by Donna Poole
When I open a new jar of Noxzema to wash my face two magical things happen.
First, I’m a little girl again, and I’m with Mom.
Mom smells clean, like soap and Noxzema. She doesn’t wear perfume. Her aprons smell like sunshine and fresh air because she hangs them outside to dry, even in the winter. Mom’s not much of a hugger, so when I stand on tiptoe to reach the clothes pins and take down the laundry, I hug her aprons and pretend she’s inside.
Mom’s a wonderful cook! I love coming home from school and smelling her homemade spaghetti sauce that’s been simmering for hours on the back of the stove, or her fresh yeast donuts spread out on the kitchen table, or butter browning for potato pies. The kitchen smells wonderful, unless Mom has been cooking meat. Dad won’t eat a hamburger or a pork chop that isn’t crispy black!
The house always smells like Pine sol and Pledge. And when she unrolls the damp clothes waiting to be pressed, I like the scent of the steam coming up from the freshly ironed clothes, but Mom looks so hot.
***
Mom is probably the reason I wash my face with Noxzema every morning; she did the same thing, and I really do think of her many mornings. I’d love to go back to that kitchen one more time. It, like everything else, was impressively clean. A college friend joked that Mom hung everything from the ceiling everyday and hosed down the entire place until it was clean enough to eat off the floors.
Mom always wanted everything neat and clean, inside, and out, including her children. She hated sin in all its forms and didn’t want any part of it to touch us. I didn’t agree with Mom on many things, including her definition of what was and wasn’t sin, but looking back, I do see why my rebellious behavior upset her so much.
Someone said, “Sin ruins everything it touches.”
Mom didn’t want sin to ruin me. The Bible says, “Rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft,” and I stepped across every line Mom drew in the sand as soon as I could walk. A stranger, observing Mom and me in my growing up years would have doubted love was part of our equation, and yet it was there. I knew it, even in our most furious arguments, and I hope she knew it too.
I last talked to Mom forty-nine years ago this February. She didn’t call often; long distance was expensive. Besides, Mom didn’t always feel comfortable conversing. A stroke five years previously had left her right arm paralyzed, her right leg weak, and her words sometimes elusive. At first, after the stroke, she couldn’t speak at all. Her speech returned, but she felt embarrassed when the right word wouldn’t come.
“How’s John?” Mom asked me on that last call in February of 1974. She knew he’d graduated from Bible college the previous May and was hoping to become a pastor.
“Honestly, Mom, he’s a little discouraged. He hasn’t heard from any churches, and he’s wondering if maybe God isn’t calling him to be a pastor after all.”
“You tell him for me he’s going to be a pastor. I’ve known it ever since he was a little boy.”
I don’t remember what else we talked about. I do remember tears came to my eyes when Mom said those loving, encouraging words.
The stroke changed Mom in many ways. The tough disciplinarian Mom who hadn’t dispensed many hugs was forever gone. A tender, loving Mom took her place.
Mom was right. John became a pastor in July of 1974, but Mom didn’t live to see it happen. A second stroke took her home to heaven in March, a few weeks after she’d called me.
I told you when I open a new jar of Noxzema two magical things happen.
The second thing is a magic carpet takes me from the past to the future.
When I open the jar, I wonder if I’ll live long enough to use it all. Living with refractory cancer isn’t easy, but it has its blessings. It gives gifts, and a realistic grip on the shortness of time is one of them.
We don’t know how much time we have left to love the people in our lives. Neither do we know what tiny thing might mean the world to them after we’re gone.
I treasure a scrap of paper in Mom’s handwriting.
After Mom’s first stroke I often asked her to try to write to me, but I never got a letter. After Mom died, my sister found a small piece of paper. Mom had tried to start a letter to me. It began with one “D” crossed out. Then she wrote, “Dear Dona.”
Did Mom notice she’d misspelled my name? Or did she just get too tired to continue? Either way, she’d tried. I treasure that scrap of paper, the last communication I have from Mom until she hugs me in heaven.
So now, I look back from the future where my magic carpet has taken me. I try to guess what my kids, in-law kids, and grandkids might remember about me. Yes, I smell like Noxzema. And unlike Mom, I wear perfume. I’ve worn the same kind for many years, a vanilla scent.
I was wearing that vanilla perfume when our son Danny, now forty-five, was a little boy. He hugged me when he came home from school.
“Yum!” he said. “You smell good, like you’ve been cooking!”
That made me laugh. Just what I’d hoped for, that my perfume would make me smell like the kitchen. I’m sure he’s long forgotten that remark, but I remember. I remember too how he and his siblings loved it when I made homemade bread, and they enjoyed eating it warm from the oven when they got home from school. What things will they remember?
I hope my family and friends will remember my love and my hugs. And I hope they’ll remember that I want the same thing for them mom wanted for me, I want them to be clean, to run from sin, because it really does ruin everything it touches.
