This
year marks nine years since Mom went to be with the Lord. As I did my
meditation walk today, I thought about Mom, and growing up on Del Norte Lane.
My
memories of Estella Medina Sanchez are wonderfully sensory: the smell of
fresh-baked bread when I got home after school; the feel of the safety pins
attached to Mom’s apron when I reached out to hug her (she was always ready to
fix a tear or replace a loose button with those safety pins; sometimes they
were baby diaper pins); the taste of Mom’s apple pie, made from the apples that
she bought from the flatbed truck that traveled up and down Del Norte Lane; the
sight of Mom’s grandchildren and the daycare children climbing all over her as
she sat in her chair in the living room; the sound of her reciting the first
part of the Hail Mary, as we recited the second part, kneeling around the bed
in the master bedroom in front of the picture of the Holy Family every night in
May and November. I still hear the song-like cadences in my head as I pray my
rosary when I need to gather the stillness around me.
I
grew up at a time that through today’s lenses seems so simple. It was the time
of Donna Read, June Cleaver, Lucy Ricardo, and Jacqueline Kennedy. I said, “Yes,
ma’am”; willingly got on my hands and knees to wash and wax the floor; ironed
pillow cases, handkerchiefs, and Dad’s t-shirts; and baked oatmeal cookies and
lemon meringue pie from scratch (or almost from scratch – I did have to cook
the Jello lemon pudding, but it used the egg yolks, and I used the egg whites
for the meringue). I studied with my sisters and brothers around the dining
room and kitchen table, with KOMA playing in the background. Mom saw to it that
we did all of this, and taught us when necessary. I can still hear the sound of
“I Wanna Hold Your Hand”.
Mom
taught us to wash our clothes in a wringer washer attached by a hose to the
kitchen sink, and we hung the laundry out to dry on the line in the back yard.
In the winter, the wet clothes would freeze, and we would have to bring them in
to drape them all around the kitchen and dining room to finish drying. I can
still feel the frozen laundry in my fingers.
Mom
taught me to crochet doilies – intricate pineapple doilies that, when finished,
were starched with blue perfumed starch and ironed meticulously. She taught me
how to sew on a beautiful black Singer sewing machine, which she used to patch
the boys’ jeans to get a few more months of wear out of them. She made us
colorful Fiesta dresses, with yards and yards of ruffles and rick-rack. We wore
them with starched petticoats and went to the Santa Fe Fiesta festivities all
dolled up. I remember the Fiesta dresses whenever I see rick-rack at Hobby
Lobby.
In
my younger years, my hair was short, cut Buster Brown-style by my Dad at the
same time he cut the boys’ hair. As I grew older, Mom let my hair grow out. She
made Shirley Temple curls in my hair on Saturday night, using strips from old
pillow cases to form the ringlets. I still smell the Prell Shampoo.
It’s
easy to reflect on sad, hurtful events – all of us have had them – but it’s
more important to honor those we love with loving memories – all of us have
them, too.
I
have my mother’s hands, so I see them all day as I tap out words on the keyboard.
I honor you Mom. Happy Mother's Day!
