By Drema Sizemore Drudge
Don't ever save anything for a special occasion. Being alive is the special occasion.
~Author Unknown
After leaving home for college, I never felt like I quite fit in with my family again. A layer of ice seemed to form between my mother and me as I began spouting opinions radically different from those with which I had been raised. I felt the chill of disapproval. Mom and Dad came from blue-collar families and remained so themselves. Though I saw nothing wrong with that, I preferred the artistic life, one that they didn't seem to understand.
Don't ever save anything for a special occasion. Being alive is the special occasion.
~Author Unknown
After leaving home for college, I never felt like I quite fit in with my family again. A layer of ice seemed to form between my mother and me as I began spouting opinions radically different from those with which I had been raised. I felt the chill of disapproval. Mom and Dad came from blue-collar families and remained so themselves. Though I saw nothing wrong with that, I preferred the artistic life, one that they didn't seem to understand.
"What kind of a job can you get if you're an English major?" my mother asked. I knew her concern was only because she wanted a better life for me, but it infuriated me.
"I never tell you how to live your life. Don't tell me how to live mine," I would say. "I want to be a writer." It's funny that when you're in the middle of a situation you never realize what a cliché your "problem" is. You think you are the only one to ever disappoint your parents. Eventually we learned not to talk about certain topics, but it hurt to feel like I hadn't won my parents' approval.
My parents came from more conservative times, and one of the symbols of that to me was Mom's ice bucket, which sat atop the refrigerator. My parents didn't usually have parties, but during my childhood my mother did have a Tupperware party. She planned it for days and we children helped her prepare the house for it. Mom and her friends had a great time, and Mom obtained enough hostess points for the one item in the catalog that she coveted -- the ice bucket with tongs.
When it came, it was unwrapped carefully and reverently put in that place where all household treasures resided -- the top of the refrigerator. Though we moved several times after that, that ice bucket was carted from house to house and a new house wasn't home until the ice bucket was placed on top of the refrigerator.
The bucket was never used. I think Mom was saving it for a "special occasion." The only occasions we ever had were the usual milestones -- someone's twenty-first birthday, a baby or a bridal shower. I suspect that Mom was hoping for a slightly more glamorous occasion -- perhaps a cocktail party, or a New Year's Eve celebration where everyone wore something besides jeans. I think in her heart she thought that life (and their income) would get better.
A few months ago, Mom called to say she was bringing over some things for me to sort through. She and my father had moved into a smaller place for their retirement, and they just didn't have room for all the stuff they'd accumulated. I rooted through the box and gladly rescued a few ceramic roosters from the thrift shop pile before I saw a bag with a familiar shape peeping out from the top.
"Do you want this?" Mom asked as she sadly handed me the ice bucket. "Wait," she said, not letting me respond. "I know the tongs are in here somewhere." Daintily she handed me the items, pinkie outstretched, the same daintiness that would not have been out of place in a queen's court had her life circumstances placed her there.
"Of course I want them," I said.
I knew then that she was still hopeful about my future, still believed my life would be better than hers had been, and that the ice between us had started to thaw. That ice bucket told me there were unexpressed desires in my mother's heart for me and that she wasn't as different from me as she might appear.
Some time later, I threw a surprise birthday party for Mom. I stipulated that the dress code was to be "Sunday Best." Not since that Tupperware party had my sisters and I spent so much time fussing over a party. Once I told them about it, the whole family was on board; my dad even bought Mom a new dress "from the mall," he told me proudly.
The star of the party was, however, the ice bucket. We elevated it in the center of the table, swathing it in pink tulle, filling it to overflowing with ice.
The surprise party flabbergasted my mom. After the initial greetings, I put Mom to work. "Would you get us all some ice?" I asked, as I handed her the tongs. Standing there in the teal silk dress that made her blue eyes sparkle, pinkie extended, she complied, dipping into that bucket as if she were handing out gold coins.
Afterwards she introduced me to her new friend from church I hadn't met.
"Lisa," she said, "have you met my daughter... the writer?"
"I never tell you how to live your life. Don't tell me how to live mine," I would say. "I want to be a writer." It's funny that when you're in the middle of a situation you never realize what a cliché your "problem" is. You think you are the only one to ever disappoint your parents. Eventually we learned not to talk about certain topics, but it hurt to feel like I hadn't won my parents' approval.
My parents came from more conservative times, and one of the symbols of that to me was Mom's ice bucket, which sat atop the refrigerator. My parents didn't usually have parties, but during my childhood my mother did have a Tupperware party. She planned it for days and we children helped her prepare the house for it. Mom and her friends had a great time, and Mom obtained enough hostess points for the one item in the catalog that she coveted -- the ice bucket with tongs.
When it came, it was unwrapped carefully and reverently put in that place where all household treasures resided -- the top of the refrigerator. Though we moved several times after that, that ice bucket was carted from house to house and a new house wasn't home until the ice bucket was placed on top of the refrigerator.
The bucket was never used. I think Mom was saving it for a "special occasion." The only occasions we ever had were the usual milestones -- someone's twenty-first birthday, a baby or a bridal shower. I suspect that Mom was hoping for a slightly more glamorous occasion -- perhaps a cocktail party, or a New Year's Eve celebration where everyone wore something besides jeans. I think in her heart she thought that life (and their income) would get better.
A few months ago, Mom called to say she was bringing over some things for me to sort through. She and my father had moved into a smaller place for their retirement, and they just didn't have room for all the stuff they'd accumulated. I rooted through the box and gladly rescued a few ceramic roosters from the thrift shop pile before I saw a bag with a familiar shape peeping out from the top.
"Do you want this?" Mom asked as she sadly handed me the ice bucket. "Wait," she said, not letting me respond. "I know the tongs are in here somewhere." Daintily she handed me the items, pinkie outstretched, the same daintiness that would not have been out of place in a queen's court had her life circumstances placed her there.
"Of course I want them," I said.
I knew then that she was still hopeful about my future, still believed my life would be better than hers had been, and that the ice between us had started to thaw. That ice bucket told me there were unexpressed desires in my mother's heart for me and that she wasn't as different from me as she might appear.
Some time later, I threw a surprise birthday party for Mom. I stipulated that the dress code was to be "Sunday Best." Not since that Tupperware party had my sisters and I spent so much time fussing over a party. Once I told them about it, the whole family was on board; my dad even bought Mom a new dress "from the mall," he told me proudly.
The star of the party was, however, the ice bucket. We elevated it in the center of the table, swathing it in pink tulle, filling it to overflowing with ice.
The surprise party flabbergasted my mom. After the initial greetings, I put Mom to work. "Would you get us all some ice?" I asked, as I handed her the tongs. Standing there in the teal silk dress that made her blue eyes sparkle, pinkie extended, she complied, dipping into that bucket as if she were handing out gold coins.
Afterwards she introduced me to her new friend from church I hadn't met.
"Lisa," she said, "have you met my daughter... the writer?"
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