Mom Memories

My first memory of Mom is sitting on her lap with my sister Amy in one arm, me the other, and a big Ole picture book in between us. My mom mysteriously knew the words to make the pictures come alive, complete with sound effects and expressions of sadness and joy.

She smelled of Palmolive dish soap and hard work. On Sundays, a dab of 'Here's My Heart' perfume by Avon and Aqua Net hairspray. 

In summer, when I think of Mom, I think of Lily of the Valley and Lilacs, rows and rows of peas and beans to shell and snip, and taking off farm work right after lunch, for a swim in the river, fully clothed, why? I do not know. I suppose it was the most natural and practical thing to do, to end the noontime break with a slow meander to the river and a dip into its mirky, dark water.

She always prioritized that we read important books and listen to good music, taking us to the closet library, bringing home stacks of books and records of "On the Banks of Plum Creek" or One Day at a Time by Christy Lane or an old chorale groups of which I don't remember their names. One record we owned and listened to too much was a group of nuns singing, 'Joy is like the Rain'. I still see those nuns standing in the rain, holding umbrellas... is that for real or a mind picture?

Mom is the one I blame for my dislike of gossip, parties, and pretentious behavior. She is also who gave me the up-front, what-you- see-is-what-you-get-attitude. She called things as she saw them, as I now do. This is a good thing and a bad thing. Not everyone wants to call things. Some people would rather not go into those places. Ever if they can help it.

Mom never wanted attention. To the point of that, in itself drawing attention. She really didn't want to be noticed for her virtues. Which really is not fair when one has so many. She should've learned to say, "glory to God" and "thank you!" instead, but that wasn't her style. 

To be clear, my mom wasn't perfect. But she was real and good and taught me some of life's most valuable lesson. As I get older I realize being real is way more important than perfection or performance. 

I caught my mom on her knees a few times in my teenage years, which always concerned me. Had I done a thing she needed to talk to God about? Probably my guilty conscience talking...

Now, more than ever I understand the escape to the bedroom for a God breath, a whisper and a prayer of both anguish and victory. 

Anyway. This is not attention, Mom. It's thank you and glory to God.