My mother was one of those people who did everything well....almost. She loved academics, any challenge on that level she was able to ace. She went to college, while working full-time and graduated in three years with close to a 4.0. She taught for almost fifty years and left a trail of awards and admirers everywhere she went. I only knew one person who didn’t like her, and that was her older brother.
When I was in junior high, and not nearly the student she wanted me to be, she was working on her master’s degree in education. She enrolled for her summer classes, and appeared home that day, very distraught. She and my dad discussed the problem out of my earshot. Several days later while she was away at class, my dad was reading the paper chuckling. I asked what was so funny. He told me, “Your mom is so stressed out over that silly art class.” ART CLASS? I thought. Why on earth would anyone be stressed over an art class. I was amazed.
My mom with all of her brilliance and abilities, had somehow missed out on the artsy gene. She could be creative when doing lesson plans or planning a seminar for teachers, but creating something with her hands was overwhelming. The whole six weeks of that class she was a basket case. She checked out books on art and read everything she could to decide what she would do her project on......Dad and I leaning forward in our chairs trying to see what she was coming up with. She was silent about it though, when we inquired.
At the end of the first summer session, she came home and announced she had indeed gotten an A in her art class. We were somewhat happy for her, but most of all we wanted to see this project. Finally she presented them. One was a ceramic shape thingy with a hole in the top, for hanging. It was colored in black white and red, and had been fired to a glossy finish. The other was a little dish, almost flat but had the sides turned up. It was grey on the outside and red with black speckles on the inside, also fired glossy. The best I could figure, an ashtray. I had never seen her prouder of anything in my life. For the remainder of her life she kept the little dish, always displayed on an end table or coffee table.
Sadly when she died I gave it away. Not to just anyone, but to her granddaughter that she adored. I thought my daughter would treasure it as she had. When I saw it last it was on the side of the sink in my daughter’s house with the brillo pad in it. When our daughter married she threw away our family, and evidently her grandmother as well. I wish I had never given it away. I really have more than the little dish though....I have the memories.
