JEWELS FOR AMENDS

My mother died during the worst period of my addiction. When she married my father, she took over a house that already contained my grandmother, Dad's oldest brother, two small children of Dad's sister who died in childbirth, and the multiple duties of a farm wife. She was a loving person who never complained and always had a song or a smile on her lips. I was the third (and destined to be middle) child, the first girl. It soon became apparent that I was never going to be the cute little curl-um and dress-um-up child I believe she had longed for, but once that became clear, she let me be the person I willfully chose to be. And willfullness marked the next decades of my life. I thought I was better than my roots, and once I left home for college I chose a lifestyle of which I knew my parents, who did not drink, would never approve. I eloped after college and during the next years my husband of that time and I slid through the levels of an alcoholic marriage. I brought her grandson for brief visits but basicly denied her a relationship with him in an futile effort to hide the chaos going on in my marriage.

Eight years after her death I got sober. Once I divorced myself from chaos and started to appreciate the values I had been raised with, I felt a powerful remorse for how I neglected my relationship with my mother. How to make amends to such a gentle spirit? By that time I had found the comfort of a new marriage blessed by my family of origin, and Michael and I had found the serenity of a small house in the country with a large garden and fruit trees and berries in abundance. I treasured the peace of coming home to our "farm" after a stressful day working with addicted adolescents. I remembered the hours my mother had spent in a hot kitchen canning vgetables and fruit from our garden to provide for our winter fare. I could see the pride she took in the colorful rows of cans that lined our cellar shelves. Best of all were the days she made jams and jellies and we kids got to eat the foamy skimmings the next morning on our toast. It occurred to me what a fitting tribute to my mother making jelly would be. So each fall I go through the ritual of gathering the fruits and vegetables, experience the hard work of peeling them and preparing jars, scalding my face over the bubbling sweet liquids as I stir the jellies feeling connected to my mother. And surely, as with most amends, I receive more than I give. Not only do the rows of colorful jars delight my eye and give me a feeling of acomplishment, but also these "amends" become gifts for my grandchildren and special friends.