Control
The Bus from Chicago. I checked that book out so many times. I knew exactly where to find it in the children's library where Mom let me hang out while she looked for her books.
One woman's quest to remember her mother and find herself. I am who I am, in very large part, because I am my mother's daughter. But she never wrote down her stories like I wished she had. So, this is where I will tell my stories before it's too late.
The Bus from Chicago. I checked that book out so many times. I knew exactly where to find it in the children's library where Mom let me hang out while she looked for her books.
This is my first favorite book about travel from an "exotic" place. The Bus from Chicago by Annie DeCaprio, illustrated by Cal Sacks. I loved reading it over and over again. I was about six. It seemed hard to pronounce. I had a hard time getting my mouth around the words, but it was intoxicating in its rhythm and repetition.
I pretty much remember everything from the time I was in diapers until now, with the exception of the seventh grade, which still remains a mystery to me. I mean I remember the cubby cribs in the church nursery and being held on hips and the sing-songy voice of the pastor's sermons and the sound of pantyhose rubbing together on fat church ladies' legs. I remember spinning the squares, circles and triangles on my baby crib at home in the room I shared with my teenage aunt, before she moved out and that room became my brother's and was painted red, white and blue and plastered with Civil War wallpaper.
1) they painted it this great yellow color they called "gold" even though it wasn't shiny
When I was a toddler, I used to wander around the house picking up random items, rubbing them on my arm, dropping them and moving on to the next until I found just the right thing. It was a peculiar ritual that made no sense to my mother until this one day when I finally did find Just the Right Thing, probably a playing card or even a barrette turned on edge, and I knew my search was over.
Here is a series of pictures of my dad and me over the years. In the first one I'm 1 1/2 and he's 31. The last one was taken just days after my mom died when she was 60. We didn't know it, but he would only live another four years to be 63 and this is one of the last pictures of just the two of us together. (Click on photos to enlarge.)
Mother's Day is hard for me. I stay away from stores, I turn off the radio and the TV so as not to be bombarded by reminders for Mother's Day gift ideas. I used to welcome the marketing barage, but now, not so much. So this year it worked out perfectly, though I hadn't planned it this way, that on Mother's Day I arrived in Dakar, Senegal--easily one of my favorite places in the world--a place that just so happens (like most places) not to celebrate Mother's Day. [It does, however, celebrate International Women's Day, which (like most places) honors women of all ages, mothers or not.] It was quite an ordinary Sunday like all the rest. And for that I was very glad. It was extra-ordinary in many other ways, in that I was in Dakar on an adventure, visiting friends and a city I hadn't seen in eleven years, but that's another story altogether.