The Mom I never knew

            Don’t ask me why it took me almost nine years after my father’s death, twelve years after Mom’s, to open the old leather briefcase filled with their letters. The briefcase has been sitting two feet from where my head lies on my pillow every night, buried by clothes and bags, but there by my side all these years. I suppose the timing could be related to my most recent writing assignment for the Bangor Metro. I explored the dwindling art of handwritten letters, so of course those letters came to mind. But the opening of the briefcase was more than a chance reminder. Some things take time. Maybe I feared having my cherished memories tinkered with. Who knows what I might discover? My love for Mom always carried a tinge of idolatry, even during that adolescent phase when I pulled away. My pulling away was superficial and short-lived. I just adored her. I didn’t want anything to interfere with that.

            I haven’t read most of the letters yet. I only sorted them chronologically, from 1947 to 1954. I should have known. Those dates pretty much define Dad’s long campaign to win Mom’s affection, starting in the summer they were 14. They’d known each other all their lives because of a lake in the Adirondacks where they both spent every summer, but in the summer of 1947 something changed.

               “I remember that day Mom arrived. I took one look at her, and Blam! I was sunk.”

                From that day forward he wooed her, but oh so carefully. He knew she’d give no truck to gooey sentiment or neediness, so he carefully composed letters to make her laugh, challenge her to competitions of various sorts (skiing, canoeing, swimming). Behind the scenes, he told us when we were teenagers, he strategically befriended the guys who showed an interest in Mom throughout those years. He was disarmingly sincere, candid, friendly, letting them them in on his secret plan to marry Mom. He cut them off before they’d even entered the race, eliminated the competition at every opportunity with a friendly doggedness.

                  Mom stuffed all Dad’s letters into folders in their envelopes. The fact that she kept them at all is highly unusual. The Mom I knew didn’t save much of anything. When they moved from the house they’d lived in for 39 years, she was merciless about filling the dumpsters. Dad's letters from Mom were more meticulously archived. He them laid out flat, dated, carefully stacked in order. They were far less numerous, and probably solid gold for him.

            I haven’t yet read most of their correspondence. The first few peeks have been tantalizing, but I’m waiting a bit longer until I know I can fully immerse in the project of reading the blossoming of my parents’ relationship. I don’t want to do this halfway.

            It’s a bit odd to think about the people your parents were before they knew you, before you existed, even in their imagination. It can be unsettling. I’ve already glimpsed  some letters between them when they were kids, not anyone’s Mom and Dad. They were people I never knew, though I can find hints of the playfulness I would come to know.  I’m ready now. My memories are etched in my heart and mind, and I think I can tuck these new people around the memories I've polished without losing anything.

            It’s been a quiet Mother’s Day today. I had a couple of calls from my kids. My 3-year-old granddaughter took hold of the phone during a FaceTime call, and I got carted around the house for a while, trying not to get motion sickness as she toured me about the room from ceiling fan to shoelaces. But mostly it's just been me and Daisy the dog, sitting by the woodstove while the rain falls on a chilly May Sunday. It’s the kind of day I longed for during the days when I was a Mom-in-full, so I’m trying to embrace all the layers of motherhood, from 1947 to 2026.