Opinion
Sunday Night
MaryHelen Swanson, editor
In talking with a friend this weekend, the two of us realized few of the younger generations -Xers, Yers, XYZers, whatever theyíre called now, know about the carnation tradition of Motherís Day. In my cave dweller days in the 50s and 60s it was still in effect. An individual wore a single carnation on Motherís Day ñ red if your mother was alive, white if she had passed on. The carnation sort of transformed into an orchid in the late 60s and 70s and I, the mother of five, proudly wore one such flower on my lapel each year. Those were the years when I wore a dress to church, nylons, high heels, the works ñ and a hat. The flora on my shoulder was a nice addition. In my youth, my mother received numerous Kleenex tissue carnations from me attached to paper doilies, the handiwork of a dutiful Brownie scout. This masterpiece was usually accompanied by a handmade card with the words ìI love youî scribbled in my best penmanship. As my sisters and I grew older, we adorned momís shoulder with a real flower corsage, took her to dinner, bought her word find books, bouquets of posies, and enough knick-knacks to start her own variety store. I visited my mom every Motherís Day but one - her last. When I became a mom, the handmade cards arrived for me, along with the fuchsia plants, cascading and blooming in multiple shades of pink. I then proceeded to kill that lovely plant, year after year. When they finally gave up on the fuchsias, there came an assortment of rose bushes, bedding plants, perfumes, earrings, hand lotions, a puppy, and one year a rototiller. Dinner was usually at a buffet so ìeveryone can eat what they like.î I did not have to cook or pay for this meal. This year was a quiet Motherís Day. I fully understand why each one of my five children was unable to be with me, but there was a twinge of jealousy as I watched all the other mothers dine with their families Sunday afternoon, pretty packages piled on the table, smiling, adoring offspring surrounding them. And then I wiped the mist from my glasses and made a reality check. I wasnít jumping up and down taking junior to the potty, wiping sisí nose, hushing a crying baby. I wasnít trying to eat with my right hand while holding a lively toddler on my lap with my left. I didnít have infant drool on my shoulder. I was, in fact, enjoying my meal on this my special day. With self-pity waning fast, I realized I was having a Happy Motherís Day after all.
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