Mother’s Day

Rabbit Holes on Mother’s Day

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“I love you every day. And now I will miss you every day.”

― Mitch Albom, For One More Day

It is Mother’s Day weekend and of course my mother and grandmother are on my mind. Why wouldn’t they be? They were and are two of the greatest influences on my life. The memories were numerous and led me down another rabbit hole involving my wife and daughter.

Linda Gail was never a mother in that she never actually gave birth to a child. On the other hand, anyone who knew her will tell you that she was a mother to thousands of children and young people as a teacher and a coach. Others will tell you she was a mother to many who were well into their autumn years. It was just who she was. She had to dote on someone, including…most of the time, me and Ashley.

Which brings me to my daughter, my lovely, darling Ashley. Wife, mother, nurse, administrator, caregiver to her mother. I don’t know how she juggles so many plates, but she does. She has help, a good support system. People who love her because she is easy to love.

Hard working, I’m sure some plates still find their way to the floor. I am also sure there are two things that never find their way to the floor, her daughter Miller Kate and son Nolan. Knowing Ashley, she will probably disagree with me, but she is the perfectionist that I am not.

I could talk about how loving and hard-working Justin, the husband, is. How supportive…but this is Mother’s Day weekend. I must say, however, the system would not work without him being all in with the process.

Listening to a liberal, woke, newscast, I went down another rabbit hole. A feminist liberal woman was maligning the culture wars now including a division of sorts, career moms versus tradwives. Depending on the person’s opinion and political leanings, neither is complimentary and I honestly don’t know if the knowledgeable speaker was a feminist liberal or not. I was just trying to stir up trouble.

In the aftermath, I chewed hard on what I had heard. Questions followed long after I had switched channels to Jimmy Buffett and Margaritaville.

Why do we make it so hard to be a working mom like my daughter?  Why is there a certain stigma against working moms? Why are there stigmas for women who choose careers over motherhood? Why does the normal workday run until five or later, but the mothers begin to gather at the elementary or middle school car line at two thirty or three?

We make it hard in other ways. Primarily, childcare. The national average for two children in childcare is over thirteen thousand dollars. If I made 130,000 dollars a year, which I don’t, it would account for ten percent of my income…before taxes.

Okay, maybe I should try to climb out of that rabbit hole.

Just like Ashley and Justin, both of my parents worked…most everyone I grew up with both parents worked. What has changed? Granted, we certainly placed stigmas upon other folk but I think traditional roles were viewed differently then and not at all the malignant evil social media manufactures to stir up the masses.

I knew no mothers who were a June Cleaver or Margaret Anderson. Most were more likely to climb on a spaceship ala Maureen Robinson…or onto a tractor or follow behind a plow and a mulel. Enough! (If you don’t know who my examples were, Google is your friend.)

If you are lucky enough to have your mother or the wife of your children, take time to celebrate them. A special card and flowers at the very least and make sure your children celebrate with their mothers. I know Linda cherished the hand made cards little Ashley made for her.

I don’t have the luxury of cards. Three of the four most important women in my life are gone from the physical earth. I must celebrate in other ways. Memories of fishing with my grandmother, a memory of my mother teaching me to tie a weaver’s knot in a cotton mill weave room just popped into my head, and Linda flitting around making sure everyone had the most beautiful card to go with the most beautiful flowers she was giving for Mother’s Day.

Linda got a card too, usually of puppy dogs telling her how much they loved their mom. I’m going down another rabbit hole, a comfortable and warm one.

If you enjoyed this consider Pig Trails and Rabbit Holes by Don Miller. It can be purchased in paperback or downloaded at Pig Trails and Rabbit Holes: More Musings of a Mad Southerner: Miller, Don: 9798476572046: Amazon.com: Books

Spirits Call on Mother’s Day

/ cigarman501 / 6 Comments

“…I believe in ghosts, but we create them. We haunt ourselves.”
― Laurie Halse Anderson

The spirits of the past call to me often. It seems as I age they call more loudly and often. They have become a choir but one or two voices sing more loudly than the rest…especially on Mother’s Day.

Usually, they sing late in the darkness of night. Mostly their songs are the sweet songs of a mother’s or grandmother’s love, long gone but not forgotten.

Light fingers touching my cheek waking me from a deep sleep in the early, still, and dark morning. It is not the witching hour but the sweetness hour. A memory, a sweet dream. A dream but I am thankful just the same.

Disjointed dreams with no rhyme or reason. Just the brain ridding itself of useless information…maybe.

Stroking a fevered brow, mayonnaise and onion sandwiches, the sound of a hoe contacting a rock followed by the thud the rock makes when it is thrown out. Sitting on “our” church pew, my brother and I sandwiched between my mother and father.

A broad smile on a freckled face because of something I did right for a change, birthday cakes, Christmas ambrosia, and Missouri cookies. A smiling good night or good morning. Breaking beans on a front porch in the August heat….or cutting corn to cream off the cob under a shade tree.

