I am a firm believer in HOLIDAYS. Like, all holidays.
They don’t have to be
events tied to your religious belief. They
don’t have to be things celebrated in your country.
They are just holidays. Days to celebrate, to mourn, to eat, to party
– whatever tradition dictates. HOLIDAYS.
And I am perfectly fine
inventing holidays.
No, not the lame ones that
greeting card companies try and get people to buy into. And no, not the “national cotton candy day”
types invented just to fill space on the calendar.
But significant, important
holidays.
One of my most sacred is
Mary Day. I celebrate it every October
20th. Mary Day is the
anniversary of my mom, Mary Eleanor Thompson’s, death in 2002.
 |
| My mom and dad at Christmas in the basement of the house I grew up in on Borman Street |
Wow – this October 20th was the 21st Mary Day celebration. It is hard to believe it has been that long.
Anyway, the traditional
way that I celebrate Mary Day is by doing things that my mom loved. I never work on Mary Day (I am actually of the
belief that every person should get to choose one or two paid days off of work
annually for the holiday of their choice, in addition to the “regular” holidays
that grace our calendars).
Mary Day usually consists
of some/all of these things:
-
Shopping – often buying
an ENTIRE OUTFIT from socks to underwear to bra to shoes to pants to sweater… That’s how she rolled.
-
Eating dessert
first
-
Wearing blush and
lipstick – a must!
-
Drinking a nice
glass of wine
-
Getting a
gift/gifts for others
-
Painting your nails
or getting a manicure/pedicure
-
Listening to some
of mom’s favorite music
My celebrations of this
holiday typically take place ALONE. Mary
Day is one that I set aside to be by myself and sort of relish in that. Sometimes I will text a friend or family
member, maybe a phone call, but for the most part I like to spend Mary Day alone. That gives me time to think, to remember, and
to cry if I want.
This may sound strange,
but Mary Day is the one day a year that I venture out to a big mall near us
(Tyson’s). I step foot in there once a
year, and it becomes more and more bizarre as time goes on. The stores change (there is a whole store
dedicated to DYSON now!). The vibe
changes. But one thing is consistent –
the rampant consumerism displayed by people walking around with huge fancy shopping
bags in both hands. It amazes me! I have never been a big shopper, and the last
few years have purchased less and less.
So being in that environment is a little strange, but kind of a good
social experiment for me.
One tradition I keep on
Mary Day is my annual pilgrimage to Sephora, the make-up store, which I have
always referred to as “girl heaven”. Maybe
this is because my mom oddly put blush on me when I was a pre-teen (ok ok ok – I
was PALE!), and mom was not usually seen without lipstick (and wanted her
daughters to wear it, too). So I go into
the same Sephora with the same game plan every Mary Day: buy a new lipstick and
a new perfume.
Only, this year was
different.
I walked into Sephora and
I was immediately overwhelmed with the scents and the loud, loud music. The lights seemed brighter, too, and there
were so many people crammed in…
But I had my mission –
lipstick and perfume. Off I went to find
the brand I thought I would get (Sugar).
Only, they were sold out of most of the colors, and there didn’t appear
to be a new one this season… OK, let’s
look at other brands… No – not that. Oh, that’s pretty – but sold out… Finally a woman asked if she could help me.
Now TRADITIONALLY on
Mary Day, this is the point where I would BLURT to a stranger. Blurting is where I explain to some poor
person who said something to me innocently that this is the one day of the year
I come to Sephora and it is because my mom is dead.
It’s never a good
conversation starter, yet it is what I seem to blurt every year.
Only, this year was
different.
I didn’t blurt.
Nor did I choose a
lipstick. Or a perfume. I eschewed the tradition that I had invented
for myself decades ago, and I. Walked. Out.
Only, instead of breaking
down and feeling like a failure as I normally would, I took a breath. And another.
And I didn’t crumble. No tears
came. I felt fine.
And it is the “feeling
fine” that made me think.
Had I forgotten her? Has it been so long since I had a mother that
the rituals I invented to memorialize her had failed? Had worn off??
I had a new idea this Mary
Day. Since I can’t take flowers to my mom’s
grave on this holiday (it is in Nebraska and I am in Virginia), I figured I would
take roses to some other Mary Thompson.
Or maybe a Mary Lee, my mom’s maiden name. After all, Arlington National Cemetery is
practically in my backyard, and they have a “grave finder” app that lets you
search by name.
So, I picked up some roses
and typed my mom’s name into the app.
And I was dumbfounded to
find that there was a woman buried there with my mom’s whole name – MARY ELEANOR
THOMPSON.
Wait – what??
That was perfect! And of course that is who would
get the flowers! And another grave that
housed a Mary Lee would get the others.
Only, even knowing the grave section and number (section 43, grave 1634), the app does not give good directions on how to GET there. Arlington National Cemetery is 639 acres big, and almost 400,000 people are buried there (including my in-laws). Plus, I have absolutely no sense of direction whatsoever. And the sun was starting to set… And the cemetery was closing in 40 minutes…
So, try as I might to find
Mary Eleanor Thompson’s grave, I could not.
Only, I didn’t break down
and feel stupid as I normally would in that situation. I didn’t cry.
I took a breath. And another.
And I grabbed the flowers, stepped out of the car, and decided that I would
find someone to give them to. My first
choices were to find people named Mary or Lee or Thompson, but I knew in my
heart that even if that failed, it would be ok.
The world would not end. I would
not be a failure. And someone’s
gravesite would be a bit prettier.
I put one on this grave because
the woman’s first name was my mom’s middle name.
Then this one because of
the last name.
And this one because the
headstone was so intricately and artistically entwined in the tree.
And then this one, because
it had my mom’s first name.
And then this one, because
this person had just celebrated the anniversary of their death 6 days earlier
and someone had brought them yellow flowers (maybe they were celebrating Anne Day).
Then I decorated this one, with my mom's maiden name.
And then I found this one.
It was getting dark, mist
was falling. But seeing “Lee Thompson”
hit me. And for the first time this Mary
Day, I cried.
The next day when friends
asked how Mary Day was, I replied that I learned something about myself this
year and needed time to process. So that
is why this post does not fall on Mary Day as it traditionally would.
This year I learned that I
am strong.
And I am unique.
And even if things do not
go as planned, and if I upset a ritual that I have built up in my mind to be
very, very important – I will be okay.
I will take a breath. And another.
And while I may not buy a
whole outfit (head to toe), and while the right lipstick might not show itself
to me and the perfume may be too wildly expensive for me to splurge on, and
while I might even forget to eat dessert first…
That doesn’t mean I have
forgotten.
It doesn’t mean I have
failed her.
It just means that I am
me.
And that is all I can be,
so it damn well better be enough.
Now quickly, the annual
lecture:
IF YOU ARE LUCKY ENOUGH TO
HAVE A MOTHER THAT IS ALIVE, CALL HER.
WRITE HER A REAL HONEST TO GOODNESS CARD OR LETTER (not a text or
email). TAKE HER TO BRUNCH. RUB HER FEET.
TAKE PHOTOS WITH HER.
And tell her you love her.
Because one day, you too
will be motherless.
And when that happens, I
hope that you will take time out of your life to celebrate the woman who
birthed you or raised you or did whatever she did to qualify in your life to
earn the title of MOTHER.
Because she will deserve
it. And so will you.
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