This post was contributed by a community member. The views expressed here are the author's own.

Community Corner

My Mother's Daughter

Spring cleaning avoidance is just one of the many important lessons my mother taught me.

According to the calendar, we are now officially in the midst of spring. And, because it is spring, many of you out there are contemplating a massive, dust-disrupting, whole-house shakedown also known as “spring cleaning.” This is something I haven’t done in years, although I do feel qualified to write about it because at last count, I have wiped the kitchen counter approximately three hundred and sixty-three thousand, four hundred and eleventy-two times.

My husband has never willingly wiped a counter. This is one of the fundamental differences between men, women and lower forms of life: neither the former nor the latter do much, if any, cleaning. Women still do 80 percent of the household chores—but that’s a whole ‘nother column.

Mine was a single, working mother who expected me to clean the house. So, clothed in a very bad attitude, I dusted lethargically, vacuumed lazily and made a big show of being horribly put-upon. As far as I can remember, there was never a spring cleaning extravaganza at our house. There were better things to do. A cursory clean would always win out over a thorough scrubbing.

Find out what's happening in Moorestownwith free, real-time updates from Patch.

This is one of the many gifts my mother gave me: the ability to know what’s really important (family, friends, good food), what might have some significance (Margaritas, oil changes, exercise), and what is a total waste of time (C-SPAN, scrapple, Diet Coke). As we approach that Hallmark holiday known as Mother’s Day, I’ve been thinking about my mother and the many truths she bestowed upon me before she departed for greener pastures three years ago.

She taught me the joy of thrift shopping. Need a housedress? Red moccasins? Perfect black pants? Hit the thrift store. I always say I despise shopping, but what I really mean to say is I hate retail shopping, shopping malls and anything that doesn’t cost $3-5, $9 tops. Every day, at least one item of clothing I wear is from a secondhand store. Years ago, she and I frequented Village Thrift when it was still in Cinnaminson. We followed our muse when, after a suspicious fire, “the Village” moved to Pennsauken. We were quite content to shop there for years, until they raised prices and laid down carpet tiles. When a thrift store lays down carpeting, it’s time to move on.

Find out what's happening in Moorestownwith free, real-time updates from Patch.

My mother was an incredible seamstress. She said it came from growing up poor and wanting nice clothes. But anytime she would try to sit me down and teach me the fundamentals of sewing, I whined, frowned and became a rock of stubborn ignorance. I refused to learn, so she gave up trying to teach me.

I was also mentally absent when she tried to instruct me on how to fix anything at all. I may have been physically present as she showed me how to hang a shelf, but my mind was silently combing the phone book for a handyman. The funny thing is, in recent years I have become handier, a fact I attribute to her coaching from beyond. When I’m downstairs in my workshop/art studio, I can feel her presence hovering nearby, watching me as I drill and prepare one of my mosaics for hanging.

I seem to have learned about cooking through osmosis—certainly not by paying attention as she lectured me on making flan or how to make a proper feijoada, the national dish of Brazil. She was a wonderful cook—although like many of us, she fell into the routine of making the same child-friendly dishes over and over again. It was when special guests dined with us that her culinary skills rose to the occasion in fragrant dishes that were not only delicious but beautiful as well. She was an artist in many ways.

So now, I am motherless in Moorestown, and for some reason it hurts more this year than in previous years. Last Saturday as I strolled down Main Street, I bought a warm pretzel and browsed around in the Peter Pan Gift Shop. "I should get something for Mom," I thought, as I looked at all the colorful possibilities.

Then it hit me. That powerhouse, that beautiful, vivacious little mom who was made of steel, is gone. She will never again bustle into my house laden with treats for the boys, or chocolate éclairs for us to share with a strong cup of coffee.

It sounds a bit Hallmark-ish to say this, but her spirit lives on within me, whether I like it or not. I cook the dishes I remember and my mouth makes the same wide “O” she used to make when putting on makeup. I know she gave me strength, and a terrible sweet tooth, so I take the good and the bad—we all do.

We all paddle around in our own family’s unique genetic soup, unconsciously absorbing lessons and traits both admirable and objectionable. We learn, from simmering in this familial brew, who we do or don’t want to be when we grow up. If we’re lucky, we improve with age, and with wisdom we learn to be better people, improving on the modeling our parents did for us.

“Mom. You were right. I wish I had listened to you.”

One of the nicest “mother” moments I can remember is when my oldest son came home after being gone for a long time. I was cooking my mother’s rice and the house was filled with the aroma of garlic, cilantro and vinegar. I hugged him and as he inhaled deeply and with much appreciation he said, “That is the smell of my childhood.” Mine too, my dearest love.

I can only hope that wherever her spirit resides she has celestial access to the Moorestown Patch. I love you, mom!

We’ve removed the ability to reply as we work to make improvements. Learn more here

The views expressed in this post are the author's own. Want to post on Patch?