Jane Christmas - Incontinent on the Continent: My Mother, Her Walker, and Our Grand Tour of Italy

INCONTINENT
ON THE
CONTINENT

My Mother, Her Walker, and
Our Grand Tour of Italy

Jane Christmas

Copyright 2009 by Jane Christmas

09 10 11 12 13 5 4 3 2 1

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Greystone Books
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Vancouver bc Canada V5T 4s7
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Christmas, Jane

Incontinent on the continent : my mother, her walker,
and our grand tour of Italy / Jane Christmas.

ISBN 978-1-55365-400 -1
1. Christmas, JaneTravelItaly. 2. ItalyDescription and travel.
3. Mothers and daughters. i. Title.

DG430.2.c57 2009 914.50493 c2009 - 903507-3

Editing by Nancy Flight
Copyediting by Eve Rickert
Cover design by Peter Cocking
Text design by Naomi MacDougall
Cover photograph by R. Ian Lloyd/Masterfile
Map by Stuart Daniel

Printed and bound in Canada by Friesens

Printed on acid-free paper that is forest friendly (100% post-consumer recycled paper) and has been processed chlorine free

Distributed in the U.S. by Publishers Group West

We gratefully acknowledge the financial support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the British Columbia Arts Council, the Province of British Columbia through the Book Publishing Tax Credit, and the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (bpidp) for our publishing activities.

For my mother, Valeria, of course

Contents

Incontinent on the Continent

N OW, WHAT are you going to do about that hair?

This was my mothers immediate reaction when I broached the idea of our going to Italy. Just her and me. For six weeks.

Nothing, I replied. I picked up a magazine from the coffee table and began to leaf through it, pretending not to be bothered by her comment. Im not doing anything about my hair.

Even with my eyes averted I knew Moms jaw was tightening and her head was shaking with disapproval. She is convinced that if she could just fix my hair she could fix my life. As if it were that easy.

Mom is five feet two inches short with a soft, plump body and a round face that exudes a charming, effervescent sweetness. Beneath that sugary exterior, however, is a tough cookie. Imagine, if you will, a cross between Queen Victoria and Hyacinth Bucket (Its pronounced bouquet, dear, the fussy, social-climbing character on the Britcom Keeping Up Appearances constantly reminds people).

She has a thoroughly determined personality, my mom. Her opinions and beliefs are so entrenched that a tidal wave of evidence to the contrary cannot dissuade her. Her faith in God is as unwavering as her certainty that she will win the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes. She pooh-poohs the notion that man ever set foot on the moon: according to my mother, the lunar landing was staged in a movie studio.

Moms hair is blondash blond, according to the product descriptionand she has maintained the same hairstyle for as long as I can remember: short, frothy, and layered. She likes it shorter at the back of her neck because she complains that that area gets hot. The front is swept off her face to reveal a smooth forehead; the sides are slightly curled.

To my mom, a tidy hairstyle signifies order, control, maturity (the very qualities, coincidentally, she feels I lack), and she trots out her theory like religious dogma at every opportunity.

Whether watching tv, stopped at a traffic light, sitting in a church pew, reading the newspaper, or getting groceries, my mother monitors the worlds hairstyles. No one escapes her appraisal: the Queen (A bit too severe), Adolph Hitler (I hope he shot his barber), the Woman in the Street (That style does nothing for her), Robert Redford (Perfect). Wander into my mothers range of vision and youll get an immediate, no-charge assessment.

Men I have dated and introduced to my mother have been accepted or rejectedmostly rejectedon the basis of their hair: I didnt know whether to let him in or sweep him off the doorstep. That hair! Or, You tell him that hes not sitting at my dining room table unless he gets a haircut. Or, Hed look much better if he parted his hair on the side. Or, His hair is his best feature, and thats not saying much. On rare occasions, she has confided: Oh, I do like his hair. The guy could be a serial killer but that would only register as a minor concern.

To my mom, hair is the yardstick by which civilized people are measuredand that includes me. She scolds me if my hair drifts into my eyes (Get it off your face), for not getting it cut short enough (I hope the hairdresser paid you for that cut), or for not having age-appropriate hair (A woman your age should have a neat, smart hairstyle).

When she spots an agreeable style in a magazine or in a shopping mall she shoots me a baleful look and says: Theres a nice style for you. A tight smile or a nod indicating total agreement from me is usually sufficient to end the conversation until she hones in on another passing hairstyle. Lately, shes been pushing a short streaky blond bob as the elixir to happiness. The fact that such a hairstyle would not work with my face shape, my personality, or my impossibly fine, unpredictable dark hair is inconsequential.

If I have learned anything in life, it is that my one-day-limp, next-day-curly hair is best left alone. Over the years, I have made peace with my hair, but I have not done so with my mother. I wanted us to go to Italy to see if I could finally fall in love with her. This trip was my olive branch.

I wasnt going to allow her question about my hair to bug me. Not one bit.

I looked up nonchalantly from the magazine I was perusing and flashed a calm smile to mask the emotional maelstrom that was swirling and slopping inside me like the contents of the boiling cauldron being stirred by the Three Witches.

Dishevelled is my look, I said playfully, tousling my hair as I prepared to shift the conversation to our travel itinerary.

Your hair looks like your life, she said.

WHAT WOULD possess anyone to go to Italy, the Land of Love, with a sparring partner?

The answer: it was part dtente, part deathbed request.

It has been a source of sadness and perplexity that my mother and I have not been able to get along. Dont get me wrong: its not always a battle. The wary coolness between us has evaporated during moments of laughter or when we have weathered loss together. She never turned down a request to look after my children when I was struggling to adapt to single parenthood; she has always been a kind and generous grandparent. I, too, have been there for her: when she falls ill or when she needs my help around her home. She has even been known to seek my opinion.