A homage to my mother, the poet

I have never felt like I needed to hide much from my mother. A combination of her acceptance of life's challenges, of difference and variety, her observant nature, and her appreciation for even the mundane allowed me to develop uninhibitedly. It's easy enough to say these things and praise people with such abstractions but allow me to provide some examples.

Little kids often make quick judgement of others and need to be socialized not to point and make a spectacle of their honesty and innocence. Whenever I would see "strange looking" people and ask questions, mom would say, "Every body is different".

In the closet in our family house, there's a cupboard and in that cupboard is a little, thin yellowy-orangish book with people in gorilla suits on the front. It's a poetry book called, "And People Come Up to Me and Ask Me What's So Funny." It was never really something she boasted of, but this was a poetry book she wrote when she was in her early twenties or so, and it is absolutely brilliant. I think both my brother Michael and I have been equally fascinated with her words at different points in our lives. I'm not sure if mom realizes how creative she is, but she is quite the wordsmith. Her poetry is abounded in humour and sarcasm.

Beyond the poetry book in the cupboard, mom was constantly listening to great poets, or lyricists. Mom always has some poet playing in the backdrop of her daily chores: Leonard Cohen, Van Morrison, John Denver, John Lennon, Neil Diamond, and the list goes on. I think if we had to chose a an artist associated with our mother, it would be Leonard Cohen.

Mom's youth, or early adulthood, was pictured for me in black and white photo albums full of images of longhaired, bellbottom wearing, flower power carrying hippies. When asking my mother is she was a hippy, she always answered, "Maybe a little, but a responsible one." She took a liking to students from the local arts school and eventually moved into a commune sort of situation with a bunch of them in a tiny house where they spent many hours "just being". The images of her friends and their adventures always intrigued me. Now looking at these pictures, I think I am surely my mother's daughter. I think is she would have grown up in my generation, she would be doing quite similar things that I am. I think she had a bit of a wanderlust spirit. There's some pictures of her on a beach somewhere where she and her friends slept in a handmade, driftwood hovel on a beach. She picked tobacco to pay her way through a Canada cross country trip, working with all men. Apparently her boss said that women were better tobacco pickers and that mom "picked fast and clean"- I think it was mom's perfection that enabled her to pick that way.

There's a picture of my mom standing next to a train and she's wearing knee high socks and she looks ever so artsy. I wish I had a copy to post here.

These are just a few minute examples of my mother, the artist. Of course she has been the most influential artist in my life, along with my brother. I don't think it is a coincidence.

Well, I urge my mother to write now that she is retired, because her words are full of wisdom and laughter (just as she is).

Love you mom!