"SNOW, SNOW. BEAUTIFUL SNOW."
My mother stands at the window, smiling out at the flaky stuff. I am
four years old and already I've acquired the habit from her. Our
sing-song voices share the joy, and it's years before I give it any
thought.
This small moment in my life got bigger a few years ago, when Mom
died and I was going through her papers. I'd given her a three ring
binder to make notes of things she remembered or would want me to
know. The pages were filled with penciled memories of pressing her
brothers' pants for a penny, of dressing up in her big sister's
flapper clothes, and helping out the fancy lady who lived next door.
And on one page, an entry about her dad standing at the window,
singing, "Snow, snow. Beautiful snow."
Until I read that, I didn't know our snow love was a generational
thing. If I got it from my mother, and she got it from her dad, did
he get it from his mother or dad? And did they get it from their
parents? For how many generations have my ancestors been welcoming
snow?
On other pages, Mom remembered sharing bowls of potato soup during
the Depression, getting a job at the shoe factory, going to dances
with her friends, and marching with the Gray Ladies on the Fourth of
July. She told about the good looking guy who bought her a wedding
dress, how he celebrated when I was born, and what it was like when
he left. In her written memories, I found my younger mother, the one
I was too little to understand.
It would not have been easy for my mother to write her memories. She
was an avid reader, but having to quit school at thirteen left her
self-conscious about her grammar and spelling. Words like
'ridiculous' turned into 'redicalus', and 'arthritis' into
'arthuritis.' On top of that, her hands weakened in those last days
so that it was hard for her to hold a pencil. And yet she filled
page after page with things she wanted me to know.
I think of Mom when I get tired of writing, when the words won't
come and my fingers ache. I worry about grammar, vividness, point of
view, accuracy, and grace, when I should be taking a tip from her
and just getting the words on paper. I should write what I think,
say what I want to say and fix it later--or not. Absolutely no one
is going to die if the only thing I write today is a really awful
first draft.
The heart of writing, the only thing that really matters, is that we
communicate. For some things--a published work, for instance, we
need to polish to perfection. But for the written gift, the messages
written for children and spouses and friends, all we need is
ourselves--our imperfect, word-scrambling, ordinary selves
remembering a man looking out a window on a winter morning, singing,
"Snow, snow. Beautiful snow!"
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