Mom

As time has inevitably brought me to middle age, I’ve had an increasing appreciation for the life I was given in my youth. Dad was the bread-earner and taught me the responsibility of an honest day’s work. It was a given understanding that neither my brother or myself would carry on a fourth generation of farming the land and herding the cattle. Owning a farm took an early toll on my Dad’s life. He was great; I love him dearly for his valuable contributions to my life but Mom was the one who has had the most profound affect on my journeys through life. Still today, she is constantly a part of my thoughts with her wisdom and common sense guiding me through difficult times.

It’s a vague memory but there were a few years when I called her “mommy”. For another short period of time “momma” was used to get her attention. Of course, she was called “mom” for most of my life. I’ve never used the word “mother” as it was too formal, and the thought of calling her by her Christian name, Maryon, was never a thought. Saying the word “Mom” has always been a special honor of thanks to the woman who nurtured me from birth.

Mom talked very little about her years of growing up on her Dad’s farm but when a friend lost his own Mom, she was right there with compassion, understanding and emotional concern. She told Dave about the devastation she felt when her dad passed away during her senior year of high school. She was his “favorite” of eleven children. Her dad passed away from a massive heart attack just outside one of the barns while doing his chores. I was surprised and felt a little slighted about the candid feelings she shared with my friend. Mom had never talked about her days as a youth, but it was no surprise that she reached out to help someone in need even though she had known him for just a few years.

Mom was always kind and thoughtful to everyone and, even though some of us kids had friends who were questionable in her opinion, she gave us the benefit of our youth to make responsible decisions of our own. There was never anyone she forbade us to share our friendships with. Even my brother Russ’ Eddy Haskell-type classmate was accepted, which was a disappointment to me because he was creepier than Wally Cleaver’s buddy and treated me no better than what the Beaver had to endure.

My Mom was always there for each of us, making sure we ate a full breakfast before getting on the school bus and filled our lunch bags had the right balance of foods, including some homemade goodies. Occasionally we were given lunch money for the school cafeteria but I still preferred Mom’s meals because she knew what I liked and disliked, although we’d compromise on occasions and I’d get something special if I promised to eat something just shy of being a favorite of mine. She knew there were trade-offs now and then at school but that was between my friends and me.

Mom was a busy person with five children and a husband who depended on her to handle everything beyond tending to the crops and barnyard animals, although we heard stories how she had driven the tractors right along with dad to get the fields ready for planting before the children were born. She prepared all the meals, giving Dad special consideration whenever the main course was fine by us kids but not to his liking. She’d pan-fry one of those over-cooked, knife-bending steaks his Mom had cooked for him.

There was always a desert of one kind or another. Sunday afternoon dinner would be followed with one of a variety of cakes, often made by request, and the rest of the week we’d have other sweetmeats to look forward to. Jell-O was a frequent desert but little Ronnie would have none of it if bananas were one of the ingredients, so a separate, special portion would always be there for me. Mom would usually accommodate our likes and dislikes because she loved each and every one of us. Homemade pies with farm fresh apples, blueberries, huckleberries or cherries were some of my favorite pie deserts, but raspberry was special to nearly everyone. Dad would pass on that one and would usually have a couple of molasses cookies.

Even in wintertime there were canned or frozen fruits, vegetables and meats. Dad would plow and disk last year’s garden to prepare the ground for the spring but it was Mom who oversaw the planting, weeding and the harvesting of the fruits and vegetables of our labors. Most times, she was right out there with us, not so much to keep us kids from fighting, but to make sure we didn’t consume too much of our chores. Still, we’d brush off the dirt and eat as much as we could safely get away with, keeping in mind that she’d know how much there should be compared to what we brought in. Fresh strawberries were a casualty of our desires.

The times when Mom would take us out to the hickory tree in the middle of one of the fields to pick up walnuts are fresh in my mind, as are those summer afternoons when we would sit in front of the TV, maybe watching cartoons or an afternoon variety talk show as we snapped wax beans or husked sweet corn for supper. Those were the times when she bonded with us kids, although back then it wasn’t necessary to put a label on everything. She gave us a close-knit and loving environment, making sure we understood how fortunate we were to have such bountiful gifts of nourishment.

