Remembering Mother's Day

Remembering Mother’s Day causes me to recall all the sweet childhood memories of a little girl dressed up in her best Sunday clothes, going out to the back yard and looking for a red rose to pin on my dress and Momma’s dress and a white one for Big Momma’s and going to church where the oldest and the youngest Mother was always honored.  

At the time, the significance of the red and white roses didn’t mean much, except I knew that was the tradition for my family, and most all others in my generation.  It’s a poignant moment in my childhood.   Now, I'm reminded of the small sacrifices that go so unnoticed of , not only Mothers, but Fathers as well as they endeavor “to bring up a child in the way he should go.”   If you were fortunate enough to have parents who subscribed to that teaching, you’ll know exactly where that phrase comes from.  It’s just like “do unto others as you would have them do unto you” was part of the daily mantra.   I remember the “golden rule” being printed on the 12” ruler that was given to each student in my school while growing up.  It was a rule to teach children in that day.  I look back and remember the standards set for children and young adults then, and wonder how it became, not only an “old fashioned” way to do things, and definitely, not cool conduct for today.   Poor manners, foul language, and street talk have become perfectly acceptable to some adults, so why wouldn’t the children think it’s standard behavior? 

I sure do miss seeing a young man rise from his seat when a woman enters the room.  I miss him opening or holding the door open for a lady.  How about males sitting in a restaurant wearing baseball hat?  Or any other kind of hat for that matter.   Trousers that drag the ground?  (Say no to crack) And nothing meant more to a girl on a date than to have a gentleman open the car door for her.  She’d sit until the cows came home waiting for him to get out and open it for her upon arriving at their destination.  I won’t mention “yes, mam or no, man” as that seems to be a southern thing, but there are other polite ways of responding to your elders.  The female population seems to have picked up on a whole new way of presenting themselves as well.  Of course, the fashion industry doesn’t help the situation, but age-appropriate apparel is never out of order.  Isn’t it true that those who demand respect are the ones who receive it?  A female can be just as successful and treated equally as a male without demeaning herself to any level beneath her education and background?

There are some great kids growing up today.  I know them.  I see them everywhere.  I appreciate that parents have taken the time to instill in them good manners.  Most of the time, these kids are the successful ones in life.  Not always, but most of the time.    I see children from impoverished neighborhoods growing up with mentors and teachers who are teaching them what they can’t learn from home, through no fault of their own.  Thank God for these people.  Many times, these little children become targets for bullying by other students just for being polite and honest.   

Parents have awesome responsibilities.  On one hand, we’re told we must let them be themselves.  Let them find themselves.   You can't make them do that!  They have rights!  Well, I believe we have an obligation to our future generations to teach respect, honor, and dignity.  It has no denomination.  It costs nothing, and the return on our investment will be worth its weight in gold.    Maybe someday, living Mothers may even be remembered with red roses in the lapel and white ones for those who have gone on to another place.   Wouldn't that be grand?

AUTHORS AND ARTS

On a recent road trip from beautiful downtown Madison, GA, I scrolled through the stations on the radio and found very few stations.  NPR was loud and clear so I settled on it.   Featured that segment were a couple of authors whose names did not ring a bell, which isn’t unusual for me, but I listened intently as the moderator prompted them with questions regarding the subject for the day.  The subject matter – and I’m paraphrasing – was that we need to have more books on the shelves in our libraries that have people of color as their main character.  No lie.  

I listened to them, with my mind thinking, something doesn’t sound right here.  Now I’m not a college educated person, but I do read a lot.  Not only books, but informational materials about different things that come to my mind.  I remember words that aren’t familiar to me, and try to get familiar enough with their meaning that I can use them.  It’s just a habit I have.    That being said, there are books that interest me and books that don’t interest me.  There are things I want to know more about, and there are things that I haven’t the least bit of interest in.  I also write my own stories about personal events in my life and take pride in doing so, trying to carefully punctuate and spell correctly what I do write.

If I were to be a real author, one that wrote stories and books for publication, I cannot imagine that I would have my mind wrapped around the fact that this must have a main character of color.   I was under the impression that an author wrote a story that made logical sense to the reader, that is, unless they are writing science fiction.  Even a fiction book would, in my mind, need to have a main character that fit into the plot, setting, and common sense of the work.   This whole experience, riding down the road, listening to these two young authors (they were YA genre authors) prompted me to wonder exactly what NPR is thinking.  The moderator made no attempt to contradict or counter their claims.   They complained that if they went to a library and asked for a book that contained a person of color as the main character that there is very little, if anything on the shelves.

