A Lineage of Mothers

a few reflections in honor of Mother's Day

Reflections of my paternal grandmother

I didn't know Grandma Pearl very well, but I remember feeling excited when I knew she and Grandpa were coming to visit.

Grandma kept her long fingers busy with some kind of needlework as conversation trickled around the room. Over the years, she made quilts and other handmade gifts for her grandchildren. My treasured evidence of this is a small doll quilt and a hand-embroidered book of animals.

When Grandma visited us, she also took the opportunity to visit her good friend, Wilma, who lived next door. Wilma—who was also “Aunt Wilma” to my mom and a great aunt to me—was an older lady from church whom I loved dearly. She had a strong alto voice and a strong, beautiful faith. Her love for Jesus was settled and inviting. Just being near her made me want to be a good person. She wasn't a woman who had a lot to say, but she was interested of the lives of those around her.

I know I'm on a bunny trail now, but after my dad passed away, Aunt Wilma spoke the most comforting, validating words to me. These words are tucked forever in my heart with my other memories of Aunt Wilma, all of which are pleasant and inspiring.

Grandma's friendship with Aunt Wilma was somewhat of an anomaly and left a lasting impression on me. The other close relationships I observed valued the familial ties over the bonds of friendship, so this ongoing connection between my grandma and her friend was a lingering fascination to me.

Grandma, as I remember her, handled herself with calmness and dignity and wore a gentle smile on her face, but I imagine she had to raise her voice and exert some force when she was in the throes of raising her seven children. Grandma left behind a stack of journals in which she recorded events and daily happenings of family life. I have not personally read them, but I love knowing they exist.

Sewing, recording words, and longstanding friendship are three things I too treasure highly. I wish I could know my grandma now. I think we'd find we have much in common.

Reflections of my maternal grandma

For the first half of my life, I lived within a mile of Grandma Elizabeth (or “Lizzie” as she was affectionately known by many.)

Grandma was one of the sweetest, meekest people I've ever met. Her smooth porcelain skin, small stature, and gentle ways were a perfect match to her calm and gentle personality. She spent her life serving others. I have no recollections of her being selfish with her time, things, or home.

Grandma was in the center of family life, but she seemed set apart from the chaos and clamor around her. Her warm ways magnetically attracted her family, and her peaceful spirit repelled conflict. I’d often walk to her place just to say, “Hi,” or to see if anyone else from the family had stopped in.

My mouth waters when I recall finding freshly baked dinner rolls cooling on Grandma's counter. My mom was renowned through the town for her dinner rolls. But Grandma added whole wheat to hers, and I loved them just as much. Maybe more.

Grandma’s love of beauty was displayed in her flower beds and the potted plants under her back deck. When I plant marigolds in my garden and geraniums in my flower bed or step outside on a spring morning and catch a dreamy whiff of lilacs, I close my eyes and picture myself standing in Grandma's yard.

Grandma’s yard contained a huge patch of lush, green grass which we grandchildren would trample with our games or lounge upon while we’d chatter. A large garden kept much of the family supplied with peas, carrots, potatoes, and corn, and we’d gather for the harvest. Cool spring mornings of shelling peas on Grandma’s porch and hot summer days of cutting corn were highlights of the year.

When I think of Grandma's thirteen children “calm, sweet, and meek” are not the words that come to mind. The words I'd choose for them are more like “energetic, opinionated, ambitious, and unforgettable.” My strapping uncles all measure in around the six-foot mark, some taller. They'd confidently take on the world with their square jaws and broad shoulders. My spunky aunts and mom would boisterously bat their ideas and opinions around with each other. They'd plan and execute events with mesmerizing levels of efficiency and energy. When I grow up, I hope to be as organized and ambitious as they are.

My tiny grandma, whose own shoulders were stooped by the years and by the babies she'd carried, had low tolerance for poor posture. She had no problem telling me, her 5' 9” granddaughter, to “put your head up and your shoulders back and stand up straight.”

Both of my grandmas were followers of Jesus. Both were loyal women whose careers were their husband and children. I'm honored to be named in the lineage of both of them, and I hope those who knew them can see traces of my grandmas in me.

Reflections on my mom

I'm staring at a bunch of notes I jotted down, and I'm realizing that will be impossible to encapsulate my mom with a couple short paragraphs. I also know my mom will read this and that she doesn't like to be the center of attention. Bear with me, Mom. =)

There was always a buzz of activity surrounding Mom. Our kitchen and living room were frequently transformed into a bakery as Mom baked for markets, direct orders, and the family. It wasn't uncommon to arrive home after school and be greeted by the smell of freshly baked cinnamon rolls or bread. Mom was scrupulous about keeping all surfaces perfectly clean when she was baking for others. But if she was just making supper for us, she'd tolerate me sitting on the end of the counter and chattering about my school day. It was always a one-sided conversation, and I wonder if I ever said anything worthwhile. Either way, it was delightful to verbally recount all the highlights of my day.

