Mother Knew Her "Heathens"

 and she loved them.

The first time my mother said, "I love you", I was twenty-six years old. She didn't have to say it. I knew it; we all did. She knew each of her children as individuals. That is exactly how she related to us. She used her understanding of us to discipline and mold us into adults. I can recall very few instances of physical affection. Mother never hugged us in our childhood. At least, not after she became a single mom, on her own, and began long work hours.

 

 I don't remember her ever physically disciplining my sister - "the baby". Mom seemed more protective of her. My sister has always been super sensitive with a big heart and eventually developed that hard shell of defense against a mean world. As she got older, Mother took the role of friend and advisor. Karen lived with Mother well into her twenties, when Mother remarried and Karen shared an apartment with a girlfriend. Their relationship always seemed more like roommates with long morning talks over coffee. I was always a little jealous.

 

 She proudly referred to my brother as "My Son". I remember a hairbrush, yardstick, ping-pong paddle and countless other objects, on separate occasions, that broke when she tried spanking him, which left him in mocking laughter. We all thought he was protected by the greatest of guardian angels. Mom often said how he reminded her of our father. My brother was always up to something, a big tease with a grin that said, "I am the cat and, yes, I swallowed the parakeet - So?". Always curious and fun loving, Jerry cheated at games and tormented his sisters relentlessly. We loved him completely.

 

 

 

With me, she only had to say she was disappointed. I would slink out of sight in shame and embarrassment for days, then try harder than ever to be what she wanted. I lived to see her proud of me. She has been gone from this life for around 20 years and I still ask myself daily, "What would Mother approve of?". She haunts my life in the best possible way. As I have grown in faith, I have come to relate to God in much the same way, what does He want of me?

 

Mother demanded respect, bragged on us every chance she got and never ridiculed.

 

I don't believe she ever gave a thought to our American Indian heritage. We grew up "white", in a white culture, in a white collar, Midwestern city of one million people (at that time). Her mother is the one who told me of her heritage and many years later my curiosity led me to research.

 

A workaholic, she instilled in her children the proud desire to make our own way and ask for nothing. To her credit, she never degraded our father for his lack of support. "We don't need his help; we are just fine on our own", was her standard comment.

 

It wasn't until I was in my early thirties that I noticed she read the Bible. It kept moving from her easy chair to her bed table. She always remarked about "a mother's prayers" and told us we should decide for ourselves, in our own time, what road we would take.

 

STORY: When I was too young to remember, a priest came to our home. (Remember my father's mother was Catholic.) My father never went to church and I suspect Grandmother was behind the visit from the priest. Mother welcomed him in and offered coffee. The priest was visiting to explain that since our father was Catholic, his children would be raised Catholic. Ooooh! He had no idea of the mother he was talking to. She insisted he leave immediately and not return. She "explained" that her children would be making that choice for themselves.

To be continued . . . .