First Person
Gogo the Detangler
My mother, Gogo, was not a knitter. She was, however, a detangler. A first class detangler.
Although her name was actually Gloria, after my daughter Grace turned Grandma Gloria into Gogo, she was Gogo for the rest of her life. Even I, her only surviving child, called her Gogo.
As a mother, Gogo was efficient, demanding, proud, sentimental, nagging, and loyal.
When the gym teacher made my brother Skip run laps even though he had a doctor’s note excusing him from Phys. Ed., Gogo went to the junior high school, found the teacher, and kicked him in the ankle.
She made our Halloween costumes, creating an enormous bowl of fruit to wear on my head when I was a seven-year-old Carmen Miranda and in sixth grade made me a pumpkin so stuffed with newspapers that I couldn’t sit down, complete with a jaunty orange hat with a large brown stem sticking out of it.
Our lunches were works of art too—brown bags bulging with meatball subs or huge fried chicken breasts, always with fruit and chips and cookies.
She covered our schoolbooks in brown paper bags, built triptychs to display our science projects, baked elaborate pies, and worked full time as an IRS tax auditor until she retired, reluctantly, at the age of seventy-six.
The only thing she did not do was knit.
I think this was primarily because she didn’t like to sit still. For over fifty years, she and her friends played penny ante poker every Friday night, drinking black coffee and screaming at each other until three or four in the morning. Playing cards was active. Knitting was not.
“Don’t you get bored just sitting there?” she’d ask me.
“I’m not just sitting here. I’m knitting.”
“Harumph. If you say so,” she’d say, then return to making gallons of spaghetti sauce and dozens of meatballs and countless fried chicken cutlets. Unlike knitting, cooking was doing something.
I learned to knit after my five-year-old daughter Grace died suddenly of a virulent form of strep. My mother was in that hospital for the entire thirty-six hours they tried to save Grace’s life. She had lost a child too—my brother, when he was only thirty—and she knew too well the depths of my grief. I would sit in her living room, the living room where I’d grown up watching Bewitched and The Monkees, and knit for hours while she tried to feed me: eggplant parmesan and steak sandwiches and sausage and peppers.
I made so many mistakes back then, constantly tangling my yarn and throwing it down, frustrated. But Gogo always picked it up, put it in her lap, and slowly and methodically detangled it.
Unlike knitting, this was fun for her, someone who loved math and solving puzzles. Eventually, when I could be alone more often, I brought my yarn messes to her and left them for her to detangle when she had time. She always delivered them back to me in neat, tightly wound balls. “Fixed,” she would announce, a little smugly.
Gogo saw me through my heart shattering loss of Grace, but also a lifetime of bad decisions, bad marriages, and mistakes of all sizes.
When Peter Hayhurst broke my heart in high school; when I stupidly followed a guy to a city I didn’t even like; when I needed to break up with the guy I loved; when I married the guy I didn’t love enough; when I was a single mom; when I was betrayed and lost money and went down the wrong path—Gogo was there. Always logical, wise, angry on my behalf, and determined. “You may have a Pity Party for one day, then you are going to dry your eyes and we are going to fix this.” She always did fix it too.
The first time Gogo met my husband Michael, she told me he was the perfect man for me. “I can finally die happy,” she said. And then she did, less than a year after we got married. Even in this she was efficient.
It wasn’t until Gogo died that I realized that she didn’t just detangle my yarn, miles of it, no doubt. But she detangled my problems too. Just like those knotted, twisted messes that she took into her lap and patiently detangled, my mother took messy me into her lap and helped me find my way.
That guy she said was perfect for me, is. Although these days I am left to sort out my own yarn disasters, thanks to Gogo, who helped set me on a steadier course, I don’t make many life messes anymore. I only wish she were here to celebrate that with me.
What a lovely memorial for your mother!
This is beautiful. Losing our mothers, no matter their age, or ours, is always a wrench. Cherish those wonderful memories.
Such a touching tribute.
Thank you for sharing your beautiful memories of your mother. Sounds like a wonderful Mom to have and to remember.
I learnt to detangle from my fisherman husband – keep it open. And this goes for life’s tangles too; hold space between the tangles, don’t let the knots get tight, look at your tangle to understand how it happened and work it out.
KEEP IT OPEN
New poster alert!
Love this so much. As many tangles as I’ve untangled, I never articulated to myself this guiding principle, which is so correct.
This is awesome advice.
In yoga we say, “All pain comes from a lack of space.”
Thank you for the wonderful morning cry -of joy. What an incredibly joyful piece about your incredible mother. I loved every word and am looking forward to reading your new book.
Today would have been my mother’s 88th birthday. I loved reading this beautiful memorial to your mother. Life is never the same after our mothers are gone! Thank you for sharing!
This love story made me cry. Thanks for sharing.
Me too.
Okay, this is crazy. If you are the writer, I just finished your grocery store book last night, I loved it!
And I really wish I could go to Cleveland, just to see Heinan’s…
What a beautiful piece about your mom! She is with you and knows she left you with the perfectly straight and smooth yarn! I totally believe that! Thank you for this❤️
This was like reading my own life story. When you described your life “ messes” I felt as if I was looking in a mirror. I too had a wonder mother who was always there when I created another “mess!” I lost my mother when I was 42, and 30 years later the pain still aches. My story is a little different because I am a detangler like Gogo. I find detangling to be as relaxing as knitting. Yes, this story made me cry! Thank you for sharing Gogo with me and along the way returning my mother to me for a few minutes.
