What my mother taught me

Hey Sally!
Apr 1
2 min read

In a few weeks, I’m going to visit my mom for her 90th birthday. It will be the first time all of her family will be together in one place.

I keep thinking about the importance of this, how rare it is, and how lucky I am.

I’ve also been reflecting on the many lessons she taught me, one of the most important coming from when I was pretty young.

I was nine years old when we took a trip up to Camp Danbee in the Berkshires. It was a place founded by my grandparents in 1950, and it has held so much meaning for all of us. To understand this story, you need to know that we drove up there in my mom’s brand new car, her first ever brand new car.

My mom was frugal. She was an educator, a social worker, never into manicures or facials, and definitely not into fashion.

On that first trip in her new car, we arrived at the top of the hill. My mom parked, and we all jumped out, excited to be there. As we started walking toward the camp office, something caught our attention and we turned around.

And then we saw it.

The car had started rolling backwards, at first slowly and then faster, picking up speed down the hill until it crashed through a tall metal fence. We watched the top of the fence bend and drag across the entire car from the hood all the way to the back, making that awful scraping sound you never forget.

We just stood there in shock.

I remember looking at my mom, waiting for a reaction, something, anything. She was calm, looked at my sister and asked, “Are you okay?”

My sister nodded.

Then she looked at me and said, “Are you okay?”

I nodded.

She said, “Well, if you’re okay and you’re okay and I’m okay, then that’s all that matters. That’s the most important thing. That’s just a piece of metal.”

And that was it.

We watched her walk over to a tree a little way off. She kicked it a few times, and we heard her yell, “Dumb bunny, dumb bunny.” Then she came back, and we went into the office like nothing had happened.

I’ve never forgotten that moment, not because of the car, but because of what she showed us without making it a lesson. From that moment on, I knew that we—family, friends, and community—were what mattered most and that material things were replaceable.

She’s still like that. My mom has never had a manicure or a facial at 90 years old, so I know she doesn’t want anything. She just wants us, our presence.

So, I’m bringing a tripod and a frame. I’ll be taking photos of all of us together, celebrating her, all in one place, creating memories together.

Because in the end, that’s what lasts.

Not the things, but the love of family and friends, the communities we build, and the connection we share.

I’m so happy you’re here.

Sally