I only had my mother for a short time. She left me eight months past my eighteenth birthday. Left me, my brother, and my father. For much of the previous five years, she battled ALS until the war was lost just after midnight the second day of the New Year 1969. I awoke and glanced at the clock just before the phone rang with a message I didn’t want to hear. I never allowed myself to actually believe she would die…until the phone rang.

I try to forget those years…the years she couldn’t work, the years she sat in a wheelchair, her legs becoming more useless as the disease moved up her body. The wheelchair changing to a hospital bed. The weekend trips to visit her in the hospital in Columbia. That last Christmas together. The nights my father sat up and played solitaire because he couldn’t sleep from the worry.

I strain to remember her…I rack my brain for a wisp of a memory. I can’t hear her voice any longer and it pains me.  All my memories are fuzzy, and I am pained further. I stand in front of her paintings, the acrylics she labored on during those last years. They are silent. They don’t help me remember.

A cheap bit of costume jewelry tucked away in a small jewelry box. The first gift I bought her with my own money. A broach she wore often at Christmastime. Just a bit of paste and red and green glass. I didn’t have a chance to buy more expensive gifts…gifts she deserved.

I have photographs to remind me of her. Her curly, red hair and freckles. The alabaster skin under her freckles turning lobster red after five minutes in the summer sun. A big smile and a bigger laugh. A bit of shyness. A series of photographs from a vacation we took…when she was alive…really alive. Putt-Putt golf and lounging on the beach.

My parent’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary…but in the picture was the wheelchair.

Readying herself for work at a textile mill, a thick round of draw-in treads draped around her neck and tied like a lei necklace. I wonder what happened to her reed hooks and the tiny scissors she carried. They were always in her apron…I wonder where they are? 

I wonder why my memories of her are in her “work” clothes. A plain cotton blouse and A-line skirt…sensible shoes. For some reason, I remember the color blue and how, late into one shift, she took the time to teach me to tie a weaver’s knot and how to find a breakout on a loom. Strange memories indeed.

Mother’s Day is not a day of celebration for me, not a day of joy. It should be.  My daughter is now a mother, a good mother…the best mother. I should focus on her…I try…I fail. 

My memory moves to the small country church of my youth and the graveyard across the road. Granite memorials are all that remain. Memories of sickness, funerals, and pain.

It is a day of questions and longings. A day of introspection, searching for the memories…the dreams. A day of “what ifs?” She never met my Linda Gail; she never met her grandchild; she never met her great grandchildren. I think they would have liked her…loved her.

Today will come and go…and with its leaving, the return of sweet songs from the past played out in dreams…and a brightening, I hope.

Momma and Nannie…I miss you both every day but more so on this day…Mother’s Day. Rarely is there a day that goes by that something does not remind me of you. Mostly I smile…except when I do not…but mostly I smile.

Mary Eldora Miller before the wheelchair. Early 1960s.

Visit Don’s author’s page at https://goo.gl/pL9bpP or pick up a copy or download one of his books, maybe Musings of a Mad Southerner, at https://goo.gl/zxZHWO.

SPIRITS CALL TO ME

/ cigarman501 / 4 Comments

The spirits of the past call to me often. Usually, they sing to me late in the darkness of night. Mostly their songs are the sweet songs of a mother’s or grandmother’s love, long gone but not forgotten.

Their songs of “tough love” don’t come to me as readily as their “sweet love.” Stroking a fevered brow, mayonnaise and onion sandwiches, the sound of a hoe contacting a rock followed by the thud it makes when it is thrown out. A broad smile on a freckled face because of something I did right for a change, birthday cakes, Christmas ambrosia and Missouri cookies. Breaking beans on a front porch in the August heat…. Strange the ways you knew you were loved.

I only had my mother for a short time. She left me when I was a half year past my eighteenth birthday. Left me, my brother and my father. For much of the previous five years she battled ALS until the battle was lost in early January of 1969.

I strain to remember her…racking my brain. My memories are fuzzy and I hate that. I have pictures to remind me of her. Her red hair and freckles. The alabaster skin under her freckles turning lobster red after five minutes in the summer sun. A big smile and bigger laugh. A bit of shyness. Readying herself for work at a textile mill, draw in treads draped around her neck like a lei necklace. I wonder what happened to her reed hooks? They were always in her apron…I wonder where they are?

Mother’s Day is not a day of celebration for me, not a day of joy. It is memories of granite memorials in a small, country graveyard that is far from my home. Memories of funerals and pain. It is a day of questions. A day of “what ifs?” She never met my Linda Gail, she never met her grandchildren.

Today will come and go…and with it’s leaving the return of sweet songs from the past…and a brightening I hope. Momma and Nannie…I miss you both every day but more so on this day…Mother’s Day. Rarely is there a day that goes by that something doesn’t remind me of you. Mostly I smile…except when I don’t…but mostly I smile.

Visit Don’s author’s page at https://goo.gl/pL9bpP or pick up a copy or download his new book, Musings of a Mad Southerner, at https://goo.gl/zxZHWO.