Helga without the H

Recently, my mom and I were chatting about life after losing my dad. The outpouring of love that we have experienced in tribute to my father has been immense and overwhelming. So many people have been sharing their stories and memories, exemplifying what a positive impact he had on his friends and community. What a shame, my mom said, that we don’t do more of this sharing while people are still alive. It would have really helped my dad out the past couple years, given him that much-needed morale boost, to hear these tributes and know how deeply he was loved.

Today’s winter dig-out has me thinking about my mom. And instinctively I kept these thoughts to myself, in my own mind, because that is what society has us do. It’s unnatural to randomly gush about others at unsolicited moments. Attention-seeking, perhaps? Melodramatic? But then I remembered the conversation my mom and I had just had, and so I thought maybe she’d appreciate what I am about to share…

I love manual labor. Sawing down trees. Hauling furniture. Painting the house. Shoveling snow. Using my body to get shit done… yeah, it’s the best. I take pride in a job self-done (rarely well-done, in my case, but done nonetheless). While I am well aware of my physical limitations, I am not asking somebody else to do my job for me unless absolutely necessary. And the concepts of “man’s work” versus “woman’s work” make my blood boil. That’s some bullshit- put your big girl pants on and get to work! Our ancestors didn’t run their farms by sitting on their asses!

Whenever it snows, I am outside with my shovel. I was out twice yesterday to clear the snow while it was still snow, and today during my lunch break I was outside (along with many of my neighbors) literally hacking at the ice. Shovels weren’t getting the job done- I had to borrow a crowbar from next door to chip the ice into pieces. Very slow going, with really only a few feet cleared after 3 hours of constant labor. As I walked up my porch steps to call it a day, cold, tired, and hungry, I glanced down the street and saw a white car stuck in the snow at the end of the block, spinning its wheels. The passenger was out of the vehicle, kicking away as much snow as he could from the tires between tries. I watched for a minute or so, hoping they’d be moving soon enough. But they weren’t. And while tons of people were outside, nobody was helping.

Then I thought back to memories of my childhood winters. I grew up on a private drive, meaning we privately shared a loooong driveway with 3 other houses. When it snowed, ALL the neighbors came outside to work together. This included both of my “moms”- both my real mom, and Mrs. Kelley from next door. I thought this was the norm. But as I’ve aged, I’ve learned that, apparently for many folks, it was not the norm. Shoveling is men’s work, I guess? For some reason? But anyway, looking down at the stuck car, I remembered a time when a car passing by at the end of our drive got stuck in the snow, and my mom was right there on the bumper with all the neighborhood menfolk, pushing with all her might to help get this stranger unstuck. I was thinking about this moment as I sighed, grabbed my shovel, and headed down to the poor pair struggling to free themselves. At first I just offered my shovel (I wanted to bring something to stick under the tires for traction, but everything I could think of was stuck under/behind layers of ice), and the passenger gladly grabbed it and started digging out the tires. The driver rocked back and forth a couple times, then paused for more digging. On the next attempt, I was on his front bumper, pushing him back. Alone, I’m not moving a car (like I said, I know my limitations), but the passenger, a guy in probably his early 20s, saw what I was doing and jumped in. Still not free, but we made it slightly farther than before. More digging, and then, again, we were on the bumper. It was working. Just two of us, pushing like our lives depended on it and kicking our feet into the snow yearning for traction. I knew this could work, that I could do this, because I’d seen my mom do it before me. And sure enough, we did it. We gave the car enough extra force and traction, and back onto the cleared road it went!

Back inside, after I’d dried off and (finally!) eaten lunch, I called my mom to check in on her. She still lives on that long private drive, but now, she is alone. The kids are all long gone, the Kelleys are Florida snowbirds now, and the guy at the end of the lane is elderly with a heart problem. I was calling to tell my mom that, based on what I’d just experienced, it would not be safe for me to leave my house today until the plow comes through my street, and I wouldn’t be able to come shovel her driveway until tomorrow at the earliest. I called to check that she was safe in the meantime. She was reading when I called, and I said, “Oh good, so you’re staying inside.”

She’s inside NOW, she clarified. Now? Yeah, she’d already been outside twice today. “Yeah, I cleared off the car.” I’d cleared off my car, which is smaller than hers. It was exhausting and I even broke my scraper while trying to crack the ice. Clearing off the car is a BIG job.

“And I started a little on the driveway, but you know, this stuff is really tough. It’s all ice. You have to chip and break it first. I didn’t get far.” Later she added, “Tomorrow I’m making cheese from scratch.”

Of course she’s cleared her car, and cleared a path to the car. She probably did more work than me, in less time, with less whining, and plans to do a ton more work tomorrow. Because that’s my mom; she’s a 100% certified badass. And she’s over 80 years old. I begged her to please be very careful and not push it, and she said yes, of course. (My mom also knows her limitations.)

Last month I was reading through condolence cards, and one friend described my dad as being “the hardest worker I know.” I think I literally laugh aloud at this comment. My dad? He was great and all, but hardest worker you know? Have you never met my mother? No comparison.” But order was restored when I continued reading and the card-sender wrote, “hardest worker I know… except for you!” Yes, as it should be.

When I think about all the things I’m proud of myself for in life, not just manual labor and toughness, but also intellectual curiosity, project management, and a constant need to care for others, I realize I get most of it from my mom. She’s awesome, she’s done tons of very cool stuff, and I’m beyond proud to be her daughter.