Mom usually handled discipline but we got to ages where something other than a hand would have the intended affect. There were times when she told us to “wait until your Dad comes in”. Mom didn’t threaten; we knew we were in big trouble when those words were spoken. We were good kids for the most part but there were times of shame for most of us, including myself. Little Susie was the perfectly behaved child and baby Sally was spoiled by everyone so she could do no wrong.

There was the time I was caught shoplifting. Take note that this was in the ‘60s when stores were a little lenient if the felon showed sincere remorse and terror when a call was made to Mom, forced me to explain what I had done, listen to her yell at me, let her talk to the store Security Officer, listen to her yell at me again, telling me to come straight home to be yelled at once again. And waited for Dad to come in.

There was the time I stole from Mom’s purse. She gave us kids an ultimatum for the thief to make a confession with a thirty-minute deadline. I couldn’t do it but she already knew from the evidence found in the perpetrator’s dresser drawer but even then I couldn’t surrender my guilt. Dad didn’t have to get involved with the situation because Mom’s wrath toward my taking money from the family budget was all it took to make me an ashamed outcast. It took a few weeks for me to redeem myself but her silent reprimand for my dishonesty taught me one of the most important lessons in life.

One other piece of my devilish side that’s followed me through the years was a rather light-hearted moment. I was in the 7th grade and was given an assignment to write a short story for English class. Even today, I don’t know how I got the idea or the knowledge but I was pretty descriptive about life of the Roaring ‘20s. How could I and why would I write about flappers and gin bathes? I don’t remember, but the English teacher called Mom who talked to me about it for a few minutes; I gave her my word to have discretion on what I wrote then she destroyed the product of a creative mind, never to be discussed again. I remember the incident and relish her thoughtfulness.

There are so many great memories of all the things Mom did for me. You may ask, what did I do for her? I never really knew how I could show my love and appreciation for all she’d done. The typical gifts I gave her were always short of what I felt she deserved. I claimed my independence at age 20, moved to Florida, then Chicago and on to Los Angeles before I settled down and bought a home back in Florida. I was extremely naïve when I left the farm yet Mom was the one person who had given me direction and had faith in me to achieve to the best of my abilities, follow her example of ethics, be considerate and understanding of others, and expect nothing other than what I earned in life.

Mom had never flown and swore she could never do it, yet she gave in to the fear to visit wherever I lived. Sea World. Busch Gardens. Catalina Island. The Grand Canyon. Bryce Canyon. Zion. The Atlantic Ocean. The Pacific Ocean. These were special moments in her life as well as mine. She wouldn’t allow me to pay her airfare but it was my pleasure to escort her to sights and wonders she had never experienced. I think she was proud of my abilities to adapt to different environments and maintain successful employment. She traveled with one or more of my Aunts on each of her visits. It was quite an adventure when three of her sisters, Jean, Rooney and Donis came to visit one of their other sisters, Doris, in California. I drove the lot of us to the Hearst Castle and realized too late that there was nowhere to get a dinner after 9 p.m., so we settled on crackers or something, had sodas from a convenience store, played cards and made the experience one of the fondest memories of our lives.

Mom had cancer in her mid-50s and divorced Dad because of his drinking; she “couldn’t deal with both”. She survived and most of her trips were made over the next ten years, when the handicap of surgery of her lower jaw made it difficult to chew and swallow. She was having lunch with my sister, Sally, and her husband of four months; they were about to tell her of her pregnancy and the next grandchild in the family. Paramedics did their best, but by the time I arrived from Orlando the next day I found her life was being extended solely by a support system. She passed away at 4:36 p.m. on February 10th, 1992.

The eulogy was mine to give as I had always intended. I couldn’t keep my voice from constantly cracking but I withheld the tears until the casket was closed. I talked about her love of flowers, sewing and her beloved grandchildren. A script wasn’t necessary.

I think of Mom most days and frequently update her on my thoughts and events in my life.

Mom, I thank you so very much for your love and guidance and so many wonderful memories. I treasure the life you gave me. I’ll always love you, Mom, as only this son can do.

PARCEL POST 2008 @ www.parcelpost08.blogspot.com
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