Today is the 100th anniversary of the birth of my mother.
My mother at 6 in 1926
I’m sorry to say I lost her 32 years ago, but I think about her every day. She was and is my hero.
I know I could be accused of idolizing a merely good parent who died too soon. You tell me what you think. She was lovely but completely without vanity, highly intelligent (state math and science champion in high school, language study was her college degree), giving without asking anything in return, forgiving when forgiveness would seem impossible, compassionate, tolerant, and more open-minded than anyone I’ve ever known. She fought fearlessly for things she cared about, and never gave up on those she disagreed with. We could use more people like her right now.
It looks like I’m about 1 in this photo, and my brother is rocking a great little Hawaiian suit.
Mama was a natural teacher, always mentoring, always lending a hand. A dear neighbor from my younger days recently told me a story about my mother. Our neighbor’s young son was sick and she wasn’t able to get him to eat. My mother came over with a bag of Goldfish crackers and set him up with a fishing line of some sort for the boy to fish with. She said if he caught a “fish” he had to eat it.
He caught fish and started eating again that day.
Once when I was in elementary school I was very surprised to see my mother tutoring one-on-one in a small room in my school. She was working with kids on their speech problems and didn’t even tell us she was doing this. One of the classrooms that she volunteered to help with (never my brother’s and mine because I’m sure she knew that could be awkward) got the full Marian Wilds treatment: I remember a Seattle newspaper article about the gingerbread village she helped the classroom build. And yes, she baked all the gingerbread walls and roofs.
I still have the angel my mother helped me make in first grade.
When I was sick for an extended period of time in 1st grade, my mother took on a sort of home schooling responsibility, with lessons from the teacher. I remember we had an art project in Papier-mâché, and we went a little overboard, wheeling in a large green dinosaur with a long tail, spikes down his back, big pink polka dots and a smile.
My mother was the oldest of three children and had great inner (and outer) strength. She worked harder than anyone I’ve ever known. She kept the house humming along with many skills including house painting and plumbing, but most especially with her exceptional cooking. She baked dozens of loaves of bread a week, giving most of them away. She made so many different kinds of Christmas cookies for so many people that she had to start a month in advance and freeze some in order to get them done in time. When you said you had to have dinner soon because of an evening commitment, she went into what she called her “Wilds short-order house” mode and whipped up something quick—something like Coquilles Saint Jacques. (Mama loved learning from Julia Child.) I made a cookbook of her recipes after she died because I knew this aspect of her was known and loved by so many.
Try this bread recipe of my mother’s—you won’t be disappointed!
Serving dinner to my father and his mother in the 1940s
Serving cake at a friend’s wedding in the 1980s
My father died when I was 13, and my mother had to go back to work at the age of 53—not an easy task now, let alone then. She found work as a legal secretary and was a loyal employee in legal offices until her death. She started off with the skills of a great office worker: a typing speed of 100+ words per minute, wicked shorthand, a fine mind and a natural desire to learn more. She became invaluable, a paralegal in all but title and salary. She took a bus to and from work in downtown Seattle, never driving a car.
She used a cart to go grocery shopping over a mile away, and take the wash to and from the laundromat. My brother and I walked and bused with her for our entire youth. By example, she taught me a lot about being dedicated, strong, self-sufficient and capable.
After my father died, my mother had the responsibility for shepherding my brother and I through college. I wanted to study at the best music school I knew, from the best horn teacher. We didn’t have much money but she wouldn’t allow that to stop me. She was my biggest fan, the cheerleader in the front row of my life.
Since I’m so into fashion, you probably wonder, did I get that from my mother? Not particularly. My mother was not oriented to appearances, yet her style was what I would call simple and handsome. She sewed many of her own (and my) clothes, knitted, crocheted and tatted.
My mother with her mother. Mama was always knitting in that period of her life.
I love those shoes!
Classic pieces, hand knits, a trench coat, plaids …and the occasional killer heels. I admire my mother’s style.
I have kept some clothing and accessories of my mother’s, including this 1950s Finnish modern necklace by Seppo Tamminen, given to her by some Icelandic friends.
My mother’s father was a banker in Iowa farmland during the Great Depression. He sacrificed his job by refusing to foreclose on farmers when their accounts were in arrears. He worked with inmates of a nearby prison, helping them learn skills for when they were released. Have you heard of the Sheaffer signature pen? My grandfather helped a forger learn to do custom engraving on these pens. One man became a jeweler with my grandfather’s help. He was so grateful that he made a beautiful gold and glass ring, with glass the color of my mother’s blue eyes. When I found a simple 1940s dress, I decided to pose with the ring the way she had done 70 years earlier.
What have I left out? Mama was a cellist through high school, and she could draw beautifully. She was a voracious reader of history books and historical biographies. She read every word of the newspaper before recycling it. Her favorite movie was probably The Third Man, followed by Witness for the Prosecution. Whodunits, legal dramas, dapper gents and brilliant acting were some key elements of a great film for my mother.
Every flower was her favorite. When I ordered flowers for her funeral, I just said “everything.”
Mama did not spoil us children. We had to learn to do things for ourselves. She taught me to knit, sew, garden and cook; and to get credit, balance books, negotiate, and make important decisions. She also taught me to help others, and to knock on doors for causes that mean a lot. She insisted I take responsibility for the world I live in just as she always had. I hope to be informed and to never quit learning, with Mama as my model.
I’m not a whole lot like my mother by nature—I think I’m more like my father—but I learned from my mother. She once said that if I weren’t her daughter she would want me as a friend. And she would have been that friend that counterbalanced all my problems: The smarter one to keep me on my toes, the one with all the adult skills to help my right-brained tendencies have grounding, the loyal one who would defend me against unwarranted attacks, the curious one who would know countless fascinating things, the fearless one who would stand by me at the toughest times. The humble one who put me ahead of herself.
Come to think of it, she was just that to me, and I’ll always be better for having her as my mother.
Happy Birthday Mama! I love you so much—more than ever, and I’m so very grateful to have had you in my life.
