All About My Mother

I suppose this blog will start with a small dedication to the women of my family - however far from them I've swayed in matters of place, taste, preference, or opinion, they're a good grounding point upon which I somehow define myself.

First, my ever-supportive sister Elaine (commonly known as Lainy, or 'Laniey' as I've consistently misspelled it my entire life).. It was her idea that I start a personal blog to better relate my wanderings and amusing stories. Upon the suggestion, I had to admit I do enjoy writing and that I've been poor at emailing these to potentially interested parties since I moved from the US to Norway. So here it is, we will see where it goes since I find myself perpetually unable to stick to patterns and intents without improvisation (a quality that defines my knitting, cooking, and life as somewhat unique).

So next, a tribute to my mom, Patricia Anne Murphy Wilson whose 58th birthday it would be today if she were still around. I hope this blog will be more anecdotal than sentimental, though my mother, of course, deserves a bit of both. She is missed, in her sometimes eccentric ways, and I'm often reminded of her in myself. Sometimes I wonder which aspects of my upbringing lead me to the path of travel, where I found interest in cities and lived in NYC for nearly five years, or how I came to settling down - at least for the time being - in Norway. There simply aren't many precedents for these tendencies in my family although I might note here my mother's decision to relocate us to North Carolina. I presume that she might have had some subtle, if unrealized, curiosities towards other places.

Asides from an architecture/design/landscape preoccupation, I realize that I've developed a series of hobbies and interests that begin to pin my life down even when location does less so. Cooking, gardening, writing, and knitting amongst others - themes which will no doubt command later blog entries. Ironically, I realize the first two of these were items that my mom continually tried to force upon my (very resistant) childhood and teenage years. In spite of her sincere interests and abilities in these two fields I was determined not to dabble in food and to proclaim an utter dislike of flowers up until I had left home and was in college. In hindsight, I could have learned a great deal if I had paid more attention growing up, but at the least I'm fortunate enought to have (even if unwillingly at the time) committed mom's recipes for meatloaf, lasagna, italian meatballs, quiche, and apple pie to heart. And, I can identify marigolds from petunias and chrysanthemums.

More interesting, now that I cook a great deal (and even enjoy it), I realize I have a lot of my mother's tendencies. She never quite followed a recipe, each time changing the spice mix to her mood and experimenting from a base. I think we also shared what I recognize in myself as impatience for details (ironic given my line of work). This came to mind recently in a kitchen incident jarring memory. My boyfriend Rolf was helping me in the kitchen and began chiding me as he took over the duty of chopping vegetables. I really never do have the patience to cut ingredients small enough! So, seeing the difference between his and my chopped work brought a childhood memory of (greatly disliking) large chunks of onion in mom's (otherwise tasty) pastas and soups.

Mom & I - This was taken over Christmas of 2003 in Old Salem, North Carolina.

So, for the memory of my mom, and for myself and others who can't stick to a prescribed route (and not excluding those who enjoy reading about tribulations related to such), here is a blog...