My mother, Carole, was not the idle type. She usually had a least one or two projects in the works. Sanding down and refinishing an old china cabinet. Removing layers of orange, flowered, kitchen wallpaper to paint it a warm buttercup yellow. Diligently adding wainscoting to save the wall from dining chairs ruthlessly slammed about by us kids. Daring to add a rainbow border to the bedroom walls of my almost-teenaged sister who insisted said walls be painted a dreary, lifeless grey.
Nothing shines brighter in my memory, however, than those days when I would come home from school and see her in the living room, surrounded by cardboard boxes; unloading and sorting the beautiful bottles and jewels to be put into paper bags and delivered to waiting customers.
My mother, you see, was the Avon Lady. And she loved it. Did she make any money? No, not really. But that wasn’t why she did it. She enjoyed strolling the neighbourhood with her lipstick samples and campaign catalogues. She delighted over the new nail polish pens, fancy perfume bottles and ceramic collector steins.
I cannot even recall at time when I didn’t get an Avon goodie bag of bath soaps and body lotions for Christmas and birthdays. It’s safe to say, when I think of Avon, I remember my mother.
And so it happened, when I came across an Avon post, I simply could not keep scrolling. Instead, I clicked on the post, and accepted that alluring invitation to join the ranks of women, who, like my mother, proudly call themselves the Avon Lady.
Beautiful Wellness 