Following is an essay I wrote a year after Mother's death in 2006. A little of what I have included here repeats from the earlier essay, but as I pondered how Mother lived her life, those bits seemed important - especially since these were published two years after the first. In re-reading what I wrote in 2007, I am reminded again of her exceptional positive influences. I stressed her discipline in this essay, but I must mention that her self-discipline did not outweigh her kindness, nurturing, and her generosity.
I slept in this morning. After Gary woke me to say goodbye, I snuggled down and closed my eyes, reluctant to leave the warm nest I’d made under my red coverlet. I had not stayed in bed so late in years: I often have chores waiting, several weekdays I must be ready to greet my grandchildren, and more importantly, Mother thought I should rise early and be presentable by eight o’clock at the very latest. As a matter of fact, while she lived with me the last five years of her life, if she didn’t hear me moving around or see me dressed and prepared for the day by 7:30, she would phone upstairs to be sure I “was alright.” Yes, I do think she worried. She also thought folks were lazy and generally not respectable if they “lolled around in bed all day.” Even though she had been retired for almost thirty years, until she was well into her nineties, she still set her alarm for six-thirty. I finally convinced her that her respectability would not be compromised if she happened to sleep a bit later than that.
She held, of course, other standards for herself, my sisters, and me. Quietly, not sternly, she let us know what those standards were and expected us to meet them. She assumed we would do well in school, follow the rules she set for us at home, and behave ourselves in public. So most of the time we did. I remember hearing neighbors and friends comment that Mother never raised her voice. They were impressed, but I was not. At that time I didn’t realize how much discord some families face. But I did know that Mother kept a paddle in the drawer beside her bed - and one beside the couch. If we didn’t do as she asked, she had a certain way of planting her foot on the floor, as if to hurry toward the paddle. I must quickly add that she used the paddle on me just once, I think, and I am sure that spanking was a couple of gentle taps.
Mother employed several methods to teach us. The paddle threat and the shame of not meeting expectations were two of them, but the example she set was the strongest, longest lasting one. Of course Mother was always up early, usually bustling around the house. She cooked, cleaned, sewed most of our clothes, and did our laundry. She taught school and rarely missed a day. Of necessity, she was frugal; by nature she was shrewd, supporting our family of four on the small salary female teachers earned at that time. She also taught Sunday School for many years - most of her adult life until health problems forced her to stop at ninety. She played violin in the Florence Symphony Orchestra for more than fifty years, going to evening rehearsals after working all day. When she retired from teaching, she studied music again and began art lessons. Even in her last years she never just sat and watched TV; she knitted, studied the Bible, wrote to family and friends, or read. When, in desperation, she pulled out cards to play solitaire, I knew she needed a new book or project. Mother was, indeed, a doer.
Yes, she spent her time in constructive ways and believed others should do the same. Within that framework, however, she found time to talk with family and friends, listen to my chatter, watch favorite TV shows, or write letters. While I attended Furman, I knew I could count on weekly notes from her. And she continued to write to me through the years until we lived so close we could communicate in other ways.
Those who knew Mother called her amazing, talented, sweet, charming, and quiet. Some have called her stoic. Perhaps, but she was not dispassionate; she just handled whatever came her way without tears or complaining. In her unflappable way, Mother faced her challenges, taught us, cared for us, and provided our home. Until her death she worried about my sisters and me, was eager to know every detail of our lives, showed immense interest and pride in our accomplishments, and loved nothing better than to spend time with the three of us. She enjoyed reading my essays, exclaimed over my quilts, and complimented my paintings. She also saved over sixty years worth of report cards, recital programs, pictures, newspaper clippings, and other keepsakes from the important events of my life. Certainly, from our births until her death last year, my sisters and I were her first priority.
While it is clear Mother intended to demonstrate her love and caring, I do not believe, however, that she realized she was our exemplar. Since she believed there was only one right way to live her life, I suspect she didn’t know she taught us by the way she lived it and left it. At ninety-five, on the morning before her fatal stroke, when she was tired and weak and using a walker to get around, she still struggled to shower, dress, apply powder, lotion, and lipstick, and comb her hair. And her nails were polished.
I pondered all that this morning and felt a twinge of guilt as I hugged my pillow and enjoyed extra time in my bed. Though I will never, without necessity, set my clock for six-thirty, I see more clearly how her expectations influence the way I live my life. Her approval is still important; I do not want to behave in a way that would have disappointed her and caused her to conclude that I was not worthy of her respect. I know she would want me to live a caring, disciplined life. And when I think about her dedication to her own creative pursuits, I believe she would expect me to continue mine. Most of all, she would approve of putting family first, giving them as much time as possible. I cherish knowing she cared for me so strongly, and now, a year after her passing, I see that in her quiet way, Mother set standards I try to follow.
FAB, 2007
No comments:
Post a Comment