Reflections on Mother

Sitting at a small table in a German village, I sip coffee and watch the old women walk to the bakery with baskets hanging from their arms. Every morning, they walk briskly towards the smell of bread and broetchen (buns). The bakery opens about 6 a.m. The ladies wrap bread in white paper and hand it to the shoppers.

It is a homey sight. And, the smells of coffee and bread brings back memories of my mother baking. Even to the most dysfunctional family (and we were dysfunctional), bread conjures the smell of hearth, home, and happiness.

My mother liked to bake bread.

She would pummel the dough, knead it, and let it rise. The formula was to let the dough rise two times. She would punch it in the bowl and let it rise again. Once the dough was just right, she would form it into loaves. Once the dough in the pans rose and she put it in the oven. The smell would float through the house and for a moment, we would feel loved. We would forget her impatience, her irritation, and her pinches. Her bread was the sweet smell of mothering.

I do not bake bread. I am not a mother. For in my mind, I see my mother's actions. For every kiss and caress there was a slap and a curse. She could curse like a sailor. The words fell from her mouth like stones, bruising us.

"Why should I throw pearls before swine," she would ask, referring to the few compliments she passed our way. Every mistake was revealed by her lips. Wash your hands, brush your hair were constant reminders, but with a little twist . . .

"If you loved me," she would begin, "you would wash your hands (or you would brush your teeth, or something else that needed done)." Her litanies still ring in my ears even though I am past forty. These four words, "if you loved me," still clench my stomach muscles.

The little child in me still wonders if I had loved her enough then maybe we would have had more days of baking bread with her kisses brushing my forehead. But, the adult in me knows that I couldn't love her enough make her love me back.

In reflection, I think my mother feels the same way about her mother. Dear grandmother, now dead, was paranoid. Harsh, earthy, loving, stubborn: her words "this is for your own good" echo beside my mother's words "if you loved me." What a trio we made. Such pain is represented by these three generations of women. I cannot bear to pass this legacy to another one.

So, I sit with a cup of coffee, a hunk of bread. I watch the old women buying bread. I think of my mother.

Learn more about this author, Cyn Bagley - Memoirs Steward.
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