Which brings me to my whole point.    Here we have two young ladies, hoping to sell their own publications, with the idea that an author must have someone tell them subject matter and/ or who to write about.  Now, last I heard, an author of notoriety doesn’t normally write what somebody suggests, but writes from their own talent and research on subject matter.   I don't think you can make an author write a best seller any more than you can make a soprano sing bass.  It’s an art.  A talent. 

NPR is funded by our tax dollars.  So is the National Endowment for the Arts.    

https://www.arts.gov/grants/recent-grants/grant-announcements

After looking through the whole list of grants given for the past year, I didn’t see one single grant that would benefit a rural, poverty-stricken community that would give them an opportunity to explore the arts.   One small town was included, but as you will recognize, it is an affluent community and my guess is that they could fund any arts programs they wanted, by raising funds on their own.   The whole premise and mission statement of the Endowment seems somewhat overblown in their effort to educate and assist opportunities in the quest for art for all Americans.    What do you think?  You may be a little surprised at exactly where your tax dollars are going if you examine the lists from the past years.  

https://www.arts.gov/

Cleansing

I have read there are several stages of grief.  I believe that.  I’m not sure if I’ve gone through all of them.  Just when I think I’m ready to move on with my life, I see a red bird.  Just when I’ve grown accustomed to being totally alone, I see him peek around the corner of the bedroom door, just to see if I’m still there in my chair.  When I read a post on Facebook that I want to share, I remember that I can’t tell him.  And when I hear of a friend passing or the birth of a new child, I realize he isn’t there to share those precious memories or rejoice for the new life.    It wasn't all without tears, petty disagreements, big disagreements, and hurtful misunderstandings.  Far from it.  But, in the big scheme of things, we pouted, but we never gave up on each other.   

Putting my life back together after so many years is almost an impossible task.  I laugh, I joke, I talk to people, but my mind no longer focuses on the “now”.  I wonder about the “what if’s” and the "it is what it is."    I berate myself for not doing enough to overcome this immense sadness.  I hate myself for things I have said, that can never be unsaid.  I remember the times of my selfishness and pious thoughts.  I’m angry that the times we waited for, will never come and I want to say, “I told you so!”  "Why, why?"   

Things that weren't said, are just as important as things said.  It breaks my heart that we didn’t get the chance to say our sweet way we always told each other, even if just to go to the grocery store.  “If I don’t come back, I love you.”   We said it in jest, but now, I know just how much it really means to have spoken those words to each other.  It happened so fast.  Our quick parting words, “see you later” haunt me.   Oh God, how I miss him. 

I need a cleansing of my spirit and soul.  I need to know it's ok to cry, but I need peace and joy and laughter.  I need to move away from the past and look to the future.   I need to know it’s ok to be sad or mad.  I need a purpose for living.  I long for the desire to enjoy life.  I need to know he's ok,  peaceful and happy, and I need strength and determination to realign my thoughts for a meaningful life and happiness again,  wherever I may be.  I don't ask for pity, I ask for healing of mind and body.    It will take time.

TENT MEETINGS, GOAT MAN AND GYPSIES

Growing up in my house, attending the church was not optional.   It was a given.  No matter how much I fussed, cried, or feigned sickness or injury, I was going to Sunday School and church right up until I got way bigger than my little Momma.  Then, I had a little leverage, but not much.  Daddy didn’t go much to morning services but occasionally he went to the evening services.  He was a good man; he just didn’t go with us to church so he and Uncle Aubrey went off to fish.  And he didn’t tolerate me not going with Momma.  I still don’t understand that, but I sure never asked.

From time to time, Big Momma would see in the Forest Blade about a tent meeting coming up, and she and Momma hauled me off with them to get a little extra religion.   I don’t remember the denomination of any we ever attended, but what I do remember is, the weather would always be hot and sticky.   I don’t sit still very well as an adult, so you can just imagine how miserable this little girl was sitting on the folding chair, under a steaming tent, with only a funeral home fan to swat the gnats and mosquitoes.  How Big Momma could sit there and get any religion in her corset and voile dress, stockings and white shoes is beyond me.  The meetings would last for hours, with singing, prayers and preaching and more singing and prayers and Jesus calling the sinners home.  I remember one of these meetings on the south of town where the tent sat in a cleared grassy area, and the cars parked all around the tent.   I never hear of tent meetings anymore….  I guess we don’t need extra religion now.   

