“You better start dinner without us …”

March 1960

“Talk about tough days …”

May 1958

“P-s-s-t, mom! Daddy’s over here!”

May 1958

“I finally got the kids outside
and away from the television.”

May/June 2001

“Wait a minute! Bless WHAT dog?”

May/June 1995

“Boy, that was a swell party last night—the bed
was full of pocketbooks.”

December 1960

“Now where is my mom and those stupid birthday balloons?”

July/August 1995

Cartoons: Mom Can Handle It The Saturday Evening Post

Photo of Carolina Oates’ quilt by Charles G. Gross

My favorite is always on my bed. Even in warm weather.

It is not a large quilt but very beautiful, I think: comprised of numerous brightly colored knitted-wool squares of every imaginable color—red, yellow, green, blue, purple, magenta, brown, cream.

The pattern is neither simple nor complex. It isn’t, like some quilts, a labyrinthine design.

From the start, I loved this quilt. Just to look at is to feel comforted.

Several generations of cats have slept on this quilt. (Even as I write this, my little gray cat Cherie is probably sleeping on it, asprawl in a patch of sunshine.) How many years have passed since my mother gave the quilt to me and my husband Ray Smith, I can only estimate: thirty years? Thirty-five?

The beautiful little quilt in all the colors of the rainbow has followed me from one residence to another. The same bed, in different bedrooms in different houses in different phases of my life.

In this most recent phase, in which the bright-colored quilt is laid on a pale blue comforter on my bed in a house in Princeton, New Jersey, into which I moved in 2009, with my second husband Charlie Gross. My mother has been absent from my life for nine years.

Nine years! That seems so long, yet my memory of Mom is so vivid, I can glance up and “see” her in the doorway of my study—I can “see” the expression on her face, and (almost) hear what she is saying.

My mother never visited this house. She would love it, I think—especially the large curving flower beds, so like the flower beds she’d tended in our yard in Millersport, New York, years ago. When she’d visited Ray and me in my former Princeton home, less than five minutes from this house, Mom had always helped out in the garden, as in the house; we would garden together, and we would prepare meals together, while my father, a gifted amateur pianist/organist, played my piano in the living room.

Whenever my parents came to visit us in Princeton my mother would bring gifts for us: mostly items she had knitted, crocheted, or sewn. Several lovely afghans, including one that is entirely white, with a subtle, delicate design, and another, large and heavy as a comforter, that’s made of orange, brown, and white wool. She’d knitted me several sweater-coats, one of them in a vivid crimson wool; she’d sewed the most exquisite blouses—a white long-sleeved blouse in raw silk, which I used to wear often; a pumpkin-colored silk blouse; a dove-gray silk blouse with a fine-stitched collar. For years I wore these blouses and dresses and jackets my mother had sewn; in many of my “author photos” I’m wearing Mom’s clothes. Those I no longer wear are enshrined in my closets—I look at them often, marveling at the fine stitching and hemming, the exquisite small touches, mother-of-pearl buttons, pleated bodices. Dresses, skirts, vests, shawls. Often I wear the shirts she’d sewn for me—white, pink, red, magenta; one of my favorite sweaters is a pink sweater-coat with a knitted belt.

There is nothing so comforting as wearing clothes your mother has sewn or knitted for you.

After my mother died in 2003 for a long time I would imagine her with me, in my study in particular; though “imagine” is perhaps a weak word to describe how keenly I felt Mom’s presence. In writing the novel Missing Mom I tried to evoke Carolina Oates—well, I’m sure that I did evoke her, not fully or completely but in part. Mom is so much a part of myself, writing the novel was the antithesis of an exorcism, a portrait in words of a remarkable person whom everyone loved.

In February 2008 when Ray Smith was hospitalized, and after he died unexpectedly a week later, often I lay in bed too exhausted to move, beneath the rainbow-colored quilt. The bed became my haven, my refuge, my sanctuary, my “nest”—with my mother’s quilt predominant, a sign of how love endures in the most elemental and comforting of ways. Warmth, beauty, something to touch.

In extremis we care very little for the public life—the life of the “career”—even the life of “literature”: It is comfort for which we yearn, but comfort can come to us from only a few, intimate sources. I know that I have been very fortunate, and I never cease giving thanks for my wonderful parents who bequeathed me their love and their hope for me; for this quilt on my bed, as singular and beautiful in 2012 as it was in the late 1970s.

Joyce Carol Oates is a recipient of the National Medal of Humanities, the National Book Award, and the PEN/Malamud Award for Excellence in Short Fiction. “Quilts” is from the anthology What My Mother Gave Me: 31 Women Remember a Favorite Gift, edited by Elizabeth Benedict, to be published by Algonquin Books, Spring 2013. She is also author of the forthcoming story collection Black Dahlia & White Rose (September, 2012, Ecco). A professor of the Humanities at Princeton University, she has been a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters since 1978.

