母亲与女儿因为性格与志趣不同，彼此所抱期望与现实相去甚远，因而双方存在着隔阂，也有过争吵。但当女儿长大My mother couldn't stand me when I was little, and I couldn't stand her. Neither of us was what the other would have chosen for a life companion.
The mother I had in mind for myself was middle-aged with brown hair pulled back in a bun1. She wore an apron2, baked a lot, was serious and soft-spoken. Before her marriage she had been a school-teacher or librarian.
My real mother was not like that. She had quitted school to go to work and help out at home. She was a tall tomboy3 with blond hair and the wide shoulders, narrow hips and long legs of an athlete—which she was. She had a great shout of a laugh that exploded like firecrackers. Other mothers called their children home in a shaky soprano4. My mother put two fingers to her lips and produced a whistle that could be heard in the next street. She did not sing hymns5. Far from being a hymn singer, she lullabied6 me with a popular jazz song. As for my father, he seemed to think everything about her was just great.
If my mother wasn't what I had in mind, I was even farther from her beau7 ideal. I was not even the right sex. When I was born, she was so incredulous8 to find I wasn't a boy that she had to ask her sister to think up a name for me. She soon decided, however, that I was the biggest, fattest baby in the hospital nursery and therefore worthwhile.
My mother decided that I was to be a beautiful, talented, rich singing-and-dancing child movie star. With spunk9. So, at three I was enrolled in Miss La Palme's School of the Dance: toe, tap, ballet and acrobatics10. At four, I was doing so well that Miss La Palme used me for demonstrations11. This was a good time for my mother, and she was busy taking me to lessons, women's club recitals12 and talent nights at local theaters.
But all this came to an early end. In first grade I learned to read. It was a heady13 experience, the key to a magic door. Mother often said this to me: “What do you mean by 'Just as soon as I finish this page'? You practice that new routine14 now.”“I'm sick of having you hang around that library.”
Finally my mother came upon me, the night before a recital, reading instead of rehearsing15. “Dear God,” she cried, “reading! Sitting there reading!” Tears filled her eyes, and she turned away.
At last the ultimatum16: “Reading, or dancing lessons. What's it going to be?” Her face showed hurt, despair and puzzlement when I said, “Reading.”
That weekend she told Aunt Margaret, who said, “Maybe it's for the best, Kate. I mean, look at her. She's almost seven, kind of stringbeany17, two front teeth missing. She's no Shirley Temple18.”
“All right,” my mother shot back, “but she could be Jane Withers19.”
As I grew older, out scenes with shouting and crying on both sides became fewer. My high school mother and I were even beginning to understand each other—a little.
Athletics were always important in her family. For several years, my mother and her sister had dominated20 the scoring columns in the women's sport leagues. Whenever we were out with her family, some stranger was sure to come over and ask one of them. “Say, isn't your name Dennehey？ I remember seeing you play ... ”
I went to an all-girls high school, and my mother was pleased when I made the varsity21 basketball team but dismayed22 to learn I was a guard.
“When are you going to play forward?” She asked.
I answered, “Never.”
“But, Jeanmarie, you'll never get to score!”She never enjoyed the game quite as much after that.
In another thing I was beginning to meet her standards: spunk. When I graduated from high school I won a partial scholarship to college. College had never once crossed her mind. My father was in the Army then, and my mother, to help support the family, worked in a book-bindery23 at a small salary. Even with my summer and after-school jobs, we were just barely making it. When I told her the news, she was just speechless.
But one day shortly afterward she announced proudly, “Jeanmarie, you are going to college.” She had got a job paying what was a high wage for those days, cleaning railway cars. It was a dirty, back-breaking man's job, but she never complained. Partly because I didn't know what hard physical labor was, partly because of her own attitude, I never questioned that my mother should work so hard for my dream.
In college I made honors in my studies. But this didn't please my mother so much as when I was chosen to attend various student conventions24—all expenses paid. My mother had never been far from home, and it seemed very glamorous25 to her that I should be going to distant places. It seemed glamorous to me, too. I would board the train wearing a classmate's fur jacket, another friend's skirt, and looking like one of those girls who pose26 for soft-drink ads—the kind of girl who has a mild, soft-spoken mother who before marriage had been a school-teacher or librarian. That's how I looked.
