My Mother Was A Jewish Hippie

I've had the good fortune to have two mothers in my life. My birth mother, Dana, was the kind of person who gave you anxiety when you saw her number on your caller ID, but you still wanted to know what crazy thing she would say or do next.

She dragged me to three different countries and seventeen states because the next location was always the answer. Despite her chaotic nature, she was a great friend.

My adoptive mother, Kris, was her best friend and fellow single mom. Kris told me that she knew that they would be lifelong friends when I was in fourth grade.

Kris's ex-husband and the father of her two boys didn't show up for visitation. Her youngest son was devastated, and she came to our apartment to vent. Dana asked her what he had to say about it when he was confronted.

He had immediately told her that he'd been on his way to see the boys, but while passing his friend's house, he saw that it was on fire and just had to stop and help.

When Dana said, "Oh, that's such a good friend!" Kris was incredulous.

Finally, Dana told her, "I wish I had a friend who would set their house on fire to get me out of things!"

From that point on, they had an amazing friendship.

Dana was the kind of person that just made things interesting. She had a wanderlust that couldn't be quenched and easily made friends with everyone she met no matter how different their life and culture were from her own.

While my mother was often very colorful, gregarious, and had a penchant for wandering the world, she was also very gullible. Dana would have bought used shoes on eBay if someone told her they belonged to Gandhi.

Despite falling for numerous scams, she was ready to change the world. Her favorite item in her closet was her old hippie jacket. It was nearly floor-length, purple suede, and had tassels on the arms and hem. Being arrested in her youth at the March On Washington in August of 1963 was a point of pride for her.

As you can imagine, she was delighted when she later had a daughter born on the same day. While I have certainly lived up to her wanderlust expectations, I haven't found the key to world peace yet. Thus far, I've visited over twelve countries lived in six states since my early twenties.

I'm sure she would be exceedingly proud.

As a hippie, she sure did love to debate. A lot of people today think of hippies as the ones who go along with life. Despite the flowery imagery, there's nothing a hippie loves more than defending their position.

When she made up her mind about something, there was nothing that could change it. Every year on Thanksgiving, Dana and Kris would have their yearly competition for who was allowed to make the turkey.

Neither one could actually cook, and burning everything they put in the oven was a family norm. The real reason they wanted the right to cook was that in my sixth grade school year, Kris invited us for Thanksgiving dinner.

What we didn't know was that Kris made the turkey stuffing with giblets.

In my mother's ever-dramatic words, she had become "profusely ill." She was bound and determined that the next Thanksgiving turkey would never be sullied by them again. Thus, every year it was a tradition that they would spend the year finding recipes that defended their side.

Who actually won would often depend on which one you asked.

Our morning would start with Dana refusing to give up her secret recipe for sweet potatoes, determining who would cook the turkey, then frequent flurries of activity to figure out what was burning.

My last meal with my mother, we were traveling down to California so that she could stay with my aunt and cousins. We had stopped just past the Oregon border in the tiny town of Yreka.

There was a little diner not far from the Best Western that had cookbooks on each table. Without missing a beat, she picked it up and found a recipe for turkey stuffing. With her knowing smile, she put the cookbook back and simply said, "I'm right again."

Unfortunately, she would miss the next Thanksgiving by a handful of days.

I'm sure you've heard the old stereotype that Jewish people are good with money. Let me be the first to tell you that Jewish families come in all shapes, sizes, and budgets.

My mother was born to a well-off, Jewish family. Entire rooms in her home were off-limits to her and her younger brother. While she could have had an easier life, she was destined for rebellion.

One of her favorite things to do was lick all the frosting off the holiday fruitcake and put it back in the box. Her mother would re-gift the fruitcake without realizing the difference.

When she was fourteen, she left home and never looked back. She moved from New York to California and made her living any way she wanted. Sometimes she was a scriptwriter for soap operas, and others, she was an eccentric middle school teacher.

Dozens of boxes were piled up in our closets filled with her little treasures. She collected sheet music, samples of her writing, yearbooks, and photos. Even though we frequently moved, she made sure to bring them wherever we went.

The year that a water main broke in our apartment, those were the first things she checked for damage. Her heart broke with each ruined piece, and she mourned them as if they were cherished loved ones that passed.

We were constantly broke, often from moves or frequent job changes. Some of my earliest memories were from living in a dodgy, wood-paneled station wagon for more than a year.

While money management was never her thing, it inspired me to make it mine. I learned early on what the value of a single penny can be. How to create unique alternatives by keeping an open mind.

We didn't always have money for presents, and my school dresses were never new. And yet, I saw more of the world than anyone my age. The stuff I did have, I appreciated that much more.

She wasn't perfect, but she was a rebel. She taught me about appreciation, having the guts to speak your mind, and leaving the world a better place than you enter it.

Though she is gone, her legacy stays with me. Life isn't always about perfection or following the same path others travel. It's our experiences that shape us.

Thanks to her, I have a life worth writing about.