The old man who traveled through town with his Billy goats pulling his wagon with pots and pans clanging, was a novelty that everybody in town talked about, passing the word from one to the other, and folks would get in their cars to take a ride just outside town where the old man would be camped.  He never seemed to mind the attention, and neither did the goats.  You could smell the sight long before you could see him.   He traveled all over the eastern seaboard, but made his home place in Jeffersonville, Ga. 

Sometimes, there would be a band of gypsies camping outside town.  They didn’t like for you to get too close to their camps where they played music, banged tambourines, and danced, but I always wanted to talk to them to see where they were going, and why.  Momma didn’t let me go see them, but I usually heard about them being in town.  Sometimes, I would catch sight of some of the women with brightly colored skirts and lots of dangling bracelets and big loop earrings.   Their hair would be dark and long, streaming down their backs and sometimes they would have kerchiefs on them to tie back the long hair.  I thought they were beautiful when I did see them.   I often wondered why their children didn’t have to go to school.   They camped for a day or two and moved on.  Some people said they were thieves.  I’ve often wondered why they said that.   I’m sure there must have been honest gypsies. 

Sometimes, the local paper would advertise that there was going to be a “sing” at a local country church.  They were very popular, always with a crowd of hardy music loving Christians, who would listen to the quartets, soloists, and duets from popular gospel singing groups that came from all over the state. Gospel music was a staple for the old timers.  Sometimes, these “sings” could go on all night, or at least till the wee hours of the morning.  I don’t remember ever going to many and when I did, they fell into the same category for me as the tent meetings.  Sitting still wasn’t then, and still isn’t, my forte. 

     

SITTING UP WITH THE DEAD

         

I haven’t mentioned my Big Daddy Scott too many times in my memories.  That’s because he passed away when I was seven years old.  He was only 71, but to me, he seemed like a very old man, as did most people over the age of 50.   Now, being very old has graduated to a whole new level. 

What I remember most about Big Daddy was that he was always happy or appeared to be.  He played games inside the house with us children, and Big Momma sat in her wooden rocker next the window and crocheted.   When it was cold, we would laugh and have fun with a stupid game we called “hide the comb”.  That’s all the game was about.  Hiding a comb.  But we did it with such enthusiasm in that one little bedroom which had a small black potbellied, coal fired stove.   After several rounds of the game, Tommie and I would sometimes spend the night and sleep in the extra bed in their room which was piled high with feather mattresses.   On the mantle stood a large mantle clock that ticked and ticked so loud it made me crouch under the covers to keep from hearing it. 

The front bedroom was frigid with no heat that I remember, except maybe a fireplace, so it was always cold.   It was seldom used.  I remember Big Daddy and Big Momma sitting on the front porch with the plant stands loaded with pots of ferns and various plants, rocking and watching.  The dirt road was dusty in front of the house and we children always liked to try to catch a ride on the back of the big yellow road scraper, which got us in heaps of trouble with Biggie, saying we were going to get killed.   I think we proved her wrong, thank the Lord.

In April, 1945, I remember coming home to a somber, quiet house.  Mother was next door where Big Momma and Big Daddy lived and soon she came over and told me that Big Daddy had died.  She said he had a blood clot in his leg.  At seven years, I guess children don’t have much of a handle on what death means and it intrigued me that people were coming and going and bringing food, and saying “bless your heart” and “he’s in a better place” and all the kind of things that are said to family when someone dies. 

The next evening, Mom took me over and the cold bedroom door was opened to the hall and living room and there were folding chairs lining the room.   A big casket was there in the center and there was Big Daddy looking fine, in his best suit with that sweet, kind expression on his face that was always present.  It was dark, and there wasn’t much light.  Probably a single bulb hanging from the ceiling like the rest of the house, but people would come and sit and stay for long periods of time.  Then another “crew” of people would come in and take over.  There was always someone there.  Day and night.  Sitting with Big Daddy.   

The tradition of sitting with the dead has pretty much been eliminated now due to the modern conveniences and beautiful funeral homes.  People still go and visit with the families and pay their respects, both at home and at the funeral home.  But as I think of this time now, I remember this time worn tradition with a lot more reverence.

 

WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

I cried again this morning, Lord.

I know you heard my prayer.

