To the extent that I am at all in touch with my feminine side, I owe it to my mother, Zelda Laschever (affectionately known as the Muz). To Muz I also attribute my deep attachment to the ocean and its many gifts.
When I was an adolescent in search of things masculine, Muz gave me a slim volume of prose, “A Gift From the Sea.” The book was a best seller, popular among women of my mother’s generation for its messages on finding peace and purpose in the face of loss. Anne Morrow Lindbergh, the book’s author, knew a thing or two about loss. As the wife of aviator Charles Lindbergh, Anne suffered the kidnapping and murder of their infant son in 1932 in the full glare of the public spot light. She found solace on the oceans’ shores collecting solitude and seashells.
The oceans’ healing powers also comforted my mother over her life’s course. When the repeated pain of my older brother’s debilitating schizophrenia overwhelmed her, she retreated to the Jersey shore to throw clay on a potters’ wheel and search the shore for the perfect shell. Her balance restored, she would return strong enough to see the world’s beauty anew.
Muz, you used to tell me that I “had your eyes.” Unlike my fathers’ or brothers’ which are various lighter shades, mine, as were yours, are brown. I think of your eyes and their uncanny ability to see the beauty through your tears as I look out on countless ocean waves, sunrises and sunsets. It is through your eyes that I enjoy these gifts from the sea. Much love this coming Mother’s Day from your brown eyed son.
Zelda Lachever (aka “The Muz”) feet propped up on the potters wheel, Surf City New Jersey.