I am not my mother. Or am I? It was during my 40th birthday celebration last year that I experienced an enlightening moment, realizing that I had indeed transformed into my mother in many ways. The moment struck me like a lightning bolt while I was wandering through a flea market in West Tennessee. As the realization washed over me, I began mentally listing the traits that set us apart. The first item on this list? Laundry—and yes, it seems I need to add that to my growing list of similarities.
As I held a blue willow plate in my hands, inspecting it for imperfections, I was transported back in time. I could hear my mother exclaiming, “What on earth do I need with another set of dishes?” as she carefully placed yet another stack of fragile saucers into our already overflowing cupboards. My mother and grandmother were both passionate collectors, often lamenting their growing collection while simultaneously plotting to find space for it. Now, there I stood, blue willow plate in hand, concocting my own plan to fit it among the mismatched Mikasa and Fiesta plates on my shelf. Just like my mother, I bought it and tucked it away.
In that moment, I also came to the realization that I had developed a fondness for antiquing, just as my mother did. I remembered how I’d walk beside her as she marveled at vintage finds, like Hoosier cabinets and gleaming kerosene lamps. Now, here I was, reveling in the charm of the backroads of West Tennessee, immersed in a world of vintage treasures.
My thoughts began to spiral. What did my own walls showcase? How much affection did I hold for a slightly dented tole-painted tray? I realized with a start that my home boasted no new decor from popular retailers. The last time I actively sought out a wall-hanging was a distant memory. And potpourri? Pffft! I hadn’t touched that stuff in years. Yes, I had fully embraced the world of antiquing, squeezing it tightly to my chest as I added yet another item to my list of inherited traits.
Amid my journey of self-discovery in that cramped flea market booth, I looked down at my hands. I truly saw them for the first time. They were unmistakably my mother’s hands—hands that wiped down the dinner table or folded laundry with exhaustion after a long day in the garden she shared with her own mother. My hands were a mirror of hers, from the long fingers well-suited for my height to the prominent knuckles and slender wrists that had barely changed since high school.
As my thoughts whirled, the connection between the plate and my hands led me to baking, specifically cookies. My mother’s chocolate chip cookies were legendary. While I might not have inherited her baking prowess, my children plead for my cookies late at night, especially after the chaos of homework and school activities. At 9:30 PM on a school night, I can’t deny that I am channeling my mother. The joy of sliding warm cookies onto wax paper, knowing I’ve brought a moment of happiness to my children, makes the exhaustion worthwhile. This is why she baked—the cookies, the casseroles—all of it was for my sister and me, and now I find myself doing the same for my own kids.
As I handed over the blue willow plate to the vendor behind the cluttered counter, I sighed softly. I watched her take the paper bag, and as I turned to leave, I spotted a Hoosier cabinet in the first booth to my right. How had I overlooked it? I sighed again, enchanted by its curves and color, reminding me of my mother’s passion for such pieces. Where did I put that list again?
In conclusion, my trip to the flea market was not just about acquiring a blue willow plate or reminiscing about my mother; it was an exploration of how deeply intertwined our lives and traditions are. From the simple act of collecting dishes to the cherished moments of baking cookies, I find that I am, in many aspects, becoming my mother, and for that, I am grateful.
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