My Mother the Muse

In the mid-1960s there was a horrifying moment on TV, a short-lived sitcom, “My Mother the Car,” starring an extremely young Jerry Van Dyke. The premise of the show was that Joe Sitcom’s deceased mother had been reincarnated as a talking 1928 Porter convertible automobile.

My mom would have never consented to reincarnation as a 40 year-old hoopdie – the automotive equivalent of an old lady wearing a faded flowered smock with strings hanging from the hem. She would have agreed to nothing less than a ’64 Ford Mustang convertible dipped in Cherries-In-The-Snow red.

She was a modern woman decked out in form fitting pantsuits, fluffy Motown wigs and short skirts. She didn’t seem out of place in the Pepsi Generation. To my preteen eyes she was the epitome of glamour, the essence of charm and excitement. She represented the best of Mademoiselle or Vogue, moving through life with class, grace and style.

She never left the house without lipstick, never left the house without draping on her style, her swing, her surefootedness. Quirky and independent, always noticed – never a wallflower. She was always ready, whole, when she left the house.

I look in the mirror and see her face, especially when I’m smiling and wearing red, red lipstick. I feel her wrapping me in timeless merino wool coats and colorful cashmere sweaters from the best department stores in 1960s D.C.: Garfinckel’s, Woodward & Lothrop, and Lansburgh’s.

Mom haunts me whenever I go shopping. Mom haunts me whenever I’m dressing for an event. Mom haunts me as I clean out my closets, scolding and warning me about bad taste, unfortunate style and lack of style. Her mischievous smile is in the sunbeam that shines on the pile of discarded baggy capri pants, summer skirts that make my butt look big, faded tie dye frocks and items in universally unflattering colors such as salmon and beige. Her light-hearted laugh echoes through my cedar closet as I recall her story of the church lady’s fur stole that was reminiscent of Toto or Benji.

My Mother the Muse inspired who I am today. My closets and my life are full because of her, although I most enjoyed wearing her Cherries-In-The-Snow lip print on my cheek – her seal of approval.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.