By Carol Harper
Before the sun sets on this, my (nearly) 39th year of being a mother, I had a few thoughts to share.
Both my brother and I were adopted as infants into our family; I had written the (below) tribute to my mother 26 years ago. Oh, how things change through the years! Gone are the days as a kid, where you had the freedom to ride your bike up and down Griffy Hill, to the Creamery or Woolworth's, or all over town to meet your friends. Everyone sitting down as a family for dinner is something people might not believe ever happened unless you've watched an episode of Blue Bloods or the movie Blast from the Past. I don't even own an ironing board or typewriter anymore, and growing and maintaining a garden is a lot of work that few have time for (thank God for our farmers' markets). Health care and the advances in medicine and technology today would have been considered alien technology back in the day.
Mom Thelma died on July 30, 2005. She did her very best she could in raising my brother and I, and had so many health problems throughout her life. As a kid, you really don't know the pains that someone goes through until you've experience those pains for yourself. As an adult, I consider myself blessed to be able to live each day in appreciation of my mother's advice and wisdom (Do It Better), and..."to experience all that life has to offer, and live every day as if it were my last."
Thank you for reading, and thank you to all of the strong, wonderful, beautiful women in my life who have been like mothers to me, and have enriched and blessed my life with your guidance and wisdom.
Carol
__________________
A Tribute to my Mother
July 2010
I
barely remember the beautiful, vibrant woman in old pictures, posing
with a big smile, thick beautiful hair pinned up in a curly do. No, if I could
go back into the furthest recesses of my mind, what I remember is a hospital
visit and seeing a woman who was deathly ill, weak and fragile, who spent her
time afterwards in bed for days, weeks, months on end. I remember wigs on the bathroom counter,
the smell of balms and lotions, herbs and vitamins. I remember hearing her occasional
whimpers of pain, but did not, could not and never will fully understand the
amount and kind of pain Mom had to endure.
I remember Mrs. Tuft coming in to clean the house on Thursdays, and my sister sometimes babysitting my brother and I. I so love my brother—we often “...fought and quarreled and ‘served the devil", as Mom would say. I remember my brother and I dividing up my dolls and playing make-believe baseball games, or making Hot Wheel race car tracks all around his room. I remember that whenever we got into trouble, we’d be sent to our rooms, but would still throw things at each other from across the hall…like our baby beans dolls, bouncy balls, or spit wads (big ones, too). I remember floating down the canal on inner tubes, playing Cowboys and Indians (guess who was always the Indian, hmmm!). I remember watching my brother squirt Elmer’s glue down a neighbor boy’s butt crack and down into his pants during one of our neighborhood puppet shows, and Mom busting out laughing when she found out about it (via a telephone call from the boy’s mother).
I remember the smell of a fresh Big Chief notebook, or new crayons and watercolors, and the smile on Mom’s face when I’d jump up and down with joy in receiving them. I remember Mom creating the “school closet”, and I would raid it often – reading, imagining, creating for hours on end. I remember dancing like a ballerina in the living room to classical music on the record player; when Mom came into the room, I stopped in my tracks, embarrassed. She said, “No, keep dancing!” And she signed me up for ballet lessons. (Mrs. Eck's dance studio was the IOOF building).
I remember Mom always signing me up for the library’s summer reading program, summer recreational classes, and the children’s musical theater. I remember being driven to and from Mrs. Kelliher’s house or CWC for piano lessons. I remember Mom wheeling the ugly green chair over to the pink piano, sitting in the basement for an hour or more each day, whapping the music with an old translucent stick, making sure I practiced my lesson correctly.
I remember Mrs. Tuft coming in to clean the house on Thursdays, and my sister sometimes babysitting my brother and I. I so love my brother—we often “...fought and quarreled and ‘served the devil", as Mom would say. I remember my brother and I dividing up my dolls and playing make-believe baseball games, or making Hot Wheel race car tracks all around his room. I remember that whenever we got into trouble, we’d be sent to our rooms, but would still throw things at each other from across the hall…like our baby beans dolls, bouncy balls, or spit wads (big ones, too). I remember floating down the canal on inner tubes, playing Cowboys and Indians (guess who was always the Indian, hmmm!). I remember watching my brother squirt Elmer’s glue down a neighbor boy’s butt crack and down into his pants during one of our neighborhood puppet shows, and Mom busting out laughing when she found out about it (via a telephone call from the boy’s mother).
I remember the smell of a fresh Big Chief notebook, or new crayons and watercolors, and the smile on Mom’s face when I’d jump up and down with joy in receiving them. I remember Mom creating the “school closet”, and I would raid it often – reading, imagining, creating for hours on end. I remember dancing like a ballerina in the living room to classical music on the record player; when Mom came into the room, I stopped in my tracks, embarrassed. She said, “No, keep dancing!” And she signed me up for ballet lessons. (Mrs. Eck's dance studio was the IOOF building).
