Don’t Get Mom’s Goat on Mother’s Day
I saw what I want for Mother’s Day and I won’t get it this year either. It was a baby goat the color of clotted cream, stilt-walking in a bright-green field 2 miles south of Florence, S.C. I have always wanted a Nubian goat but, as Patsy points out, they don’t stay babies. And then what would I do with my pagan-eyed friend?
What are you doing about your dear old, gray-haired mother today if you’re not giving her a goat? Did you have her tires rotated and then take her car and have it washed? Those are both lovely ideas, but not just the thing for the day.
Every year someone bemoans the existence of Mother’s Day, saying that it is a materialistic plot to sell flowers, candy and books. I certainly hope so. The flower sellers, candy makers and bookstore people have mothers too. And anything that prompts delicious presents is just fine.
Does she have a garden? Give her a rosebush or a flowering vine, dig the hole and plant it. Does she live in a high-rise condominium? Give her flowers, full of spring. If she is one of those women who can really grow house plants, give her one of those. (My house plants always suffer lingering deaths, and I feel guilty about the ungrateful things.)
Give her a set of dishes, bright and pretty, for no more than four. Of course, if she has cabinets full of beautiful china, that’s a terrible idea, but lots of people have breakfast on tag ends of old sets. Everyone has the odd salad plate and the orphan cup left over from another time. Throw them away and put your new ones in the cupboard. She will never throw away these dishes herself because she remembers when she bought that set, just after you got your retainers in. Of course, ask her first in case the old dishes belonged to her grandmother.
Go in the back of the den closet and get out that sagging cardboard carton of pictures and take them to the dining room table. Then sort them out according to year or at least decade. Then put them in the new album you are giving her and put a date and place under each picture. I have just about decided that I never will really sort out all my drawers and boxes for myself, and maybe your mother is in the same fix, with mountains of pictures of mistily remembered picnics and beach parties and somebody else’s children on Christmas cards.
Are you going to take her and your father out to dinner? Good for you, if you are sure of the restaurant. Sometimes restaurants serve a special holiday dinner, bland and tasteless and cooked the day before. One Thanksgiving, Patsy and I were in Honolulu and had the worst food I have ever had at an elegant restaurant. We made the mistake of having the turkey dinner instead of choosing from the regular menu. All of the food was beige and lukewarm.
Give her a book, still the best present in the world. Does she read those steamy romance novels? Get five or six paperbacks with the picture on the front of the girl with the peasant blouse off one shoulder and a mane of glossy hair. Wrap them together and put a tiny basket of potpourri on top.
If she likes to read great big, worthwhile books, get her one. There are several around right now that she can talk about when she goes to her day’s chores in the executive suite.
Is she a word woman, addicted to the Sunday crossword puzzle and the double acrostics? There is a marvelous dessert-table of books about words in every good bookstore. Just when I think there are no more possibilities, someone finds another word category to write about.
Get your stuff out of her front hall closet and garage right now. She has fallen over those trophies long enough, and she doesn’t need the skis falling down every time she opens the door.
Is she a skier and are you feeling rich? Give her a certificate for a week at Vail or her favorite ski resort anywhere in the world.
Take her to the theater or to a concert. Or give her a pair of season tickets to a group she likes.
Give her some wickedly expensive candy but only if she’ll eat it herself. Many of us are fitness freaks and don’t often indulge in candy. Right this minute, I want some more of the peanut brittle Jean bought in Savannah, Ga., last week.
Tipple a Jeroboam of Champagne or mix a batch of mimosas--or have some fresh-ground coffee together from the assortment you brought your mother.
Happy Mother’s Day, everyone.
Enjoy every moment of it.
