Mother's Day

Momma was on my mind recently. I thought about her as I was falling asleep on the sofa one gray afternoon. I let my book down and closed my eyes for a rest and for some reason I recalled her wonderful linen closet which was always well organized and smelled like freshly ironed linens should have, with a hint of spice. I am not sure where the spice came from but it was a vague blend of clove and orange zest much like that of a pomander ball. Perhaps she had a few of them stashed shriveling slowly in the back of a shelf; I don't really know. The scent had nothing to do with floral hints of lilacs or lavender or any of the more conventional laundry aromas that are now so common in a gestural bow to some fanciful traditional that probably never was. I cringe when I see “fresh linen” as an aromatic selection. It is a completely artificial affectation if you ask me and I avoid any product suggesting such an association.

Howsoever that may be, Momma's linen closet did not contain just towels, sheets, pillowcases and bedware. It also was the central station for her sewing kit (with its protruding sock darning egg), her knitting basket, the medicine kit, the shoe polishing kit and the shoelaces. One has to remember that shoelaces were a basic and important element of good grooming in those days and that there could not have been a well-run household without a backup supply. If I imagine myself as a shoelace salesman for a factory in those days, I can feel pretty smug about my prospects. Who doesn't need shoelaces? And with all the new styles and colors of footwear and the different materials for lacing, how can I not feel that I'll be writing orders until the day I die without interruption except for that. From our vantage point we can see that it is the same outlook that the buggy whip people felt at the beginning of the twentieth century. Things were looking pretty bright then because it was a product vital to daily life. For our shoelaces we had to have the right length and color and texture to make a proper showing and, whether they came from Mr. Peach's general store or the mail order catalog or the traveling salesman, we had to have an ample supply because they wore out, they broke or they didn't match the polished finish perfectly. When sneakers and saddle shoes came into popularity that compounded the complexity of choices. As with some of Daddy's neckties, there was a slow accumulation of unwanted and unloved specimens being pushed to the back in a sad little heap. Eventually they were disposed of when they grew to a level of interference with the more desirable types.

The point of this meditation is twofold. First, is the mutability of life which I shall leave to the poets and the other is the power of reminiscence that comes from the most unexpected sources. There was nothing in my book or my day or my immediate surroundings that would suggest an obvious link to Momma's hall closet, least of all to the shoelaces stored there. Still I can relive my sense of wonder, standing before that open door, breathing that aromatic fusion of spice and laundry, deciding which laces would look best with cordovan polish and of putting all my faith in finding the perfect selection among Momma's abundant provisions.

Big Hugs, Celeste