But Lord, I’m not at peace today

I still need for you to care.

I cry for what might have been,

The years that we have lost.

While searching for the rainbow

We paid an enormous cost.

We took our eyes off the prize

And through the years we stumbled,

When all that time we might have been

More grateful and much more humbled.

Now I sit in quiet solitude and

Think about our past,

Still yearning for what we lost

And remembering the cost.

MORAVIAN STAR AND BROKEN PINKIES

Losing your eyesight and ultimately your independence, is a terrible thing at any age.  It forces you to take a hard look at your circumstances and make some hard choices for your future.  And it’s especially hard when you live alone with no family close by.

My sweet little Momma had made a new life for herself when she left the hometown where she grew up, married, and raised me and my brother.  She had become accustomed to having lots of people her age around her that loved her, had become active in the church, volunteering at the nursing home, visiting her friends, shopping, and her favorite, going out to eat with her friends.  She had been diagnosed with macular degeneration earlier in the year, but I don’t think any of us realized the extent of the disease.  When she didn’t see a stop sign, crossed through the intersection and drove into someone’s front yard, it was time.  Change was imminent. 

Teresa had driven Mom to Virginia for a visit so she knew we had the perfect situation for her to live with us having her own bedroom, bath, and the “run” of the house downstairs.    She also knew it meant she would have to give up her “ride.”  Now, Momma wasn’t one to stay home if she could drive.  She’d get in her car, put that Grenada in drive, and whiz downtown or wherever she wanted to go, for that matter.  She nabbed a couple of concrete pillars at Covington Square when she could see good.  She earned her nickname,  “Fireball Roberts.”  (Only old racing fans will appreciate that one)   

And so it was, that my brother, daughter, me and Sol, packed every little piece of newspaper clipping, sermons on cassette tape, several hymnals, old sheet music, trinkets, art supplies, and a recent gift of a beautiful glass Moravian Star.   Oh, and her shrouded in a plastic bag, completely decorated Christmas tree with the handmade ornaments from the “home” residents where she lived.  We loaded up a U-Haul van and off we went to her new home in Blackstone.  The Moravian Star went missing during the move.  Mom pilfered through boxes for years looking for it.

Momma was thrilled to be able to live with us.  She decided that her job was going to be that of chief cook and bottle washer.  She didn’t know I knew it, but she did this because she ate her main meal at noon.  We had always eaten ours at night.  So, if she cooked, she had some assurance that she would be fed on time.  That worked out well for her and made her feel good that she could contribute to the household.   I loved it.  I could spend my mornings in the yard, planting and replanting, going to club meetings, playing bridge, or whatever, and Sollie could come home at lunch since he was just two miles away, straight shot.

Now Mom was about the most resilient 80-year-old I have ever seen.  She could fall, roll over on her all fours, and walk her way back up to a standing position really good.  It’s amazing that in all her life, she only broke two bones.  One day, as I’m hoeing in the tansy (which I hated ‘because it had an awful smell), sweat dripping from me like a faucet, and I look up to see Mom coming down the walkway towards me.   She yelled that dinner was ready, and promptly toppled over on the walkway.  I see her when she stumbles, throw down my hoe, and start running through the tansy patch towards her hoping to catch her, but instead stumbled on my own big feet and did a number plowing through that black dirt.  The fall wasn’t pretty.  I rooted up the dirt with my face and snout looking like a hog in a pen.   So, there we were, both of us sprawled out in the yard, stunned.  I yelled for her to stay put until I could get up and then slowly crawled and scratched my way over to her.

After we laughed a few minutes, we decided we better see if we could get up.  She was the first up and she helped me.  Now, we’re both looking all over ourselves to see if we were ok, and decided that the only thing that hurt was our little pinkie fingers.  I called Sollie who came in two minutes and took us to the local clinic where they x-rayed our hands.  Yep.  We both broke the same finger on the same hand.   We sported our splints on our pinkies for several weeks.  My pinkie is still crooked to this day!  Hers was straight.  We made the local newspaper the next week, after young Billy came over and took our picture, sitting in the porch swing holding up our left hands, for his Dad’s paper.   Young Billy is now the Mayor of the town, and Editor of the paper.  His Dad and Mom were great friends of ours.  She and I did a great “fall” together while practicing on the set of a Rotary Musical production a few years later.  I ‘bout broke my leg trying to break the fall for her!  Ah, what precious memories…. But, more changes are on the horizon.