One day when I announced a trip, my mother said she would be working in the railway yards at the time my train would be leaving and she would wave. When the train pulled out27 I scanned the railroad yard, and finally I could make out a figure waving. It was my mother. I stood up and waved vigorously28. But the sun was in her eyes and, unable to see, she just kept waving her hand. I saw her: blond hair, thick-soled29 shoes, work-hardened hands. In my borrowed finery, standing on the floor that could have been scrubbed by my mother—all of a sudden it seemed terribly important that she see me and know I was answering her. I waved and waved, but the small figure just kept waving unseeingly until we were out of sight.
In my family our deepest feelings are held in strict reserve30, but I know that day I could openly have told my mother how much I loved her.
The chance never came again. She died a few years after I graduated from college. Between my growing up and her death, however, I came to know it can be a joy to live with someone who is completely different from you. We could never say the words, but my mother knew how I felt about her; I knew she felt about me.
A few months after her death I was at a convention when a stranger came up to me. “This may sound crazy,” he said, “but is your name Dennehey?”
“No, but my mother's was,” I answered.
“So you're Kate's girl! I haven't seen her since she was a kid. I know all the Denneheys. Great people.” He shook his head, smiling. “You're Kate Dennehey's girl, all right. I'd know you anywhere.”
I laughed and said, “Thank you. That's the nicest thing that's ever been said to me.” And I meant it with all my heart.
(From Chicken Soup for Soul)
成人后回忆起这一切来，给我们讲述的故事却是如此动人：
小时候，妈妈容忍不了我，我同样无法容忍她。如果可以选择，我们谁也不会选择对方作为生活伙伴。
我心目中的妈妈应该这样：中年，棕色头发梳在脑后盘成一个髻；围着围裙，爱烤面包；严肃，说话温柔。结婚之前做过老师或图书管理员。
可是我妈妈并不是我想像中的那个。她很早就辍学去工作，帮家里过日子。她做起事来像个男孩，高个子，金黄头发，宽肩膀，运动员一样的窄臀、长腿，她实际上就是运动员。笑起来像放爆竹那么响。别人的妈妈叫自己的孩子回家都是用带颤音的女高音。我妈妈却是把两个手指放到唇边吹一个响亮的口哨，相邻一条街上都能听得到。她不唱圣歌，她唱的摇篮曲是喧闹的爵士乐。不过，我爸爸却认为妈妈非常了不起。