Quilts The Saturday Evening Post

Boyfriend’s Baby Pictures by George Hughes

Boyfriend’s Baby PicturseGeorge Hughes March 14, 1953

1953 Post editors speculated that the girl might be thinking, “Oh my gosh, if Bill and I got married, would we have funny-looking babies like that?” Aw, come on guys – she’s thinking he was sooo cute! I think this is payback for the way Bill behaved at the grocery when he was little (cover below).

Sack Full of Trouble by Richard Sargent

Sack Full of TroubleRichard Sargent April 14, 1956

The redheaded Indian in the grocery bag has that look – what my folks used to call “pure orneriness”. Mom looks like she’s been through the wringer today with Big Chief Billy and his bow and arrow. But be careful, junior; Mom always has ammo of her own – remember the photo album.

Kitchen Haircut by Harold Anderson

Kitchen Haircut Harold AndersonNovember 11, 1933

In 1933 you didn’t take your kid to the mall (what mall?) for a haircut. It was a mom duty. My memories are of Mom haircuts and home perms in the 1960’s. I didn’t say they were good memories. Moms may not often be good stylists, but they got the job done.

Removing the Splinter by George Alsop

Removing the Splinter George Alsop July 21, 1917

Going barefoot is fun – until you get a splinter. We went clear back to 1917 for this one from The Country Gentleman magazine, a sister publication to the Post for many decades.

New Woolies by Frances Tipton Hunter

New Woolies Frances Tipton Hunter February 27, 1937

Shopping is not Billy’s strong suit – it’s a good thing it is Mom’s. Artist Frances Tipton Hunter did eighteen Saturday Evening Post covers, each cuter than the next.

Spirit of Education by Norman Rockwell

Spirit of Education Norman RockwellApril 21, 1934

You would think we’d be grateful Mother buys us warm underwear and sews our costume for the school pageant. But, noooo. All we care about is having to wear a dumb ol’ sheet and our friends snickering at us. Hopefully, Norman Rockwell’s lad will get into the spirit.

Did any of these classic covers provoke a memory? Share your comments below. And have a Happy Mother’s Day!

Classic Covers: Mother’s Many Duties The Saturday Evening Post

This last piece doesn’t enjoy the popularity that “Casey” and “Christmas” still enjoy, but in its time it was enormously popular. Its yearning for mother and a less troubled life resonated strongly in Americans in the years following the Civil War.

It was first published by The Saturday Evening Post in 1860.

Rock Me to Sleep

by Elizabeth Akers Allen

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for tonight!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears,—
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,—
Take them, and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay,—
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap;—
Rock me to sleep, mother – rock me to sleep!

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between:
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I tonight for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!

Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures,—
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber’s soft calms o’er my heavy lids creep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead tonight,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened your lullaby song:
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood’s years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!

Mother, Come Back from the Echoless Shore The Saturday Evening Post

Making Popcorn – K. R. Wireman – November 2, 1918

Making Popcorn
K. R. Wireman
November 2, 1918

We bet you’ve never seen this cover from The Country Gentleman (a sister publication to the Post for many years). This was how you made popcorn in 1918, and it makes for a beautiful mother/daughter moment – until she grows up to be a flapper or something. Oh, that’s the next image.

New Generation – Paul Stahr – July 22, 1922

New Generation
Paul Stahr
July 22, 1922

Gracious, this new generation! Dressing up all fancy-schmancy, doing those crazy dances and with (gasp!) bobbed hair. Mom (or grandmother) looks on from a photo in this beautiful 1922 cover by artist Paul Stahr.

Shopping for Mothers Day – Constatin Alajalov – May 10, 1947

Shopping for Mother's Day
Constatin Alajalov
May 10, 1947

Hmmm, what would mother like best? A spiffy meat grinder, that pink sewing kit, or does she need a new rolling pin? Okay, it’s 1947, but may we recommend something more fun like flowers or chocolates?

Passing the Blame – K. R. Wireman – February 24, 1923

Passing the Blame
K. R. Wireman
February 24, 1923

Here’s another Country Gentleman cutie. Every mother knows that kids learn early to pass the blame. Somebody has turned over the coal bucket. Mom isn’t quite buying the story about the cat doing it, even if it is black. We think there’s enough soot on the child for mom to point the finger in the right direction.

Sack Full of Trouble – April 14, 1956 – Dick Sargent

Sack Full of Trouble
Dick Sargent
April 14, 1956

We had to share our favorite beleaguered mom cover. If you click on the cover for a close-up, you’ll see what bundle of mayhem is in the bag the grocer is carrying. Lesson to new mothers: never let your child take a bow and arrow to the grocery store. Mom looks exhausted, but maybe there should be a “Grocer’s Day” – the poor guy looks positively shell-shocked.

Morning Coffee Break – Amos Sewell – September 12, 1959

Morning Coffee Break
Amos Sewell
September 12, 1959

Mom taught you how to pop popcorn, ferreted out the truth when you were passing the blame and put up with you at the grocery store. We think she deserves a break, like this mother after getting her brood off to school. Show your mom this cover and insist that this is exactly how she should be spending her special day.

Classic Covers: Happy Mother’s Day, Mom! The Saturday Evening Post