Capable Hands

My mom had strong , pretty hands. Long fingers. She played the piano beautifully. I didn't inherit that particular musical talent. She had a white gold diamond engagement ring and matching wedding band. I still feel a bit rugged with my gold wedding band - even though I've been married 20 years. White gold is so much more elegant and clean looking. At least it was on her.

Mom could take potatoes out of the oven without using a hot pad. She could open up jars of pickles and wash dishes in very, very hot water. Yet her hands stayed pretty and soft. She used Jergens lotion. I can still remember the smell. Sometimes she'd brush away our bangs from our eyes or give us a backrub. She wasn't really overly physically affectionate. We'd give her a quick kiss good bye in the morning on our way to school. Not many hugs. Just the knowledge that she was there taking care of us and taking care of the house was enough.

My mom was a good cook. She was a housewife and cooked from scratch. She'd make meatballs and gravey and potatoes or swiss steak or spare ribs. Always a meat dish with some kind of potatoes. And she'd make jello salads embedded with shredded lettuce or cut up celery. She made desserts like home made pudding or cake. I don't remember her ever baking a cake from a mix. Supper was always a high point in my day. In the summer my sisters and I would be playing yard games with the neighbor kids and my mom would invariably call us in for supper right when things were getting the most exciting. We'd wolf down our food and race back outside to recapture the high of play, but the moment would be gone and we'd settle into a less exciting game.

My mom and dad would sit in the kitchen after the dishes were done, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. My mom insisted that they only smoke in the kitchen. She didn't want to risk a fire if they fell asleep with a lit cigarette.

When I was young I don't remember the house smelling like smoke, but it probably did. My mom kept a clean house and aired it out - even in the winter. She made my dad paint every few years because the cigarette smoke discolored the kitchen walls.

In high school everyone thought my older sister smoked because her clothes smelled so smokey. I remember taking some Christmas cookies out of the freezer in January and they reeked of tobacco. Isn't that kind of sad?

Smokers can never tell how smokey they smell. My parents always thought my sisters and I were exaggerating when we complained of how much it smelled. (I never told them that they smelled bad - that would be rude). I guess I should be thankful for how my mom tried to keep the house clean and airy, despite her smoking. I should be thankful. But I'm not.