"Whenever a new play was performed, you could be sure of seeing her there with three things which she always had with her and which always occupied the ledge of her box in the stalls: her opera-glasses, a box of sweets and a bunch of camellias. For twenty-five days in every month the camellias were white, and for five they were red." La Dame Aux Camelias, Alexandre Dumas fils
A few weeks ago, I was in Chowchilla*, California for my grandmother's birthday when my aunt and uncle, a former MarineNavywho once served in the Navy, revealed the startling news that in the '60s they'd owned a pet monkey named Timmy. (There's just something so sixties about that, don't you think?) Apparently Timmy was very sweet-tempered (tears welled up in my aunt's eyes as she told us about him), but terribly afraid of bathing. The story does not end well. Some neighbors bought Timmy and took him back east where he quickly became ill and then died.
*My birthplace, known for an infamous bus kidnapping that took place there in the '70s--The kidnappers, who'd buried the bus full of kids and the driver in an abandoned mine, couldn't get through on the phone lines to ask for ransom because the tiny town was bombarded with phone calls from the press, so they just left the bus buried and ran. Luckily the victims were able to dig themselves out and they all survived.
Last year after The May Queen was published, my mom wrote me this letter. It was incredibly honest and she'd never really talked about some of the things she mentioned therein, so needless to say it means a lot to me. Since she's a regular reader of my blog, I decided that for her birthday I would surprise her by writing a letter too.
Dear Mom,
I remember as a toddler attempting to do yoga by your side as we listened carefully to the instructions of the woman with Rapunzel hair demonstrating the poses on our local PBS station. Later, I remember greedily exploring your bookshelves filled with titles that ran the gamut from Arthurian romances and Ivanhoe to Rod McKuen's poetry and Dianetics. It was better than a treasure trunk packed with dress-up clothes, as far as I was concerned. On special nights when we were glued to the television for a miniseries like North and South, Roots, and Centennial, you would make tea for the four of us. It was a ritual that made us feel so special and grown up. I love how the three of us girls can get lost in a story or song together and, to dad's bemusement, laugh till we cry and vice versa. For those and countless other reasons, I wouldn't be the person I am today without you.
The high school years were tough, of course, and I had to learn that you were more than a mother--you were a woman with your own hopes and dreams and childhood memories. But we survived and our relationship just keeps getting better and better. You radiate gentleness and you are kind, creative, and funny. I love talking to you every week and sharing our passion for books and for life. I value your encouragement so much and want to be able to give that to you as well. I hope you realize how beautiful you are both inside and out. I'm excited that the four of us will all be together this weekend, along with your sister and mother, to celebrate your birthday and be silly together. Because we do silly so well.
I love you, Mom! Happy Birthday!
Kim
Quick post before I dash off to Maui. Yesterday at my grandmother's 91st birthday lunch, she said, deadpan:
"I've been down here so long, I'm afraid everybody up there thinks I went to hell."
Happy Birthday to my sassy, clever grandma! Lots more to share, but it will have to wait until I return.
