Jane’s Daughter

When I was born my parents were living in a little farm house in Shrewsbury VT. Its bucolic setting, sheep in the yard and pond across the street was a far cry from the upper middle class neighborhood in Scarsdale NY that my mother grew up in. She and my father were young hippies, and moving to the country in Vermont was the hippie thing to do at that time.
By the time my mother died she hadn’t lived in Vermont for over 20 years, but she had always said that it was where her heart was.
My love for the simple life in Vermont is not the only likeness to my mother that I have. For one, I have an uncanny physical resemblance to her. I was once approached at a grocery store by a complete stranger the said to me “You must be Jane’s daughter”. The stranger had worked with my mother when my mother was in her twenties. She said that it was like she had traveled back in time and was seeing my mother. To this day, that has been the best compliment that I have ever received.
My love of wine paired with hor derves and good company is another trait that my mother passed down to me. My fondest memories of my her are sitting at the big kitchen island with a bottle of Yellow Tail Cabernet, cheese and crackers, telling funny stories that got retold every time our family got together. My mother would start crying from laughter, her mascara would run, she would whimper and then pour herself another glass of wine.
Jane was a lover. She was a true romantic and yet she never really mastered the art of Happily Ever After. I sometimes think that she wanted to love, more than she actually did…and at times she loved more than she was loved. I worry that this might have been passed down to me. I am a romantic person, and I never thought that at 28 years old that I wouldn’t have yet had my special day in white.
Mom had few careers in her time, finally settling on Real Estate Sales. She was very good at it, having such a great personality. I always felt though, that my mother was put on this planet to be a mom. It was the one thing that she put in front of everything else, and she did a stellar job of it. I remember a night gown that she had, that I loved. It was flannel and blue and worn. It smelled of her and felt so good to cuddle up to.
Flighty is a word that has been used to describe my mother (and myself). She once came out of a convenient store and got in the wrong car. She was about to put the car in reverse when she heard a clearing of the throat. The woman sitting in the passenger seat expecting her husband to get in the drivers seat was a bit startled when the 5ft 4in petite blonde woman took his place. This sort of thing happened all the time. In fact, Janie blonde moments were often the stories being served at the kitchen island along with the cabernet and brie.
At Moms funeral, the church was full and there were people standing up and spilling to the outside. We opted to leave out the hymns and instead played the soundtrack to The Big Chill along with a few songs by The Moody Blues. Pretty sure that was a first for the church. We told funny stories, laughed and of course cried. At the end of the service, my mother’s body was carried out to the song My Girl. To many of us she was our girl.
Mom was cremated. The following summer the family got together and we spread some of her ashes in a lake here in Vermont, where her heart remains.
I will always be Jane’s Daughter. I hold that title proudly, as it deserves to be. To me it means that I am beautiful, warm, charming, sensitive, a great friend and that I am somebody’s everything.