I always thought my mother was a beautiful black woman. Need I say that I use black relevant to her racial group, not her complexion, which was the color of coffee with cream.
Mother had beautiful teeth. Until the day she died, she had all of her natural pearly whites, minus one molar, and it was hardly noticeable in the back of her mouth. Still, she felt self-conscious and often told me she wished she had not told the dentist to pull that tooth years earlier. I don’t know why he didn’t fill it or do a root canal. From our conversations, I know that mother was strongly opposed to root canals, so if her dentist had told her that having one was the only option for saving her tooth, she likely would have refused.
Mother’s hair was her crowning glory, and she always took pride in it. Before age began to thin it, she had a beautiful thick, ebony-colored mane.
As much as I longed for hair like hers, I mostly envied her long, natural fingernails. She didn’t wear nail hardener or polish, yet she managed to grow lengthy attractive nails. When I’d ask her how she managed to have nails like that when mine rarely extended beyond my fingertips, she’d say, “I don’t know. They’ve always grown like that.”
Even beyond her middle-aged years, after birthing four children and being blessed with six grandchildren and some great grands, mother’s slender frame, high cheekbones, and piercing brown eyes still turned heads.
Decades ago, before her faith became the focus of her life and curtailed our occasional outings, mother and I would go places together, like shopping or to a movie, and we’d often be mistaken for sisters. One humid summer day, after an outing, seeking refuge from the heat, we grabbed a taxi back to her house and were glad to get one with air-conditioning. After we settled in, the driver looking admiringly at mom in the rear-view mirror, said, “Is the AC too cool for you and your sister?” Mother and I looked at each other and smiled before she replied, “It feels fine, and she’s my daughter, not my sister.” That led the gray-haired gentleman, who looked about 75, to display a wide gap-tooth grin and then start the black don’t crack conversation.
Unlike some of her sisters who went to college, my mother had only high school education, yet she was an intelligent, resourceful woman, a doting mother, and a good wife to my dad. She was also very generous, especially for her children, but otherwise shrewd with money. She could pinch a penny until it turned white.
Mom also had a green thumb. I think my siblings and I inherited our love for houseplants from my mom. When I was a youngster mother had plenty of potted plants lining the windowsill in the living room. My favorite was the beautiful purple passion. She also had a tall, resilient snake plant that sat in a large pot on the floor beside the armchair.
If mom ever had a mission, it was maintaining a clean house, and she insisted that her other three rambunctious children and I help keep it tidy.
Although she was a full-time homemaker when we children grew old enough to be somewhat responsible, mom started doing part-time what was called days’ work. And at one point, she worked as a cashier at Drug Fair on upper Connecticut Avenue.
I remember mom telling me many times about leaving that drugstore one evening during a fierce snowstorm. There were already inches of the white stuff on the ground when she walked outside. She said she waited at the bus stop forever for the DC Transit bus (renamed Metro in the 1970s) to arrive and bring her back across town. Never in her life, she said, had she ever been as cold. She thought she would freeze to death before the bus finally arrived. Dad was at home babysitting us four children. Our family didn’t have a car at the time, and even if dad had tried to drive through the storm with us kids, it would have been a dangerous undertaking.
As good mothers tend to do, our mother made sacrifices for her children; some were small, some were large, and occasionally she tried to do the impossible, like one Easter Sunday when I was around 8 or 9 years old. Mom was hot-combing my hair and getting us kids ready to go to Sunday School. After straightening my hair, as she was preparing to give me some curls, I began pleading with her, “Mom, make me Shirley Temple curls? Pleeease!”
My mother knew – but I refused to believe – that it would take an Easter miracle for her to transform my short, thin, kinky naps into golden coils like Shirley Temples.
Before she began curling, mother explained that my hair was too short for curls like that. It was only about three inches in length; it was not long enough, but it also wasn’t thick enough, and of course, the texture, well, you know. But in my naïve mind, my mother could do anything. Since I refused to hear what she was saying and kept whining that I wanted Shirley Temple curls, mother made an effort.
Slathering on Royal Crown Hair Dressing and using a stovetop burner to heat the curling iron, mother began parting my hair and creating skinny curls about the thickness and half the length of small link sausages. When she finished, I rushed to look in the bathroom mirror and then dropped my smile.
Mother had laid down some neat and pretty black curls sideways on my head, but it looked nothing like Shirley Temples. Despite shaking my head hard enough to rattle my brain and give myself a concussion, I was even more disturbed that my short, stiff curls remained immobile. They would not shake or bounce like little miss curly top’s golden, voluminous tresses.
Over the years, mother and I often laughed about my Shirley Temple Easter wish.
That was decades before TV programs featured any little black girls. (Even Buckwheat, on The Little Rascals, was a boy playing a girl.) There were undoubtedly no girls like Lyric Ross (who plays Deja on This is Us) who debuted on the program proudly and boldly wearing a short afro and inspiring black girls in their formative years to embrace their natural hair.
Over the years, Scrabble became my mother and my favorite pastime. Both of us were, and I remain, fiercely competitive. Sometimes on the weekend, we would stay up past midnight battling it out on the Scrabble board. How I miss those times. How I miss my mom. So many memories. Not enough pages or time to write about all of them.
To my readers whose mother, like mine, has passed on, treasure your memories with her.
And to all of you who are moms yourself, Happy Mother’s Day!