如果说现实中的妈妈和我心目中的妈妈相去甚远，同样，我距离她的理想也差十万八千里。我甚至连性别都不合她的心思。我刚降生的时候，她一看不是男孩就觉得难以置信，于是让她妹妹随便给我起了一个名字。不过，她很快又断定,我在医院育儿室中是最大最胖的婴儿，因此值得养育。
我妈妈决定把我培养成一个美丽、多才多艺、能歌善舞、光彩夺目的电影童星。这需要勇气。于是，我三岁时，就开始在帕默小姐舞蹈学校学舞蹈:练脚尖，跳踢踏，芭蕾舞和杂技。四岁时我就能做得非常好了，帕默小姐还让我作示范呢。这对我妈妈来说真是一段好时光，她总是忙碌着带我去上课，参加妇女俱乐部的朗诵会，参加当地戏剧院的特长演出。
但是所有这一切过早地画上了句号。一年级的时候，我能识字读书了。读书可是一种让人兴奋的体验，像一把开启魔术之门的钥匙。妈妈时常会对我这样说: “ 你说‘我一看完这页就开始’是什么意思? 你现在应该练习那套新动作了。”“我真不愿意看见你在图书馆里转来转去。”
终于，在一个朗诵会的前一天晚上，妈妈发现我没有排练而是在读书。“我的天啊，” 她哭了，“读书!就知道坐着读书!”我看见她眼里满是泪水，紧接着她转过脸去。
最后妈妈和我摊牌了:“读书还是练舞蹈? 你选吧！” 我告诉她我选择 “读书!”。这时，我看到她的脸上满是痛楚，绝望和迷惑。
那个周末她把这事告诉了伯母玛格丽特， 伯母说，“也许这样更好，凯特。我的意思是说，你看看她：快七岁了，长的像豆荚似的， 两颗门牙齿也没了。她成不了秀兰·邓波儿的。”
“那么，她可以成为简·威瑟斯呀”，妈妈反驳说。
我一天天地长大，我和妈妈之间大吼大叫的场面也越来越少。中学时我和妈妈甚至开始相互理解——有那么一点点。
体育运动在她的家族中总是非常重要的。曾经有几年，我妈妈和她妹妹都是女子运动队中的主要得分手。每当我们和她的家人外出时，总会有一些陌生人过来问他们其中一个：“喂，你的名字应该是顿涅赫吗？我记得看过你比赛……”
我就读的是一所女子中学。当我被选入校篮球代表队时，妈妈特别高兴；可是当她知道我只是一个后卫时，又沮丧了。
“ 你什么时侯能打前锋?” 她问。
我回答，“永远不会”。
“但是，珍玛丽，这样你永远得不着分!”从那以后，她再也不像以前那样喜欢篮球了。
在另一件事上，我开始达到她的要求——出人头地。我中学毕业时嬴得了读大学的非全额奖学金。妈妈从来没有想过让我上大学。当时我爸爸正在军队服役。 为了支撑这个家，我妈妈在图书装订厂工作，工资很少。甚至要加上我夏天和放学后打工的收入，我们才勉强度日。当我告诉她我想上大学时，她什么也没说。
但是没过多久，有一天她骄傲地宣布：“珍玛丽，你去上大学吧！” 她找了一份当时工资很高的工作——打扫火车车厢。这是男人干的活，很脏，非常累人，但是她从没抱怨过。一方面因为我不知道什么是高强度劳动，另一方面是因为她自己的态度。我从没问自己：为什么妈妈会为我的梦想而如此拼命地工作？
上大学的时候，我在学业上获得了很多荣誉。但是最让妈妈高兴的，是我被选中去参加各种学生活动——当然是全免费的那种。妈妈从来没有出过远门，对她来说，我能去远方很有诱惑力。对我也有非常大的诱惑力。我要搭乘火车去远方:我将穿着班上某个同学的皮夹克，另外一个朋友的裙子，就像一个为拍果汁广告摆姿势的少女 ——也就是那种家里有一位性情温柔、说话温和的妈妈，而且在结婚前她还得当过老师或图书馆员的那种。我看上去就是那个样子。
有一天，我向妈妈宣布要去旅行，妈妈说我乘坐的火车离站时她正好在那个铁路调车场干活，而且还告诉我她会向我挥手送行。当火车离开车站时，我扫视调车场，最后隐约辨认出有一个人在挥手—— 是我妈妈。我站起来使劲地挥着手。可是阳光正照在她的眼睛上，她看不见我，只是不停地挥着手。我能看见她:金色的头发，厚底鞋，由于艰苦劳作而变得僵硬的手。穿着借来的行装，站在也许就是妈妈用力擦洗过的车厢地板上——我突然感到她能够看见我、知道我同样在向她挥手是那么的重要。我挥呀挥，可那个渺小的身影只是不停地盲目地挥着手，直到看不见火车为止。
在家中我们最深的感受都深深地埋在心里，但是我知道那一天我真应该坦诚地告诉妈妈我是多么地爱她。
不会再有机会了。我从大学毕业没几年，妈妈就去世了。我长大了，妈妈永远地走了。这中间，我却从中渐渐明白：和一个与你性格迥异的人生活在一起可以是一种快乐。我们没有用语言表达过，但是我妈妈知道我对她的感觉；我同样知道她对我的感觉。
妈妈去世后的几个月，我在参加一个会，这时一个陌生人走过来，“我可能有点唐突,”他说,“但你的名字是顿涅赫吗?”
“不,那是我妈妈的名字,”我回答。
“这么说，你是凯特的女儿! 我见到你妈妈时，她还是个小姑娘呢。我认识所有的姓顿涅赫的人，真了不起。”他摇摇头,微笑着说。“你是凯特·顿涅赫的女儿，好啊。无论到哪里我都能认出你。”
我笑着说,“谢谢你。这是我所听到的最动听的话。” 我是真心真意的。