Relatively Speaking

Well, it's almost Mother's Day, and let me tell you like you don't already know, it's a holiday that rivals Christmas and Valentine's Day in its potential for disappointment. It's a day that can put you in good graces with your mom or put you in the dog house for a long, long time.

When I was a kid, I was sure there was nothing I didn't know about my mom. In the years since she's been gone, I've discovered how little I really knew.

Here's what I was certain of:

Mom came from a large family. She was the second daughter and the ninth of ten children. Her mother died when she was only 4 years old, ironically the same age her youngest child was when she died.

My grandpa was an older man; the family was in Arkansas; and it was the beginning of the Great Depression when my grandma died. He had struggled in the best of times to take care of his family, and this was far from the best of times.

I think it was with great reluctance and sadness, and with good intentions that he sent his youngest three children off to live with his relatives and in-laws. The new baby was adopted by a maternal aunt. Mom and her next older brother were sent to relatives in Ohio, returned home shortly thereafter, and eventually Mom was sent to Illinois to live with yet another relative, an older brother.

Though Mom never spoke very much about those early years, I still remember going with my parents for visits at the house where she grew up. Those visits were brief and sad, until my uncle staggered home. Then they became loud, more brief and sadder. I can't imagine Mom's life ever being very pleasant there, but at the time it must have been my grandpa's only option.

Even as a small child, I knew my uncle was a bully and a mean drunk, and that he was drunk more than he was sober. I'll never forget how my aunt always looked like a whipped dog, bruises, scars and all, or how shocked I was when I found out how much my cousin hated his own father.

It wasn't until I was much older, and he was long dead, that I bothered to wonder about the way he must have treated his dependent, defenseless, little sister. I do remember her telling me fairly often that she couldn't wait to get old enough to move out, but back then I thought she might have been in a hurry to grow up or get her own place or maybe she was just mad at her brother because he made her quit school and get a job as soon as she turned 16, less than a month before the end of the school year.

So much for her childhood and teen-age years.

Mom and Dad met through mutual friends. He had come down the hill to Mom's neighborhood for the hayrides at the Baptist church and stuck around for the pretty girls; Mom, of course, was the prettiest, at least to him. (This tidbit of information came directly from Dad's own lips.)

Mom was a typical war bride. They eloped in 1943 when she was only 17; he was 19 and had enlisted in the Navy. Dad's older brother and sister-in-law stood up for them, the way they had for them only a week before. Both marriages were supposed to be kept secret, but Mom and Dad's didn't stay that way very long. My aunt told me she accidentally spilled the beans, and Mom and Dad were in big trouble with his parents for quite a while.

Dad was shipped out to the Pacific almost immediately, and didn't return until the very end of the war. Rather than go back to live with her brother's family, my grandparents decided it was in my parents' best interest that Mom move in with them.

Like my own mother-in-law, grandmother was convinced that Mom was not nearly good enough for her son, and that she and Dad married in haste due to an untimely pregnancy. Let me point out that like my mom, that child did not arrive until two years after the wedding!

Mom lived with her in-laws for a short time, but from what she told me, it was less than an amiable situation. She worked all day in a meat packing plant and was expected to "work like a dog" when she got home, plus turn over most of her paycheck for room and board. (Her words, not mine.)

As soon as she could manage, Mom got an apartment with a girlfriend from work. She worked hard and saved her money, and whatever Dad sent her, so they could have a tidy nest egg when he got back. For a little while she was an independent woman, and she loved it!

When Dad got home from the war, she became the ideal housewife. Dad got a job with the railroad, and she quit her job. They moved into my great-grandparents' shop building, and Mom did the whole "wash on Monday, iron on Tuesday" routine. I was born right on schedule, although I slightly missed the mark of my grandparents' expectations by being a girl instead of a boy. Four years later, we moved to a brand new house in a VA suburb, the heir was born, and life was beautiful, except my health was less than ideal.

In our new neighborhood, the land had been leveled to put in the prefab houses so there was no grass in any of the yards. Our neighbors planted premium grass seeds and banned everyone, especially kids, from getting anywhere near their yards. Dad planted a mixture of blue grass and clover, and all the kids in the neighborhood tromped it into the dirt until we had the best lawn of all!

Thanks to the clover we must have had every bee in the county in our yard, and every barefooted child, or so it seemed. Mom was always ready with a basin of vinegar for those who got stung!

Some of the neighboring moms gave their children ice cream treats that they didn't share. Mom made grape Kool-Aid ice cubes and all the kids had purple trails down their arms from eating them.

Mom was an expert at cutting out fancy paper doll dresses and then using those same scissors to cut out school dresses for me. The later was the basis of the first dispute I ever had with at school. When my teacher marked my answer wrong, when I said false to "My mother uses a pattern to make me a dress." I told her that just because she didn't know how to make a dress without a pattern didn't mean that my MOM didn't!, and, bless her, Mom went to school and told her that she didn't have or use a pattern.
SO THERE!! (My words, not hers.)

Mom made the best cakes and chocolate chip cookies in the world, and when she ironed my dad's work shirts, the whole house smelled like a Chinese laundry. (No offense intended; that's the way she said it.)

When I got sick with frequent asthma attacks, Mom was always there for me. There were days when she fed me ice chips when I couldn't keep anything else down, and nights when she stayed awake holding me upright in her lap so I could sleep and keep breathing, and those nights were more often than either of us liked.

When I hit the terrible teens, we had years of terrible arguments, but she never gave up on me or let anger get in the way of love.

I always knew she was there in my corner.

These are the things I know about my mom now:

She was a stay-at-home mom for as long as she could be, and tried to make every holiday and birthday special.

She went back to work when times were hard, and put herself and her needs last on the list.

She never had a mother she remembered, but everything I know about being a good mother I learned from her.

She never finished high school, but she was the best teacher I ever had. I learned to be an educator to my own children and others from her, and I didn't hesitate to tell them to "look it up" when they asked how to spell a word like she did when I asked.

She wasn't a deep reader, but I owe her and my great aunt for my consuming love of books, reading, and writing.

She wasn't a doctor or nurse, but she taught me to treat visible wounds, as well as the ones inside that are deeper and harder to heal.

Mom taught me how to color inside the lines and cut along them, but not to limit myself to common expectations, mine or those of other people.

She taught me to stand up for myself and accept my own shortcomings, but not to be satisfied with them.

Sometimes I'm a slow learner, but I keep on trying, and I learned that from her, too.

She was far from being perfect, even in my best memories, but, boy howdy, how I miss her foolish jokes and intrusive advice.

She was too young when we lost her.

I miss the way she acted too young, and too old, for her years.

I miss dancing with her and hanging clothes outside together.

I miss the time we didn't have--the years Mom missed with her children and grandchildren and everyone who never got to dance or fight with her--never got to know her the way I really didn't either.

Most of all, I miss her goodnight kisses, and the way I always knew that no matter what, she loved us all, fiercely!

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

Thank you for all you did and all you were and all you helped us become.

We still remember and love you, so much!