric wheelchair, down the frozen streets of Amherst. She was a very familiar figure to many of the towns people. Due to all the layers of clothes on her, she often looked like a big bundled up wheelchair with a large cowboy hat on top. I don’t know if folks found her amusing, or not, but I loved her – big hat and all.
In later years, I didn’t get to visit my mother as much as I would have liked. Marriage and motherhood brought me responsibilities which kept me home and distanced from Mum. For most of my married life we lived at least two and half hours from each other. Other times our homes were as much as a four day drive apart. Eventually my little family settled in Quebec, a good 13 hour drive from ‘home’.
When I could get home though, sometimes, she’d have me do her make-up, fix her nails, then brush and style her hair, like back in the summer of 1973. Then she’d have me pick out a special outfit from way back in her closet – something she couldn’t normally dress in by herself. She’d once again have her unique and unusual clothes on. It generally took us a long time to coax her disease weary body into the beautiful old clothes, but we’d keep going until the task was accomplished. We’d laugh, and giggle and chortle until tears of mirth were pouring down our faces. I would help Judith emerge again. I would dust off her her beloved cowboy hat, making it shine, for just a moment, like back in it’s glory days. I would set it upon her head, slip her cowboy boots on her feet (if I could get them on), and we’d go for a “walk” to the mall. She’d spend a day as Judith again. And I would spend the day with my mother, the babe, again.
For you Mama.
Love, Sarah Jane
a.k.a Lisa Michele
