Leaves Of Hope. Catherine Palmer
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“I’ve never been to New York.” Jan admitted.
“Mom, that’s awful! You’ve never been to a Broadway show? You were an English major. You directed plays at John Tyler High School for the past twenty years. Didn’t you have a chance to go when you were young—on a band trip or during college?”
“New York City is a long way from Tyler. Besides, I’ve never wanted to leave Texas. I’m sorry to disappoint you, honey, but I like my quiet life out here by the lake.”
Beth gazed out the window at the mown green lawn, the strip of gray road, the yard across the street and the lake beyond. The sunset reflecting on the water flashed periwinkle and pink sparkles as snatches of foamy white scattered across the surface. Birds wheeled and screeched overhead—seagulls and pelicans—dipping to pluck fish from the water.
Jan followed her daughter’s gaze. “I don’t know how those seagulls dare to wander so far from the ocean.”
“Maybe they’re the adventurous ones.”
“Or lost.” Her mother returned her focus to Beth. “You can come to the lake any time you want. I’ll always be happy for a visit.”
“Is that the only way I can have you in my life? You and Dad helped me become who I am. I want you to know me now, Mom…as an adult.”
“I do know you, sweetie,” Jan said. “Better than you think. I’m just not one to go places—I never have been. Now I’m forty-five and a widow and an empty-nester, and my life isn’t going to change drastically. It’s like the quote I love so much, remember? ‘That that is, is. That that is not, is not. Is that not it? It is.’ I painted it on the wall of my screened porch. I used brown to contrast with the white clapboard. It’s the theme for my new life here at the lake.”
Beth reflected a moment. “Mom, that’s the theme you’ve always had. Que sera sera. What will be, will be. Or Shakespeare’s ‘I scorn to change my state with kings.’”
“Sonnet Twenty-Nine,” her mother clarified. “‘For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.’ It’s better when you say the whole thing. You know I taught English for twenty years, Beth. These quotes crop up in conversation now and then.”
“But they’re always the same, Mom, like memos to yourself—reminding you to shrug off any possibility of change.” Beth’s eyes widened and she sat up. “I just thought of another one. ‘God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can—’”
“‘And the wisdom to know the difference,’” they finished together.
“What’s wrong with that?” Jan asked. “Your daddy grew up in a houseful of reformed alcoholics, and they lived by that saying.”
“They weren’t reformed alcoholics when Dad was growing up.” Beth tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear. “Dad was the only stable one of the whole bunch. I’m surprised they didn’t all fall to pieces after he died.”
“I’m surprised none of us did.” Jan swallowed, and looked down.
Beth felt again the huge hole her father’s death had left in his family’s world. Two years had gone by, but it seemed like yesterday. And forever.
“The point I’m making, Mom,” she continued gently, “is that you took a big step—retiring from your teaching job, selling the house you and Dad lived in your whole married life, leaving good ol’ Tyler, Texas, and moving to a new house fifteen miles away. But then you painted the same old motto on your porch.”
Jan’s blue eyes narrowed. “Young lady, ‘what is, is.’ I will accept it and try to be happy.”
“So, you’re just going to roll up like a little pill bug and bury your head?”
“Of course not! I have plans. Things I’m doing. But I won’t spend my life longing for what was. Or wishing for what might have been. It’s called acceptance.”
“It’s called boring.”
“Well, that’s your opinion.”
Beth’s heart grew softer as she heard the pain in her mother’s voice. “When I heard you were moving, I was thrilled. I thought, now. Now, she’ll do something with herself. You taught school to earn a living, but inside, you had art, poetry, imagination bubbling up and seeping out. I thought I might come to the lake and find a bohemian mom with candles burning and red velvet couches and books of poetry lying around. But you have another tidy little house with the same curtains, beige furniture and throw rugs, just like in Tyler. You’re still making chicken salad sandwiches and lemonade. And you’ve painted a saying that means ‘Accept life and do nothing different.’”
“First of all, I loved teaching,” Jan told her daughter. “It was never just a job. Second…well, I am doing things differently.
My art, for example.”
“Watercolors?”
“Pastel chalks, as a matter of fact.” Jan lifted her chin as though she had just reported recently climbing Mount Everest. “So you see? It’s not the same. I took a class years ago. A woman taught us how to create portraits of Native Americans.”
“You’re painting Native Americans?”
“Of course not. What would I know about Native Americans? But one day I got out the old pastels, and I’ve been experimenting. I’m trying new things.”
“It doesn’t count if you’re still doing roses, Mom.”
“I’m painting people.”
“People!” Beth sat up straight. “Let me see!”
“Absolutely not. I’m still learning. Besides, all my people still look like Native Americans. Pastels aren’t as easy as watercolors, where you can blend until you get the exact tone before you put brush to paper. With chalk, it’s all about how you use your hands. Look at my fingertips. The prints are worn off from rubbing the paper. I could commit a crime, and they’d never catch me.”
Beth laughed. “You’ve never done anything wrong, Mom.” Jan gave a demure smile. “So, now you know what’s new with me…tell me more about you. Are you seeing anyone?”
Beth groaned. “You are way too predictable.”
“Well?”
“Are you?”
“Me?”
“You’re allowed to date, you know. Bob, Bill and I talked over the idea, and we’re agreed. We think you should start going out. Maybe even marry again.”
“So my children are discussing me behind my back,” Jan said. “Well, save yourselves the trouble. I’m not interested in dating—or remarrying—ever. It hasn’t been long since your father died, and that was very traumatic. Besides, look at me. I’ve spread out in all the wrong places. I’m sagging and drooping and wrinkled up like one of those Chinese dogs. But let’s talk about you. Have you met any nice men in New York?”
“Look, Mom, I know losing Dad was devastating, but he died two years ago, and was sick for three years before that, so it’s not as if you haven’t had time to work through your feelings. And why do you make yourself sound like a bag lady? You’re pretty, Mom.”
“I know what’s under this bathrobe. Believe me, there’s no chance I’m ever going to marry again, so you can put that notion right out of your head.”
“If marrying is such a bad idea, why are you always pushing me to connect with some altar-bound guy?”
“Well, for pity’s sake, Beth, you’re beautiful and smart, and you have your whole life in front of you. Don’t you want to build a family? Buy a home instead of living in that cramped apartment? And what about children?