My Mother’s Legacy

If you're a woman of a certain age, I suspect many of you have, like me, occasionally wondered (sometimes with accompanying horror, sometimes with attendant hilarity), if you're in danger—in part or in whole—of turning into your own mother.

I remember, as a child, being so embarrassed, and sometimes unhappy, because of Mum. By her size: Lord, that underwear, hanging very publicly on the clothes line to dry. By her loudness. By her rudeness. And her meanness. And occasional cruelty. By her irrationality. By her emotional outbursts. And by so much else.

In mitigation of some of her difficult behavior, I'll just say that, had she been born 50 years later than she was, she'd probably have been diagnosed pretty early on with Borderline Personality and/or Bipolar Disorder, and perhaps her excesses would have been better understood and managed throughout her life. But that was not to be.

And I'll also say that there was another side to Mum, failingly—(as opposed to unfailingly; that is, she was, only occasionally)—kind, generous, warm-hearted, sociable, engaging, lovable, and great fun to be around. That's the Mum I remember, too.

But as she aged, she certainly got more set in her ways. And I remember two of those ways most especially.

The first was her obsession with the weather, about which she could speak at length and—seemingly—forever. She was supported with detail in this endeavor by Ceefax, an early British teletext information service available through the television's remote control. Mum was the OG at running the remote control (then widely known as the "clicker"), and could—by the early 1980s—showcase at great speed just about any item of significant information regarding important events or meteorological prognostications anywhere in the world. Poor old Dad, who was hopeless with such technology and when it came to watching actual programs featuring his favorite photogenic BBC "poppets" like Angela Rippon or Felicity Kendal, didn't stand a bloody chance.

The second aspect of Mum's later life, one which got worse as she aged, was her refusal to entertain any sort of relationship, whether professional, social, or familial, with any person she couldn't immediately relate to as someone looking like, or behaving like, someone she'd known in the past.

Sometimes, that memory caused an immediate negative reaction, as occurred with a few of the local "care team" who were attempting to help her after Dad died. She didn't like the lead person, so whenever he showed up at the house and knocked on the door, she'd lean out the bathroom window and shout "[Eff] off!" Since he was quite ineffective at his job, he'd do that, and then report her response as a "lifestyle choice," one which he couldn't override.

Don't worry, I'm not bitter.

She did have one doctor at the time, a Nigerian, who reminded her of a "lovely young man" she'd known while living in Nigeria in the 50s or 60s. He was very welcome, allowed in, and she'd talk to him. Before he'd actually done her any good, he was moved to a different NHS Trust, and we saw him no more.

Then there was the late Mr. She. Mum wanted nothing to do with him, didn't speak to him, and didn't meet him until he and I had been married for 20 years. Then, in 2001, I broke the ice on a trip to the UK.

Well.

She quickly decided that the 6'3, or thereabouts, slim and gangly Frank, reminded her very much of her own brother (the much-loathed-by-me Uncle Johnno, but that's another story), and she loved him so much from that point forward that—next time they met—she presented him with a sweater that she'd knitted for him with her—by then—very arthritic hands. It must have been an act of real love, because I'm starting, myself, to experience the pain such efforts can cause.

All of which is a roundabout way of getting to my point. (And I do have one.)

I am really put off by how much Andy Burnham reminds me of Rosie O'Donnell (the hair, the specs, the teeth, even the wardrobe). And I can't help noticing that Sarah Mulally, the recently appointed Archbishop of Canterbury, is a dead ringer for Austin Powers.

I'd do a "who wore it better?" comparison for you all here, but I don't want to run afoul of the copyright police. Last week I wrote a post about Mel Brooks, which featured a nice photo from 2009 of him with a "Kennedy Center" ribbon round his neck. Wikimedia Commons (which I searched and checked with before hitting the "publish" button assured me that it came from a "US Federal Government" account, and therefore belonged in the public domain. But somehow, when the post was promoted to the main feed, the image (for no reason that I can ascertain) had been changed.

Now, I'm not thunderously complaining about this breach to my carefully chosen bit of artistic integrity, although I do believe it might have been something of an overreach.

As it turns out though, in the photo that TPTB chose to accompany my promoted post, Mel Brooks looks surprisingly like King Charles III.

Which I mightn't have noticed, had it not been for my subsequent contemplation of other matters, and the writing of this little essay.

So knock yourselves out. Google images for Andy Burnham and Rosie O'Donnell. And for Sarah Mulally and Austin Powers.

And then tell me I'm wrong.

PS: Just in case you're wondering, I always put my underwear in the dryer, or hang it over the bathroom shower rail. One cannot be too careful.😂