I remember Mom always signing me up for the library’s summer reading program, summer recreational classes, and the children’s musical theater. I remember being driven to and from Mrs. Kelliher’s house or CWC for piano lessons. I remember Mom wheeling the ugly green chair over to the pink piano, sitting in the basement for an hour or more each day, whapping the music with an old translucent stick, making sure I practiced my lesson correctly.
I remember Mom
dropping me off at my brother’s little league baseball games with a little money, and
I’d eat gobstoppers or Jolly Rancher sticks until my tongue turned the color of
the candy. I remember munching up my ankle in the spokes of one of the old
bikes and tracking blood into the house, up the stairs and into the bathroom. There
was a myriad of other wounds that Mom would calmly take care of with hydrogen peroxide, pink Merthiolate and plastic band-aids. I remember that we’d ride
our bikes and play outside until dusk, waiting to hear Dad’s distinct whistle
for dinnertime.
I remember Mom’s chili, casseroles, clam chowder, beef stew, baked chicken, her elk/deer jerky, and “snowy dip”. I remember her teaching me to clean, cook, bake, sew, iron, dry, can and freeze…planting, weeding and harvesting a huge garden. I remember our lunch tradition of fried egg sandwiches with mustard, or fish sandwiches from the Covered Wagon (now The Pony Espresso), hearing the noon siren and listening to Paul Harvey on the old black radio. I remember countless visits with Grandma and Grandpa and was always excited to visit. I remember many “classic movie” dates with popcorn and hot carob. Mom would circle the show times in the TV guide (especially the musicals, Mom loved the musicals).
She loved babies – sure, she loved her children, grandchildren, even others’ children and grandchildren - but babies especially put a big smile on her face! Mom and I loved to laugh together, find the humor in everything. She was often curious – I remember her asking me what my cappuccino or vanilla latte tasted like. She asked me what Mexico was like, what scuba diving was like. She was always interested in what I was doing – my jobs, my latest writing, my own trials and errors as a mother. It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized how very interested she was in so much of what life had to offer—yet she gave so much of her life and energy so that we could experience all that life had to offer.
She was never a “Room Mom” at school, never hung out with other moms, never a part of the PTA. She was as quiet as a church mouse at church, but had the mouth of a sailor at home (of which the entire neighborhood could often attest). She was mild-mannered and polite in public places (like the grocery or hardware store, post office or bank) but also spoke her mind with irrefutable solidity and clarity. I could only imagine what Mom was really feeling – the physical pains she had to bear, her constant fight to simply live life, her frustrations—the things she had to do and sacrifice just to survive another day. But I never, ever had to question what she was thinking.
What have I learned from the woman I call my mother? I have learned to find the strength, determination and will inside myself, even if it is against all odds (“Where there’s a will, there’s a way, I always say.”). Mom taught me that everything takes work to work. She taught me to invest in my talents and abilities—to grow, build and create, and to enjoy the fruits of those labors. She taught me not to stand around talking about doing something, but to actually do it.
But most of all, I will remember that all Mom ever wanted for me was to be happy. When I went through an unhappy marriage, a difficult divorce, went through numerous court and custody battles, Mom was there for me, supported me, encouraged me, strengthened me, loved me. None of those things had to do with whether I was a child that came from her own womb…nor had it anything to do with whether I was a part of a church or religion. In fact, when I had left the church I had been raised in, she was the one member of the family I could talk to who did not unduly judge and disparage me. She loved me, no matter what, and that love had nothing to do with religion, differing beliefs, conditions or criteria of “worthiness”, or what others might think. Quite the opposite; in fact…Mom never did care about “what people think”. She was there for me, listened to me, and did not judge me when others did. She never questioned whether I was still a part of the family, whether the distance was physical or religious. She was giving and loving, and was Christ-like when others weren’t. In fact, she often came to my defense, solely with the knowledge she had by actually taking time to sit down and talk with me to understand—never in a spirit of criticism or debate. No, the only thing Mom ever wanted to know was whether I was happy…because if her children were happy, that’s all she needed to know. That’s all she ever wanted.
Now, as a mother and grandmother, I have felt the weight of the years upon me. I have gone through my own battles, struggles and sacrifices for my own children. I get so busy and absorbed in life’s struggles, stresses and worries that I often forget to ask myself if I am happy. There were so many times where I would reach for the phone to call Mom, wanting to hear her voice – talk with her, laugh with her, cry with her, talk about life, the kids, the latest – joke and tease Dad now and then. But all I really needed to hear her ask me was: “Are you happy?” If I wasn’t, we’d talk about it. If I was, we would joy in it.
Mom was truly a person who lived every single day as if it were her last. And one day, it was. And though the physical distance might still exist between us, there’s not a day goes by that is not in some way influenced by the woman I call my mother. She is alive in my heart and in my memories…a part of her is in everything I do. She is alive in the lessons and wisdom I’ve tried to impart to my own children.