So wonderful ! Loved your touching story.. made me cry❤️
Thank you, Ann, for sharing your story. It sure hits home on many levels.
Happy Knitting,
Barbara Reynolds
This was a lovely tribute to your beloved Mom. Thanks for sharing Gogo with us!
We all need a Gogo in our lives. Thanks for sharing yours. As always, your writing paints a beautiful picture and brings life . . . to life to life itself. Well done.
Thanks for sharing – what fabulous memories of your mother.
This is a beautiful tribute to the contestant guidance of your mother. Those descriptions could’ve applied to my mom, too, well, except the sentimental one. It’s funny how their voice lasts in your head despite them being gone.
What a wonderful ride down memory lane. I wish I had known your mother – definitely one of my people, although I have found in the sitting after loss another kind of detangling. I will be musing for awhile on what your wrote. I am looking forward to your next book. Thank you for sharing you in such a glorious way.
Ann, this is the most beautiful tribute I can remember reading. Wish I’d had the honor of knowing Gogo personally. May these memories (and I’m sure many, many more) keep you enveloped this holiday season and beyond.
Thanks for posting this. Bless you and your family.
What a sweet memorial! I love the idea between how detangling yarn sometimes help detangle life too. Thank you, Ann.
Yesterday was the third anniversary of my mother’s death and today would have been my father’s 82nd birthday. Neither understood my love of knitting but they both loved me.
So beautiful and poignant. She sounds like one of a kind. I’m sure you must still miss her. As I miss mine, even more with each passing year. My sister also detangles. She kind of shuffles the yarn, jewelry, etc. around, her version of giving the strands some space.
I also had a perfect mother. How lucky we are. My granddaughter’s nickname is Gogo. I loved your story and I am so sorry for the loss of your child.
Oh my goodness what a truly lovely story about the importance of our mothers. I lost my mom two years ago, Alice, who was a fabulous knitter. She was a fierce advocate for me and was a force in my life. I miss her every day. Thank you for sharing.
Beautiful article. Thank you, Ann.
My mom was a Gogo also. With the same comments about knitting.
Miss her.
Beautiful words about your Mom. I found your podcast about losing your daughter, Gracie, on a podcast about grief. So sad. I’m so sorry. I’m glad your Mom was there for you then and that she met Michael before she left this Earth. I think about you and Gracie a lot. ❤️
Oh my word. Thank you for sharing this. May her memory be a blessing
Thank you for sharing such a beautiful! story!
Wow. Just wow.
Wow! What a treasure she was!
How beautiful. Thank you for sharing such a personal story with us.
This is so beautiful, thank you for sharing
Beautiful memories, and thought-provoking, thank you
I’m smiling and a little misty eyed too. We lost our mom 25 years ago (she was the last remaining parent for both my husband and me) and it’s always a little tougher as the holidays approach.
Oh my! You’ve captured how life can be as messy and tangled as our knitting can be. Your mother lived with passion and verve, and you’ve caught her Spirit in this beautiful memorium. And brought me two tears.
Beautiful. Thanks for sharing.
This is a great tribute to your mother. She sounds like she was quite the loveable character and fiercely devoted to you.
Such a lovely tribute to your mom.
I, too, am the daughter of a remarkable woman.
So lovely. Beautifully written. This will be the first Christmas without my mother. She was 95, and it still seems too soon. I look forward to your book.
What a lovely tribute! I am both a knitter and a detangler. I hope my children will remember me well, just as you have here, when the time comes.
Awesome story! I love to knit, but I also enjoy a good detangle of yarn that my dachshunds have gifted me! I have learned to keep it out of their reach. You were lucky to have Gogo in your life!!!
Although my mother did crochet a lot and knit a little, I think they must’ve been sisters . We were so blessed to have them in our lives
“She made our Halloween costumes, … and in sixth grade made me a pumpkin so stuffed with newspapers that I couldn’t sit down, complete with a jaunty orange hat with a large brown stem sticking out of it.”
Until this minute, I thought my mother invented this costume for me but now realize she was not the inventive type and must have seen it in a magazine! This would have been about 1960. My hat was a blunt conical ‘stem’ made of green felt, seamed on the outside to make ridges, but otherwise it was the same costume as Ann’s – great for holding lots of candy inside!
We never know until they are gone how much we really need them. Beautifully written
Bless you and Gogo.
What a lovely tribute to your beloved mother.
You were a lucky girl. ❤️
Tears and laughter all through this beautiful writing. We all need detanglers in our lives. Hugs and more hugs!
I feel like there’s no need for another similar comment here, except that *I* need to comment. Thank you for this beautiful tribute to your mom. Untangling is a skill in life and knitting, and it sounds like it your energetic mother had it spades. Thanks for this this morning. Also – Keep It Open also works with jewelry tangles.
Sigh. I enjoyed this story so much. It reminded me of my mom. I’m a Yaya now, and I hope I will be remembered so fondly. I went to bat for my own kids as often as needed, once chasing a bully, putting enough fear into him that he never came near our house again. Will this be remembered? I hope so.
Thank you, Ann for your article. What a blessing to have a mom who would listen and help, but was there when needed. So many don’t have a family member or friend to rely on. It is so important to have that trusted community of loved ones to help and celebrate our lives!!
I love that she would untangle your yarn!! We can all use an detangler in our lives. They are often the ones who can see a “bigger picture” when we need one.
So sweet – thank you for sharing this memory of your mom! She’s still in your heart, so she knows your successes too. Hugs!
Thank you for sharing such a meaningful story.
I am so sorry for the loss of your beloved mother and mentor.