Christopher Strong Bicycle Gourmets -Mothers Day USA
Christopher Strong Bicycle Gourmets -Mothers Day USA
Mothers Day in those excited states is not the same as Mother’s Day in la belle France.
We celebrate the Day for our Mothers in France toward the end of May.
But,of course, the sentiment is International.
And while we remember our Mothers differently, depending on their upbringing, and the way they brought us up, there is, I think, a common thread. That being, when our Mothers seemed heartless and cruel, demanding we do something we detested, Now, we thank them for it.
In my case,it was all about music.Piano, to be exact. Because I had a small talent, My Mother insisted I take piano lessons. And practice before AND after school. (ugh)
While I had a variety of piano teachers, mostly elderly ladies, the one that sticks in my mind, was Mr. Steinman. I called him: “Steinman the Nazi.” Because whenever I made a mistake he would rap my fingers with a steel edged ruler. (Obviously not the kind, gentle, enlightened instruction of today.)
However, there was light at the end of these tunnels.After completing my piano exams to a certain level, Mom (and Dad, nodding not very enthusiastically), agree I could say: “sayonara” to them all. Particularly the Nazi.
After that, having a good ear (and minus zero reading ability) I amused myself with a variety “original” compositions. Playing a faux Bach opus, every time my Mother insisted I dazzle her thought-they-knew-classical-music guests.
Then,one day, my Uncle gave me a “Cowboy Bob” guitar. Basically a poorly construced hard to play creation that was just one step above a toy.While I was developing an interest in the guitar(hey, I was 15)Bob’s Cowboy was not beginning to beckon.
Then, one day, the impossible happened. I returned from school, to discover my Mother(who had, to my knowledge, never played one in her life) had managed to plunk out a simple, but recognizable tune. ON ONE STRING.
The gauntlet had been thrown down. I could not be bested by my Mother. So, reluctantly, with apologies to my fingers, I ventured Bob-ward.
Eventually, as I progressed, I was able to put my allowance toward a slightly better Cowboy Bob.
Today, Cowboy Bob is a painful memory of self tortured adolescence.
But my Memory of my Mother is, for this, and many other reasons, one of gratitude.
Without her insistence, I would never be able to entertain myself and others.
I would have been saying, like so many of my friends : “if only they didn’t let me quit.”
Whatever you thank your Mother for, my fellow Americans, do it this Sunday. And hold that thought. Always.
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