The Mushroom (musing)

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My mom picked out this mushroom Christmas ornament when she was four years old from the counter at Woolworths drug store. That would have been 1952.

Throughout my childhood, I loved watching her find it amongst the other ornaments, unwrap it carefully from all of the pieces of tissue paper, and gently hang it on the tree. It had to be hung near the top and wired on carefully, because we didn’t want the dogs to break it. She would always say, “Oh, be careful…that’s my mushroom.” It was a small, simple ritual, but now it holds so much weight.

I would give anything to watch her hang it on the tree one more time.

My mom didn’t come from wealth. Her father was a housepainter and sadly an alcoholic. Although I met him when I was a baby, I never knew him because he passed away when I was very young. My grandmother, Edith, was an incredible painter who created beautiful artworks that now hang in my home. But she was rather typical for the time… a housewife who was stifled by the times and (perhaps) put in a box by societal norms. She passed of cancer when I was about 10 or 11 years old. I do remember she came to live with us when I was a child and she used to make eggplant in the oven which would stink up the entire house. She also loved mincemeat pie. Two things I won’t touch with a 10 foot pole.

But I think I got my love of gardening from her.

My mom deeply loved her two younger brothers, Larry and Johnnie, and because she was much older than them, she often found herself being their primary caregiver. That close bond, which was formed from necessity but rooted in love, carried on into adulthood.

The mushroom makes me smile and cry. It is a symbol of happiness and sorrow. Missing my mom, sad for her struggles, but grateful that it exists to remind me of simple joys at Christmas.