The business card my mom never handed out
…and it quietly said everything.
I found the small white box tucked into one of the top drawers of my mom's beloved roll-top desk.
We moved a lot when I was growing up, so in some houses her desk was tucked against a wall in the family room or kitchen alcove, and in others she had an actual office. But wherever it was, when I think of her sitting there—writing a card in her small, left-leaning script or filling out her spiral-bound daily planner with watercolored flowers along the page edges—it's always a calm, quiet thought. Like how it feels when the noise of everyday life has been hushed by snow.
Me being someone who loved, and still loves, all things "school supplies," I always relished the chance as a child to explore her desk while she was away from it:
…a bundle of ballpoint pens secured with a rubber band, sticky notes sealed in a plastic sandwich bag, a brass stamp dispenser with a matching letter opener, a reused cardboard jewelry box holding paper clips and thumbtacks, a small shoe box with a reserve of note cards, and an unfinished mug of Folgers coffee that read, "For this I went to college” beneath a picture of a woman mopping.
She would often call out to us, "Kids, nobody disturb me. I'm going to pay the bills."
It felt like she spent most of my childhood in her office, the door slightly ajar, "paying the bills."
From time to time, we would sneak in and sit quietly on the carpet behind her squeaky wooden chair with our crayons and coloring books. I'd watch as she sliced open each envelope with her letter opener, pulled out the bill, wrote out a check, and recorded the transaction in her checkbook which she always balanced to the last penny. She'd lick the envelope shut, pull a stamp from the dispenser, lick it, address the envelope with a return label from some charity, and add it to the "to be mailed" pile.
Eventually she'd notice us there and say, "Out out! Everybody out! I'm paying the bills."
She'd shoo us out and fully shut the door. I'd stand there smiling at the back of that closed door and think, I can't wait to grow up and pay the bills.
The day I found the box in my mom’s desk was a few months after she had passed. My sister and I were sorting through her favorite place.
I lifted the box out of the drawer, took off the lid, and thumbed through the contents. Pulling out one of the cards, I read the front, flipped it over, then stared at it while my mind flashed back through years of conversations with my mom about all the different jobs and careers she had wanted to pursue.
I held it out to my sister. "Look at this."
My talented graphic designer sister glanced up, then went back to the note cards she was sorting.
"Oh yeah, Mom and I worked on those all last year. The colors, the fonts, the wording. We went back and forth until she was happy with how they looked."
"I never knew," I said. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I don't know. I just…I guess she really wanted business cards."
I paused, the card still in my hand, letting the discovery sink in.
While I was a solid 3.45 GPA, "nice to have in class but talks too much" kind of student, my mom was a straight-A, "go back and get a master's while raising three kids" kind of student. She was always coming up with business ideas—antiques store owner, quilt-pattern maker, blueberry and flower farm owner—and always headed out in the direction of a new career: interior designer, antiques dealer, clothing store manager, travel agent, special education teacher.
This was in addition to the myriad volunteer roles that could easily be classified as full-time jobs and to being a full-time parent to me and my siblings.
It always felt like she was searching for her place outside of motherhood but not quite landing on the one thing she wanted to pour herself into and take across the finish line.
After I graduated college and secured my first "adult" job, I showed my mom my official box of business cards. She took a stack and passed them out to her friends. I remember feeling embarrassed, thinking of her friends receiving my card that probably read something like: Carrie Minns, Administrative Assistant, Operations Department.
Every time after that, whenever I had new business cards, she would take a little stack and pass them out.
I read the newly discovered business card in my hand again.
Across the top half: Betty, in a beautiful script.
And beneath that, where one would put a job title: wife, mother, nana, writer, crafter, gardener.
On the back was her contact information.
She clearly wanted a business card, and it seemed like this was a business card for her life.
Perhaps in printing these, she was signaling to us that she had been happy with those titles. That she had made peace with her life choices. Having her as a mother was one of the reasons I couldn't wait to grow up and be a mother myself.
Or maybe she printed them as a way to assure herself she had made the right choices, knowing her time was running out, and she could no longer pursue the goals and dreams she’d talked about for years.
We can't know for sure. And I suspect there's some truth in both.
What I do know is that finding those business cards motivated me—and still motivates me—to put those one or two life goals on my own "business card for life,” and take the steps necessary to see them through before my time is up.
This newsletter is part of that.
These stories I'm sharing are part of me working toward those goals. I love to tell a good story, especially one where I've learned something about myself or about life. And maybe something I share will spark that same recognition inside of you…or give you permission to return to a goal you've set aside.
Our time here is finite.
So this week, I'm asking myself and maybe you're asking yourself too:
What would be on my business card for life?
Not the job titles. Not the roles we play for others.
The thing you want to do. The dream you've been carrying. The goal that's been patiently waiting.
You don't have to have it all figured out. You don't need a plan.
You just need to name it. Write it down. Acknowledge it exists.
That's enough for this week.
Cheers,
Carrie