And then I tumble off the magic carpet and finish washing my face.
“It’s just a jar of Noxzema, Donna,” the towel says as I bury my face in it. “So quit with the remembering and the forecasting already. And get to work. You have a blog to write.”
Oh my… this is the Best! My life to a T, though I was not a rebellious type. My mom was not a hugger either… cooking smells… immaculate home. Love permeating everything though.
I have several things in plain sight reminding me of her daily: a recipe with her handwriting sticking out if my recipe box; a note card she write to me. I know, at least, that the boys will keep some of my cards 🙂
I too, think the same about bottles (of whatever) that are around the house: will I live to use them up? Rarely buy new shoes or clothes, knowing they won’t wear out.
My mom died after suffering from Alz for 5 years… such a cruel disease. She didn’t even know me for 2 yrs. I pray that God will not give me the same disease… I don’t care that physically I’m falling apart!
😀Thanks for today’s reminders!
Memories are so precious, Donna. I sometimes go back in time thinking of my mother and other loved ones who have gone home ahead of me. I’m always left with a warm feeling when i do that as it’s mostly the good times I remember. Life wasn’t always perfect, as the folks i loved were not, but I am so grateful for the good memories i carry with me. Thank you for sharing yours, Donna ❤️❤️
I have looked forward to this story since you first dropped a hint that you were going to write about Noxzema. The fragrance of it brings back many memories for me too…including having my mother slather it all over me whenever I’d get a sunburn. I did the same for my children.
Thank you for sharing your precious stories! Your writing inspires me to keep writing on my blog too. God bless and keep you, dear Donna.
This post really touched my deepest heart, dear Donna. The older I get (71 in a few weeks), the more my memories pop-up at the slightest provocation: scents, sights, songs, slants of light, etc. My mom used Noxema as well for several years – that and Jergens lotion. My mom was very busy (five kiddos), always active in our church, and when I was twelve, she went to work full time at a local bank. By the time I was in my teens, she was a branch manager, then a bank officer. Whenever we were out together, she would be greeted over and over – everybody knew my mom. Mom was much loved, vivacious, fun, down to earth, out-spoken, and sometimes demanding. She was not one for hugs or kisses, but I never doubted her love even a second. I was her first born, her “big helper,” and her confidante. When I grew into adulthood, we became best of friends. We talked nearly every day on the phone, and I saw her and dad at least three times a week, but usually more. My siblings and I were greatly blessed with “family.” All four of our grandparents attended church with us, and we even lived next-door to our maternal grandparents. How incredibly blessed we were! Your description of your mom after her stroke especially spoke to my spirit. Tears sprang to my eyes, when you told of the note where she tried to write you, but couldn’t do it. The photo of the scrap of paper with her trembling penmanship was the final straw on this old camel’s back – there’s just something precious and priceless about a person’s handwriting – and my tears ran freely. In this age of emails, electronic texts, and digital memos, so much has been lost. Digital words communicate, for sure, but they seldom are printed out – and even if they are printed out, they lack the soul-to-soul connection made by hand-written words on a page. So few people hand-write notes anymore. So few send letters of encouragement. We text those things now. I suggest (to myself, as well as to everyone else), we all start handwriting more notes, cards, and letters to our family members and friends. We never know how God may use our hand-written notes of encouragement, even a hundred years down the line – notes with hand-written Bible verses scratched out in a trembling scrawl. Thank you for this piece of your soul, Donna. Always a blessing is what you are.
You don’t know me, but I knew Donna and John while attending Bible college. I was so blessed and encouraged by all that you shared. I was also first born – the other 7 children being brothers; so when I was old enough, I helped Mom a lot. I was blessed having my Dad as my minister; he started 3 churches in this area where I live. Because he wanted to have a pianist as soon as possible, he had me take lessons and I started playing for church in 4th grade. During 8th grade, my piano teacher encouraged me to teach piano. Even in college I was able to teach some beginning students. Much of my life I so enjoyed writing letters; not able to do so very much because like your dear Mom, I was diagnosed with dementia the end of 2020. Thankfully I’m still able to drive but just in our small city. Every day I am thankful that I still live in my small apartment attached to my brother’s home. As believers, we have so much to be thankful for. I totally agree with you regarding Donna’s writings.
Wonderful Mrs. Poole! So many things packed in there, not least of which is how you miss your mom! Your love has always shown through since my earliest memories and it does even to this writing! And to love like you have is impossible with out God, which also reflects its on His goodness!
You always give hope to rebels like me, thank you! Thank you! I hope God fills your day with sunshine!
Jeremiah,
You are a blessing to John and to me. Keep on keeping on with God. Thank you for staying in touch and for encouraging me.
Blessings,
Donna
PRECIOUS MEMORIES! Thanks for sharing! love and hugs from Fred and Rachel
Fred,
Love and hugs from John and me to the two of you!
Blessings,
Donna