Most of all, she is alive because I know she still loves me, no matter what. I feel that kind of love only a mother can give, and can only hope that I too can give of my own time and energy as Mom did – to be strong and determined, against all odds. To laugh, be curious, to travel, to watch, taste, smell and feel…to enjoy. To speak my mind with irrefutable solidity, and not care what others think.
To experience all that life has to offer, and live every day as if it were my last.
I remember Mom’s chili, casseroles, clam chowder, beef stew, baked chicken, her elk/deer jerky, and “snowy dip”. I remember her teaching me to clean, cook, bake, sew, iron, dry, can and freeze…planting, weeding and harvesting a huge garden. I remember our lunch tradition of fried egg sandwiches with mustard, or fish sandwiches from the Covered Wagon (now The Pony Espresso), hearing the noon siren and listening to Paul Harvey on the old black radio. I remember countless visits with Grandma and Grandpa and was always excited to visit. I remember many “classic movie” dates with popcorn and hot carob. Mom would circle the show times in the TV guide (especially the musicals, Mom loved the musicals).
She loved babies – sure, she loved her children, grandchildren, even others’ children and grandchildren - but babies especially put a big smile on her face! Mom and I loved to laugh together, find the humor in everything. She was often curious – I remember her asking me what my cappuccino or vanilla latte tasted like. She asked me what Mexico was like, what scuba diving was like. She was always interested in what I was doing – my jobs, my latest writing, my own trials and errors as a mother. It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized how very interested she was in so much of what life had to offer—yet she gave so much of her life and energy so that we could experience all that life had to offer.
She was never a “Room Mom” at school, never hung out with other moms, never a part of the PTA. She was as quiet as a church mouse at church, but had the mouth of a sailor at home (of which the entire neighborhood could often attest). She was mild-mannered and polite in public places (like the grocery or hardware store, post office or bank) but also spoke her mind with irrefutable solidity and clarity. I could only imagine what Mom was really feeling – the physical pains she had to bear, her constant fight to simply live life, her frustrations—the things she had to do and sacrifice just to survive another day. But I never, ever had to question what she was thinking.
What have I learned from the woman I call my mother? I have learned to find the strength, determination and will inside myself, even if it is against all odds (“Where there’s a will, there’s a way, I always say.”). Mom taught me that everything takes work to work. She taught me to invest in my talents and abilities—to grow, build and create, and to enjoy the fruits of those labors. She taught me not to stand around talking about doing something, but to actually do it.
But most of all, I will remember that all Mom ever wanted for me was to be happy. When I went through an unhappy marriage, a difficult divorce, went through numerous court and custody battles, Mom was there for me, supported me, encouraged me, strengthened me, loved me. None of those things had to do with whether I was a child that came from her own womb…nor had it anything to do with whether I was a part of a church or religion. In fact, when I had left the church I had been raised in, she was the one member of the family I could talk to who did not unduly judge and disparage me. She loved me, no matter what, and that love had nothing to do with religion, differing beliefs, conditions or criteria of “worthiness”, or what others might think. Quite the opposite; in fact…Mom never did care about “what people think”. She was there for me, listened to me, and did not judge me when others did. She never questioned whether I was still a part of the family, whether the distance was physical or religious. She was giving and loving, and was Christ-like when others weren’t. In fact, she often came to my defense, solely with the knowledge she had by actually taking time to sit down and talk with me to understand—never in a spirit of criticism or debate. No, the only thing Mom ever wanted to know was whether I was happy…because if her children were happy, that’s all she needed to know. That’s all she ever wanted.
Now, as a mother and grandmother, I have felt the weight of the years upon me. I have gone through my own battles, struggles and sacrifices for my own children. I get so busy and absorbed in life’s struggles, stresses and worries that I often forget to ask myself if I am happy. There were so many times where I would reach for the phone to call Mom, wanting to hear her voice – talk with her, laugh with her, cry with her, talk about life, the kids, the latest – joke and tease Dad now and then. But all I really needed to hear her ask me was: “Are you happy?” If I wasn’t, we’d talk about it. If I was, we would joy in it.
Mom was truly a person who lived every single day as if it were her last. And one day, it was. And though the physical distance might still exist between us, there’s not a day goes by that is not in some way influenced by the woman I call my mother. She is alive in my heart and in my memories…a part of her is in everything I do. She is alive in the lessons and wisdom I’ve tried to impart to my own children.
Most of all, she is alive because I know she still loves me, no matter what. I feel that kind of love only a mother can give, and can only hope that I too can give of my own time and energy as Mom did – to be strong and determined, against all odds. To laugh, be curious, to travel, to watch, taste, smell and feel…to enjoy. To speak my mind with irrefutable solidity, and not care what others think.
To experience all that life has to offer, and live every day as if it were my last.
“To everything there is a season,
and a time to every purpose under the heaven…”
Ecclesiastes 3:1
Carol Harper
July 2010
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Here's the recipe for "Snowy Dip" (I think it's better than ranch dip). It's typed on a card in my mother's recipe box that my brother gave me after her death. I treasure that recipe box!
