Sally Harrold Paper 1: "Mother"

1997 Oregon Writing Project

My mother only cooked on Sundays. Every other Sunday, to be exact, for those were the days Lucille was off. Lucille usually reigned in the kitchen, effortlessly producing family dinners, Parkerhouse rolls I still yearn for, and luscious chocolate cakes. But every other Sunday she was off, and Mother cooked--always with trepidation, and in the summer, with loathing. In southeastern Ohio where I grew up, summer meant hot, muggy days and warm sticky nights with little wind. Cooking a Sunday dinner in such weather was unpleasant for even experienced cooks. For my mother it was a nightmare.

Despite my grandmother's unceasing efforts to make Mother a Southern lady, Mother was a chain smoker, had a very colorful vocabulary, was always on the go, and went to church only sporadically and then reluctantly. I loved these qualities--and almost everything else about my mother--her energy, her deep husky voice, her ability to turn the most ordinary of trips into an adventure, her laugh, and her stories. To me, Mother was so wonderful that I was only vaguely aware that she was not like my friends' mothers . She was certainly not typical of the mothers of my Sunday school classmates at Saint Matthew Lutheran Church, the church my father and all four of us children attended regularly. I disapproved of only two of Mother's qualities: her chronic lateness and her extreme hatred of picnics.

So I think, even at four, I should have had some sense of impending doom when I entered the kitchen that summer day. But I was intent on my task, determined to carry it through. And I knew that if I didn't talk with Mother when I found her in one place for a half hour, I might not get another chance before next Sunday. Mother was standing in front of the stove with a cigarette in one hand and a fork in the other, getting ready to test a chunk of potato in its pot of boiling water. Steam had misted her glasses and dampened the hair around her forehead.

"Mother, what do you want to take to the church picnic?" I asked brightly.

Mother shook her head impatiently and muttered in her deep gravelly voice, "Later, Sally Babe."

Recognizing an impasse, I left the room and wandered into the living room to look at the funnies. My sister Susan had the really good section, so in just a few minutes I was back in the kitchen, watching Mother pour the potatoes and boiling water into the green enamelled colander in the kitchen sink. Steam rose from the sink, enveloping Mother's head. "God damn heat!" she muttered. Heidi, our springer spaniel, and I waited expectantly--Heidi for a stray morsel and me for a "good" moment to repeat my question. As Mother took the hot potatoes to the far counter with the mixer, we came closer, standing on either side of her.

"Mother, the teacher told us to find out what our mothers were bringing to the church picnic,," I stated. "What do you want to bring?"

"Later, Sally Babe," she said tersely, a warning tone in her voice.

I left the field to Heidi and retreated once again to the living room, hoping Susan had finished with the rest of the funnies. She had. So it must have been a good ten minutes later before I reappeared in the kitchen doorway. This time Mother was at the stove; on her right was Heidi, her eyes fixed on the skillet. Mother was vigorously stirring the gravy, muttering and wiping her forehead with a crumpled paper towel. I took up the vacant position on Mother's left.

"What is it, Sally?" she barked.

Not heeding her cues, I asked, "Mother, what will you be bringing to the church picnic in two weeks? Mrs. Carlotti said we had to tell her next week."

Irritated by my question, Mother waved the spoon, spilling a generous dollop of gravy on the floor. Anxious that I might get to it first, Heidi snarled and pounced on the spot, jostling Mother to one side as she leaped.

Undeterred, I began again. "Mother. . . "

"To hell with the goddamn church picnic, Sally," Mother yelled. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

Unpeturbed, I left, to both Heidi and Mother's relief.

The next Sunday was blistering hot again. The air in the Sunday School room was so soggy it made our crisp cotton dresses lie limply on our legs as we sat while Mrs. Carlotti polled us about our parents' contributions to the church picnic.

"Potato salad, " said Harry McMurry, my archrival for the one good swing on the church playground.

"Angel food cake," said Peggy Davidson, the class queen.

"Relish tray," said David Helber, his blonde hair pink from his embarassment at having to speak before the whole class.

"Baked beans," said Sharon Good, my best friend who always sat next to me.

"Sally?" Mrs. Carlotti said questioningly.

"My mother said to hell with the goddamned church picnic," I replied evenly. I folded my hands in my lap, my answer delivered.

A stunned silence greeted my answer. Mrs. Carlotti's jaw dropped. I knew I'd done something wrong.

After class, Mrs. Carlotti and I waited for Mother, late as usual. When she finally came to pick me up, Mrs. Carlotti met her with, "I hear you enjoy our church picnics, Mrs. Elberfeld."

Wary, Mother forced a smile and said, "Well, we'll be there next Sunday."

Breaking into a smile, Mrs. Carlotti told Mother the story. They both laughed, even if Mother's sounded a bit hollow. Though they were never bosom buddies, Mrs. Carlotti's response endeared her to Mother, who thereafter at Christmas always gave the Carlottis the one thing she liked to bake: a "Southern" poundcake, liberally soaked in Canadian Club.

And I, going home from church that day, I received an angry scolding from Mother in the car. Once home, she told the whole family the story, which they greeted with catcalls and teasing. Later that afternoon, however, when she was smoking her after dinner cigarette on the porch, Mother gave me a big hug and ear lobe squeeze as she muttered in that low voice I loved, "You take the cake, Sally Babe; you really do."