Mom, the eldest of her local sisters, was often the one leading the way when she and her sisters were gardening, canning fresh produce, cooking large vats of old hens (to make the richest, most delicious and nutritious chicken broth), or planning a meal for many. She kept a well-stocked pantry, and family often stopped by to borrow an item which was missing from their own pantry.

She befriended the Petty family who brought fresh fruit from the Okanagan Valley in B.C. and was soon distributing shipments of fruit to the local community. Eventually, I would work for the Pettys at the local farmers market, thanks to Mom. I also had the pleasure of working at market when mom was there selling her baked goods. I loved the interaction with people and the atmosphere of market. To this day, I bask in nostalgia when attending a market where people peddle their handmade or homegrown goods.

The physical needs of others were a paramount concern to Mom. Did someone needed a ride to pick up a car from the repair shop? Mom was grabbing her keys and walking out the door. Deposit a check at the bank? Mom was turning out lights and leaving for town. Dinner buns or cinnamon rolls? Mom was pulling out her recipe book and the 3-gallon buckets of flour and sugar. Broken glasses? Mom was on the phone with the optical. Sick? Mom was calling the doctor.

As an only daughter, I don't doubt that I was spoiled. There was new fabric for a dress when my closets were full, or a twist cone to enjoy on the way home from town just because.

Mom taught me more than I can possibly recount here, and when she couldn't teach me what I wanted to learn, she took me to the ones who could. The cake decorating classes, voice lessons, and the tutelage of specialty seamstresses have greatly enriched my life.

In Mom's house, things were meticulously clean. We took our shoes off by the front door and sat at the table to eat. I've jokingly told friends that Mom's floor was so clean we could've eaten from it, but in reality, it's the truth. I grew up thinking “Cleanliness is next to Godliness,” was directly from the Bible. It wasn't until I was older and looked for it that I realized this line was not Scripture. I've come to believe that mom and her sisters clean for fun. It might not be dirty, but they'll clean it anyway.

Mom was always concerned about my health, my whereabouts, my behavior, my entertainment, and my friends. When I'd get home late at night as a teenager, I could be sure to find mom sitting in the rocking chair which overlooked the driveway.

After each of my babies were born, Mom came to help us for a few weeks. She'd tackle the dishes and the laundry, play games with the older children, and walk the floor with baby at night, doing all she could to ensure a speedy recovery for me.

Last summer, as I sat by Mom’s bed in the hospital, acted as her medical liaison, and attended to her other needs, I had to think of how she’s tirelessly cared for others through the years. What an honor to return some of the tangible love she has shown to me.

Reflections of my own Motherhood

Seventeen years ago on a sunny spring day, my husband and I drove away from the hospital bursting with the pride that assails new parents.

I could think of nothing other than the tiny person lying in the car seat behind me. A brand-new baby! And not just any baby. She was our baby. I was smitten.

A twinge of guilt tingled in my head, as though I was privy to a bank robbery. If I'd have confessed my ignorance about babies to these wise doctors and nurses, would they have let us march out the door with this treasure? But as it was, they'd helped us pack up our baby and her things and had cheerfully escorted us to the doors. They didn't even walk out to the car and make sure the car seat was fastened properly. I was shocked.

We drove only a few blocks before I asked Vaughn to pull over so I could check on her. I can't remember for sure, but it seems to me that I stayed in the back beside her. How could I know she was safe if I couldn't see her? Was she happy? Was she sad? Was she breathing?!? I was overwhelmed.

The years pass. I watch these fascinating children of mine grow tall, develop friendships, expand their knowledge, and master things that are beyond my skill set— replacing a doorknob, calculating pages of mind-bending accounting, playing a tune on an instrument, and mowing straight swaths of grass on our ZTR.

My wonder grows. My questions multiply.

I think of the lineage of mothers before me and wonder if they too had questions and uncertainties. Is woman of calmness, dignity, and faith something a mom grows into alongside her children? If I keep learning the lessons that life and my children are teaching me, maybe someday my children will look back and find that they too have learned good things from me.

Whether you are at the age with much-to-teach or the stage with much-to-learn, I wish for you much courage, wisdom, patience, and laughter.

And now, I leave with you…

The Reality of Motherhood

I wasn't even playing

A game of hide and seek,

But walking through my living room

I caught a little peek

Of pink socks peering at me

From the corner of the chair

I gather them up to me

And sigh into the air.

Tucked beneath the desk,

I spy a sock of charcoal gray,

And I wonder just how many

Of these strays I'll find today.

I groan and grab the sock

As I move out of the room.

I see the cake crumbs on the floor

That got missed by the broom.

Cluttered is the counter.

Shoes are scattered by the door.

Crowded is the sink.

I spy more socks on the floor.

Like a boiling pot of milk,

My frustration's on the brink,

I reach to grab this pair of socks

And here is what I think.

The guilty will be punished.

They'll sweep the kitchen floor.

They'll pick up socks.

They'll clean the sink.

And maybe even more!

My cross-examination

To convict and punish duly

Reveals that these offending socks

Belong to me,

Yours Truly.

Happy Mother's Day!

I'm honored and humbled by each and every one of you that reads my words. I no longer sit on Mom's counter and chatter. I write instead. Thank you for reading.