Ruthie the Amazing

My mother sits on the goldenrod shag carpet in front of me as I pull the brush through her thick, curly brunette hair. Miss America plays on the console television, and we are rooting, of course, for Miss Colorado. My sister says it’s her turn to brush, and I reluctantly give up my spot.

“You should be Miss America, Mommy,” I say.

“Mommies can’t be Miss America,” my mom answers.

“Why not?”

“They just can’t.” She deflects the next questions with an offer of popcorn. Thwarted for now, I am comforted by buttery fingers and the glitz of Atlantic City.

I grew up with a single mom and a deadbeat dad, and, in my eyes, there was nothing my mom could not do. She worked a full-time job, and kept a spotless house while raising three kids, cooking homemade meals, and still finding time to teach us timeless games like jacks and "Chutes and Ladders." She put on her makeup in the car while driving to work and never had an accident. She taught teen girls’ club groups, researching crafts and lessons throughout the week.

When she got remarried, she invited friends over nearly every weekend, learning how to cook intricate Middle Eastern dishes and how to speak Arabic. Upon the arrival of two more daughters, she also built a family without “half-sisters,” but of full family relationships. Mom always knew the right thing to do in any situation and never shied away from hard work. She taught us how to cook, bake, clean, decorate, crochet, embroider, and read. She taught us how life was lived in the past and how to prepare for life in the future—introducing us to preserving food, camping and fishing, as well as keyboarding and computers.

Rich molasses cookies shaped like little people covered the tabletop. Children encircled the table, heads bent in concentration, placing Red Hots, sprinkles, and M&Ms artistically on the dough. A buzzer rang and Mommy removed a tray from the oven and placed the warm cookies on wax paper on the counter.

“What is this one?” she asked, pointing to a cookie with a red M&M in its forehead and blue sprinkles all over its body.

“An alien,” my brother answers.

“This one has sprinkles all over it and falling off of it,” Mommy commented.

“It’s glitter,” my sister explained.

“I made that one,” I pointed out. “It’s a mommy.”

Mom loved to celebrate—any reason or holiday was always celebrated. Sometimes, for no reason at all, a celebration was created. Her parties were the best. She made pirate head piñatas, nursery rhyme riddles, broom hockey, and tables bore fresh crudité, olives and pickles. One slumber party ended up with 21 teenagers packed in the back of a compact pickup shell on the way to get 25 cent ice cream cones. No matter the event, colorful streamers and balloons decorated the ceilings, usually some kind of fun but embarrassing game was prepared, and, through it all, my beautiful mother was there, smiling, joking, serving, and making people feel at ease.

A child knelt dejectedly dusting the bannisters. Another child carried a trash can from a bedroom down the stairs out to the garage. A stereo blaring rock music paused to announce a Beach Boys song.

“Oh kids! Come here!” Mom emerged from her room out onto the hallway balcony. “I learned how to trip to this song!”

All three children gathered around her and watched as she stepped and hopped on one foot, then switched feet and hopped to the beat. They followed in a sort of awkward conga line as the song progressed. Then when the song was over, Mom said, “OK, that was fun. Everybody back to work.”

Every time a new song was started, they tried to “trip” to the song, but none of them worked like the Beach Boys.

Mom taught us how to work, so we would do it right. We worked jobs all around the house, so we were responsible for keeping the house clean. If we did not do it right, we would have to do it over until it was right. Mom was strict, but she knew she prepared us for the future, when we would have homes of our own, and we would not have her to do our laundry or housekeeping. She wanted to ready us for independence and success. Besides, she worked full-time and needed the help.

She started work at 15 when my father broke his back, and she needed to make the family income. From that point, she went from factory worker, to secretary, to administrative assistant, to assistant to the vice president at a national corporation, to an IT worker. She bought stocks at the ground level of a corporation and made some lucrative business decisions to prepare for retirement. Throughout this process, she also earned a Bachelor’s degree, put a husband through college, and raised five children.

As I was writing, I looked for one big story to tell, one big, great thing my mother had done to change the world, and I had no “story.” But I had many “little” stories. Invitations to holiday dinners for people who had no one to celebrate with, donations to charities, creations of game nights to introduce neighbors and build relationships, and most important, training our family to be moral, independent citizens who are active in this chaotic world.

One of my friends found a new best friend, and I had spent recess in the tunnel crying, again. Mommy saw my tears.

“If they can’t see how amazing you are, then they aren’t good enough to be your friend.”

I was quiet, because I didn’t care if they were good enough, I just wanted a friend.

“Ginger, love who you are. I love you, exactly how you are. Except you need to blow your nose. Here’s a tissue.”