Tag Archives: pass

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Seven

This is Helen Burling Ottaway, my mother, in 1945.

The vest was red wool with embroidery. We had it still, when we were kids. We probably wore it out.

I am not pensive today, I am festive! And home! Three days of driving, with Sol Duc the cat objecting quite a bit, and we are home in Washington.

There are a LOT of mountains between Grand Junction, Colorado and Port Townsend Washington. Many passes as we drove northwest, over to Salt Lake City and then up through Idaho, part of Oregon and then Washington. There was snow on the first pass, but not on the road. We stayed in Burley, Idaho and then in Pendleton, Oregon. When I drove over Snoqualmie Pass, we drove into a cloud and rain and suddenly I could smell the sound! Salt and sea! It was raining in Pendleton yesterday morning but there was no ocean smell. Sol Duc continued to complain intermittently and got tired and slept a lot. Just wait, cat, we are going back!

It is fabulous to be home and see friends already! A friend came and made me banh xeo, Vietnamese pancakes, with spinach and salmon filling, and then I crashed to sleep.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: pensive.

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Mitochondrial envy

Just think if Dr. Freud were alive today.

He’d be studying mitochondrial envy.

After all, the sperm have no mitochondria. Only the egg has mitochondria, so the mitochondria are matrilineal, from the mother only. And it is from mother to daughter to daughter that they are handed down.

I have a photograph of my mother’s mother’s mother. Mary Robbins White. She is looking straight at the camera, no smile, serious. Her thoughts are contained, her eyes give nothing away. I have photographs of my mother’s mother, my mother, me and my daughter, all with the same expression. On guard.

The mitochondria are the powerhouses of the cells as well. They may have been a separate cell that moved in and made a deal with a larger cell: you take care of me and I will power you. An exchange. A bargain. A treaty. Sounds like a sensible female move to me.

My son has my mitochondria. His children, if he has them, will have his wife’s mitochondria. I think he has chosen well. I like her very much. I hope to see grandchildren.

Perhaps mitochondria are the magic that early hominoids worship when they make the earth figurine, the stone figure with generous breasts and belly and hips. The nurturer, the fecund mother, the destroying hungry mother who swallows her children and will not let them go.

I am reading Joseph Campbell, Myths to Live By, 1972. I wonder what he would say about the matrilineal mitochondria, the second set of genetic material in each cell, the part that comes from the mother only. I think he would be fascinated and he would be writing another book.