| |
| |
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
 |
 |
|
|
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
|  |
Sarah's Thoughts: "I'm always shocked by the ferocity with which memories previously "buried alive" unexpectedly revisit especially when we're reading books. They remind me of a second cousin (thirty years removed) who drops by, refusing to budge until you've fed her and agreed that those summers spent sharing the hammock at Granny's were the best of your life, even if they were really the worst. Reading Mark Winegardner's winsome recollection of his mother's home education as a writer in his essay "Like Mother, Like Son" from A Man's Journey to Simple Abundance provoked an astonishing epiphany for me. I suddenly realized that there was a period during the sixties when our family rhythm, not to mention our menus, revolved around the "assignments" that came in mysterious large envelopes addressed to my mother, who like Mark Winegardner's mother also was enrolled under Bennet Cerf's and Jessamyn West's tutelage at the Famous Writers Correspondence School. During those weeks, dinner was always a one-skillet splendor — Spanish rice, beef Stroganoff, and noodleburger — the memory of which puts Hamburger Helper to shame. Mom had the preparation of these fast, furious and fabulous one-dish dinners down to ten minutes of sleight of hand, all while devouring her current literary challenge. With a clarity that is heartbreaking, I can see her now: standing at the stove, stirring with her right hand, reading her literary "hope" held aloft in the left. During the next couple of weeks while she'd be percolating, pondering and procrastinating, we'd eat casseroles (tuna, soup can surprise, sweet and sour, south of the border) prepared early in the day, slowly baked in the afternoon, and served piping hot at 6 PM. If Mom was really blocked, she prepared her favorite comfort meal, which is sure to be my last culinary request: soup beans, mashed potatoes, coleslaw, cornbread. A successful completion of that month's assignment meant we were all rewarded with Sunday food, even on a Wednesday: fried chicken or pot roast followed by chocolate cream pie. Failure to live up to her own impossible expectations meant soup and sandwiches for a week, or at least until the next envelope arrived. If it is true that reparation for the sins of the father becomes the karma of the sons, how many unfulfilled mother's dreams become their children's destinies? Certainly mine did. My mother never published a single word, nor lived to read the book I was born to write. But she was my first example of how to blend being a writer and a mother as well as what perseverance looked like. I'm grateful that now, at least, the next time I'm asked why I became a writer, I'll have the answer: 'My mother encouraged me.' " — Sarah Ban Breathnach Add your thoughts to the discussion of this question. Go back
|
|
|
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
