TheBanyanTree: My Other Mother

[pat.martin]

My Other Mother
by Pat Martin


            Whenever I see spearmint candies, I recall my first meeting with
Reta some forty years ago-the day she taught my grandmother to drive.
Around and around Timberland Park we drove in a boxy olive-colored
Vauxhall-starting, stopping, reversing, and parking.  As Granny practiced
shifting gears, there was considerable jarring.  In the passenger's seat
next to her, Reta offered encouraging words.

            Seated in the back, I was a toothpick-thin eight-year-old with a
sensitive stomach. The smell of the car's leather upholstery and hardwood
paneling combined with the jerking movements made me queasy.

When Granny and Reta exchanged places for the drive home, Reta opened the
rear door and patted my shoulder.

"How are you doing?"

She had kind eyes that crinkled at the corners when she smiled.  Fishing a
bag of candies from her purse, she said, "Would you like a mint?"

My experiences with candy were few and centered around Easter, Halloween and
Christmastime.  It was a magical moment.  Eyes wide, I reached into the bag
and popped a lime-colored ball into my mouth.  When I sucked past the
rock-hard coating, I discovered a white layer that dissolved into a sugary
powder.  I chewed the sticky center that remained and it stuck to my teeth,
causing the flavor to linger. On the ride home, I forgot all about the
butterflies in my stomach as my tongue occupied itself with the pleasurable
task of cleaning off my teeth.  My first ever spearmint was awesome.

I spent most weekends at my grandparents' house to be near my grandmother so
when she visited Reta one Saturday, I was included.  Reta liked to do things
right.  Her home was spotless and tastefully decorated with gleaming
ornaments, crystal miniatures, flowering African violets and a lush Boston
fern.  She kept her round maple table covered with a lacy tablecloth.  When
we sat down, she laid out rose-colored place mats, delicate floral-patterned
napkins and dainty paper-thin china cups and saucers.  I stared at the cup
in front of me thinking she had made a mistake.  Reta looked toward my
grandmother and an unspoken message passed between them.  Granny nodded.

Reta's eyes twinkled at me.

"How would you like some tea?"

"Yes please," I said, and sat up straighter; I could hardly believe my good
luck.

She poured me half a cup of pale amber liquid, filled the rest of the cup
with milk and allowed me to stir in one teaspoon of sugar.  I was only
eleven but I suddenly felt very grown up as I savored my first cup of tea.

Reta was tiny, only five feet tall and as thin and fragile as the English
china she used.  What she lacked in stature, she made up for in heart.  By
my mid-teens, Reta and I established our own friendship. Always we sat down
and visited over a cup of tea.  My home-life was chaotic but when I visited
Reta, I could relax.

At eighteen, after the trauma of testifying in court at my parent's divorce,
I sank into depression.  The life-threatening violence I experienced as a
child manifested itself as irrational fear and I trembled incessantly.  I
isolated myself from almost everyone outside of my immediate family but I
never stopped visiting Reta.  The peace I felt in her home was like balm for
my soul.

Seated in her kitchen, I shook so badly that the tea inside my 'cuppa'
sloshed and boiled like a rough sea.  Reta never commented on my shaking
hands; she accepted me with all of my peculiarities, and encouraged me to
seek help.  Warmth and love radiated from her when we were together.

When I said, "I testified against my own mother," and cried, she reached
over and put her small hand on top of mine.  Then she grabbed it and held it
tight as if to give me strength.  The power of her grip surprised me. What a
safe haven she provided to me in those terrible days when the whole world
frightened me.

Later, after ending my first serious relationship, she took me under her
wing as if I was her own daughter. I lived with her for several months until
I was ready to strike out on my own again. She was quiet-spoken, gentle and
compassionate, yet she had a good sense of humor.  She made me laugh.  We
shared a love of reading and spent many tranquil evenings together poring
over our respective novels.  Dressed in housecoats, we ended every night
with a cup of tea, and a hug and kiss.  Reta was like a mother to me.

"You're just like one of mine," she often said, cupping my face in her
hands.  Her kindness set a wonderful example for me, and I tried to emulate
her.  She found pleasure in hearing about my accomplishments as I worked to
overcome the effects of my childhood. When life became difficult, she was my
safe haven.

Although we lived in different towns in recent years, we were never far
apart in spirit.  We spoke on the telephone regularly and visited when able.
Although I told her many times, I don't think she realized how much she
helped me become the person I am today.

At eighty-two, Reta suffered from osteoporosis but she was still living in
her own home when I last spoke with her.  We caught up on the news for over
an over.  As always, at the end of the call, I said, "I love you, Reta."

The next night, Reta went to sleep and didn't awaken.

Like the sticky center of my first-ever spearmint, memories of Reta will
linger, but unlike that candy, they will never disappear.  Reta was a sweet
woman with a good heart.  Through her example, I learned that the greatest
joy comes from giving.  Today, I pass on her legacy by offering others the
rare gift she gave me: unconditional love.

Thanks Reta for believing in me.  You live on in my heart.



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