Mothering Sunday

 

Ok, so I do know that Mothering Sunday was originally the day when a religious Xian was supposed to go back to their "mother" church; and I read that an American started a memorial service for her mum in 1907, but that has no connection with the UK version. It probably developed from the old religious tradition, and as fewer people did the church thing, maybe it morphed into the celebration we have today.

Before my mother died, it would be a day when I treated her to the lunch of her choice (which varied between a local Chinese dive, Côte or the Wolseley). Now it is a day to think fondly about her (I'd eat Chinese in her honour, but haven't yet found a decent local place here).

These photos are of Evelyn doing something she loved to do. In them she is near Potsdam with her friend Eckerhard, z"l, visiting Eric Mendelsohn's Einstein Turm. Travel, architecture, a dear friend - a lovely day for her, and a lovely memory for me. 

It's Mother's Day Today

There are those who are mothers and those who have living mothers. I am neither. As regular readers will know, over the last decade+ our tradition was Chinese food together. Rather than post another photo from past meals in London, which today feels a bit morbid to me, here's a photo of me with an unusually delighted-looking mother. To those of us with difficult parental relationships, I hear ya. May we find the healing we need. To those with positive experiences, rejoice! 

NB I originally labelled this post for Mothering Sunday, and then my friend Ron taught me that the 4th Sunday in Lent is Mothering Sunday and that, of course, was a couple of months ago. He explained that this May day was the day that female domestic servants were given to visit their mothers, and it is also the day that people visit their "mother" church. Not to mention the US version, which was basically invented by Hallmark. Thank you, Ron!

UK Mothers Day 2021

Mothers Day can be tough for many reasons. A friend of mine lost her mother this week, and even before the shiva service she has to face the first of these days as an orphan. One may have, or have had a troubled relationship with one's mother. It's clearly not all breakfast in bed and flowers and chocolates.

This is the second of these days that I have not been able to celebrate my mother. As you may know, she loved Chinese food, and Mothering Sunday was a day when I would take her to lunch in a restaurant of her choice. We are currently under full lockdown again, so I can't even get some rubbish Chinese food here (we haven't yet discovered the best place in town, but we have been trying!) to eat on her behalf. So I am remembering past meals, under the watchful eye of the Dragon Lady of Old Brompton Road, after parking illegally somewhere off Baker Street, at the Red Sun near WLS, takeout from the Stick and Bowl on Ken High Street ... many good memories of quality time spent together.

As for the photo I've posted of a purple Kent House, if you look closely there is a light on in the flat on the second floor. That was where my mother spent so many evenings, watching her favourite tv shows, having a snack or a meal. I can be sad that today I'm not making her eat all the prawn crackers so I won't be tempted, or that light can remind me of the positive memories I have, and thus she will continue to shine on my life. 

Hoping that this day can bring us all something positive.

93rd Birthday for the Twins

93 years ago today in her apartment, my grandmother Sali gave birth to a baby boy. Afterwards, she got up for a cup of coffee and a cigarette, whilst her husband Alex ran to the public phone to call his friends down at the Stube. "I'm a father!" he told them, "I have a son!"

A while later, as the midwife was preparing to leave, Sali felt a bit strange. The midwife examined her and said, "there's another baby coming!" And so my father became a twin. Alex went rushing back to the phone to call his friends again, "I have a son!" he cried. "Alex, you're drunk," they said, "you already told us!" "No, no, no," he replied, "I have another son!"

On what would have been my father and my uncle's 93rd birthday, I think of them with love. This year it happens to coincide with Mother's Day, and so I think also of my grandmother, who lived in an era when twins were a surprise.

Albert with his mother in Cincinnati in 1949

Mother's Day USA 2020

She wore a hat so well!

It's Mother's Day tomorrow in the USA. When my mother was alive, we would celebrate together on Mothering Sunday, a UK holiday earlier in the year. Our thing was for her to let me take her out for Chinese food. We'd go to her favourite restaurant around the corner, run by the Dragon Lady. When it closed down, we'd go to the Red Sun in New Quebec Street.  We'd share some vegetarian spring rolls, and then she'd decide if she'd like some hot and sour soup, or some chicken and mixed vegetables, while I'd have sweet & sour tofu on egg-fried rice. In her final weeks, hot & sour soup was one of the few things that could tempt her to eat. Dear friends would bring some to the hospital, and it would bring her back towards us for just a while.

This is the first year without her on such days, and so I am thinking of her this weekend, as the internet floods my pages with special offers for the celebration of female parents. My feelings at the moment are best expressed in the eulogy I gave at her funeral last October:

Evelyn Friedlander

It’s a bit of a struggle to speak to you this afternoon. There’s rabbi Ariel, who knows how to give an eloquent hesped/eulogy. There’s the spirit of Albert, and the temptation to try and channel a bit of that for everyone here who knew him. But we are here for Evelyn. And the person who needs to speak to you is her daughter, Ariel.

I can’t find the words to describe the first chapter of our relationship. From the moment I understood the word ‘no’, we battled each other. Actually, I don’t need to tell you about it. Over the last 10 years, after my return to London, Mummy and I spoke with each other about everything that happened. I can say today that we did the best that we could. The past cannot be undone, but we spoke our truths face-to-face. Even if some things would not change, the act of naming them helped me to start letting go of what was. And, although it was hard for her, Mummy looked within herself, and responded with candour and honesty. I think we did all that was possible. 

When I kissed her goodbye in the hospital, she looked peaceful. The anger was gone.  I know that, although she was mad that I left her alone when I moved to Italy, she was also glad to see me finding my beloved Lior, building a home together, and moving forward. I feel blessed.

They say that a heart is not judged by how much you love, but how much you are loved by others (Mummy hated musicals!). I’m proud to say that my mother was dearly loved by so many friends, both old and new, both old and young. She valued her old friends, their shared experience, and that they were direct and honest with her.

Perhaps her English emotional culture, and position as the rabbi’s wife, might have created boundaries that meant not everyone would see her in depth. Younger friends, however, had no such barriers. She loved the light and energy they brought into her life, and shared herself with them in a way that perhaps was not possible in earlier years.

Her last advice to me, well, if she were here now she would probably say you are saying um too much. But just a few days ago she said, DON’T TAKE ANY SSSTUFF FROM ANYONE. BE TRUE TO YOURSELF. Ok, she didn’t say ssstuff. I think it sums up perfectly what she learned in her lifetime. Mummy was angry and beautiful, charming and insecure, intelligent and stubborn. She was interested in learning about the world around her, and enjoyed being the centre of attention. She had talent and skill, but it took her many years to find the field in which she could be Evelyn, rather than prodigy or parent or partner. She dealt, as we all do, with disappointments and failures. Nevertheless, she persisted. “What choice do I have?” she would say.

Now she is dead, and of all the stories I could share right now, I don’t know why, but the one that comes to mind is this:  c. 1966, the rabbi came home from a council meeting at the synagogue with a message for his wife. Albert told her that he had been asked to let her know that her skirts were too short, and she needed to do something about it. She smiled. “Of course, darling.” Evelyn went to her sewing-machine, and took another inch off every dress she had.  I hope that feistiness is in my DNA. May she rest in peace.

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To all who celebrate Mother's Day, I hope it is joyous. To those whose mothers are no longer with them, I wish happy memories. To all who have or had troubled relationships with their mothers, I wish strength and healing.