My mother had a lot of pretenses in her life. The largest one was that she was a lady. That was patent nonsense. 

Margaret was larger than life. She was the kind of Irish of which it is said, “We were lace curtain Irish as soon as we could afford the lace.” That didn’t cover it.

 She danced and did choric reading competitively. She went to college where she ran ramshod over household and school rules in a ruinous and hysterical effort to go to every dance and party in the school. She taught English and History and passion. She ran the teacher’s union and the library board with a very delicately gloved fist. She married my father at 38, both of the the only left over singles in their social circle, after the war. All of that she did with courage, power, ability and steel will.

Not a lady. Not exactly.

But amazing.

She also, in the manner of most people at the time, drank gin like a fish. There was a ceremonious moment once a year when we walked the vermouth bottle by the gin making all gin a martini.

Margaret’s whole social world was female. It was the society of other teachers, librarians, and educated women. My father watched it all swirl around it and headed for his hiding place in the basement. 

They were formidable  Whenever they were against anything they all got together, arrived in their black dresses and pearls to stare against the town council until the council backed up. Since these women were their first, second, third, fourth and fifth grade teachers, you can imagine how these men felt.  It had to be like 70 years in the principal’s  office.  They were never victims.  They weren’t ladies. They fought like women. The council never had a chance.

I see my mother in the lady bugs. “I’m a lady. Never mind that I’m a fierce predator of all aphids and don’t try to stop me.” It’s actually a disguise. She wore it well. I find myself peaking out behind it every so  often, too.

So often  we forget the power of women who know what is right and make their stand. Like the ladybugs, they protect their own, fight their battles. Aren’t exactly ladies. And to whom does that matter?

Tags: bugs, choric reading, ladybugs

This entry was posted on Sunday, January 20th, 2013 at 4:06 am and is filed under Art Outside the Box, art statement, series. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.