To All My "Moms," with Love

My mother is a neverending song in my heart—of comfort, happiness and being.

I may sometimes forget the words but I always remember the tune.

~Graycie Harmon

I couldn’t let Mother’s Day go by without acknowledging this gentlest of holidays. I love the sweetness of it, like the way it’s marked with little fistfuls of handpicked flowers instead of skies full of fireworks, with slices of burnt toast instead of platters heaped with turkey dinners. I wanted to write something that would honor the women who showed me what motherhood could be, long before I had children of my own.

When I was a kid, most Mother's Days included visits with my two grandmothers. They lived about a half hour’s drive apart—one on a busy city street and the other on a dirt road in the country. They were different in other ways, too, but both were wonderful cooks who loved having “company” come to visit. (Does anyone use that word anymore to describe their guests? We kids were often told that certain treats were for "company,” not for us!)

I still remember how it felt to watch these women as they went about their lives—so gracious, so competent, so filled with housewifely knowledge and easy expertise. They made me want to be a member of that club someday. And they had a gift for making me feel like I was someone special, someone cherished. The fact that I was only one of dozens of grandkids made no difference to them at all.

My grandmothers may have set high standards, but my mother seemed to have no trouble living up to them. Married in the fifties, she had four children in six years. How she managed to get us all clean, fed and off to school on time—even after my youngest sister came along a few years later—is a mystery I’ll never solve. If you asked her now she would shrug and answer with genuine humility, “Things had to be done—I just did them.” It may qualify as the understatement of the century.

For all the years of my childhood, my mother routinely performed the magic trick of pulling items like these out of her hat: freshly-pressed white uniform blouses (for the girls) and blue dress shirts (for the boys); brown bag lunches customized to the particular taste of each child (baloney with mustard for me, PB & J for my brothers, and for my older sister—liverwurst! yuck!); endless milk money, school supplies and permission slips; homecooked dinners on the table at 5:30 sharp; costumes for trick-or-treating and school plays; wardrobes that included everything from the most basic “play clothes” to the lace-trimmed anklets, black patent leather shoes and clip-on ties we wore for dress up occasions.

Where did all this bounty come from, day after day? It was as if she whipped it up out of nothing but thin air and a spatula. Only later did I start to comprehend the incredible amount of skill, patience and stamina it takes to be a mother like this. But what I did know, even then, was that we kids were safe and happy in a world where someone loved us and encouraged us to do our best. And the someone wasn’t a distant, shadowy figure or a housewife too busy with chores to notice us—she was right there, hugging us and making paper dolls for us and washing our hair in the kitchen sink and rocking us to sleep whenever we felt sick or had a bad dream.

When I was pregnant with my oldest son, my mom was the first person I told. When I brought him home from the hospital (honestly, what were they thinking—sending that tiny, helpless infant home with me?), my mom came and stayed with us, doing laundry, cooking meals and getting up with me for 2:00 AM feedings. More importantly, she was my personal cheerleader, assuring me that I really

could do this mothering thing. Even though I eventually got better at it, she still came and stayed with me when my other two children were born. And I cried buckets when she had to go home—all three times!

I credit these incredible women for showing me what strength and hard work and a loving heart look like. Obviously they knew times of heartache and struggle, but these women coped. In fact, they did more than cope—they overcame. With grace and quiet dignity, they persevered.

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As an adult, I have been lucky to have one other woman in my life who shared many of those same qualities—my mother-in-law. Florence welcomed me into her family when I was barely out of my teens. A talented seamstress, she bought me my first sewing machine, then helped me make a quilt as a wedding present. She loved to bake and was always delighted to share her recipes with me.

Over the years I learned more about her as a person—how she had grown up in Chicago, had a career as a working girl, taken care of her aging mother for many years. Eventually, her generous spirit led her to marry a widower with three young children to raise. She took that on, and within a few years had added two more children to the family. To supplement their income, she sold Avon products, working so hard at it that she quickly became one of the company’s top sellers. That was typical—Florence never did anything halfway. She threw her heart and soul and boundless energy into everything she did.

The two greatest treasures in her life were her family and her faith. She was a perfect example of someone who "walked the talk," working tirelessly for her church community and many charities. People said she had a “servant’s heart,” but that shouldn’t be misinterpreted as meaning mild-mannered or weak-willed. She had strong opinions, all right, but she didn’t let them override her willingness to look after the needs of others. Even as she aged and grew physically weaker, that generous spirit never changed.

Florence passed away last Sunday, just one week shy of what would have been her 54th Mother’s Day. I was privileged to be among the family and friends who gathered for a beautiful funeral service celebrating her faith, her love, her courage and her spirit. Through our tears, my husband and I thought about Florence today, wishing her a Happy Mother's Day and thanking her for the many gifts she left behind.

The sweetest sounds to mortals given

Are heard in “Mother,” “Home” and “Heaven.”

~William Goldsmith Brown