Mother's Laughter

Mother's Day is a bittersweet time when you reach our age.  We are proud of our own adventure into motherhood and rejoice in the mothers of our grandchildren.  However, most of us have already faced that painful moment when we must let our own mothers go.  I was 20 years old when my mother died, barely an adult and married for one year.  It was a very hard time in my life, for I still needed her guidance and strength (although I doubt we ever outgrow that need).  I wanted to write a very moving and sentimental piece about her, but I found that my memories didn't conform to the idea of the wise, wonderful, patient, ever suffering picture of movie motherhood. 

Don't get me wrong, she was all of those things and more.  She was always there with wise insight into my problems, patient endurance of my woes and triumphs, encouragement, support and strength.  I relied on those things and I expected a mother to provide them.  What surprised me and stayed in my memories were the times when I saw her as a person, not just my mother.

I can see her now, gathered in the living room with her best friends, having an afternoon cocktail and telling tall tales.  Their laughter would fill the house as they shared stories.  Humor was their way of dealing with frustrations and problems that led other women to depression,  anger, drug or alcohol; abuse or divorce.  Yes, those things happened in those days but they weren't as openly discussed.  To them it was better to laugh than to cry.  Not a bad philosophy. 

She loved people---all people.  She and daddy, always gregarious, surrounded themselves with friends and acquaintances from all walks of life.  In a time when color lines were drawn with a straight line, she had friends on both sides.  In a totally Protestant county she became friends with the Catholic priest in the little missionary Catholic church.  When she organized a work party to paint the Sunday School room she taught in at the Christian church, the only Jewish family in town turned out to help her.  Her desk, as the clerk of the local Kentucky Utilities office and later in her flower shop, was always a gathering place for people just wanting to say "hi" and visit a little.  Even my friends would flock to our house to be encouraged by her interest and humor.  I am convinced that I only got my Hubby because she was already married.  So he did the best he could with second best and hoped that I would grow up like her. 

Always a person with an outgoing personality and love of people, she also was a very giving person.  A friend lost a daughter, their only child, in a tragic accident.  For days, Mother stayed with her, giving her the strength she needed to lean on.  She would give calm advice without pushing,  encourage her to make decisions without demands, sympathy without maudlin grief, and steadfast friendship.  Then she would return to our house and cry her grief and heartbreak for the child, she too had loved. 

In a time when it was all June and Ward Cleaver and parents didn't show much attraction to their spouses, I often saw my parents as affectionate and loving toward each other, as well as us.  My dad would spend hours sitting on the couch, reading a book and rubbing her feet, while she read her own book.  (I guess that's where I get my love of reading and foot rubs).  Occasionally, they would pause and share a moment of their day or something funny that just occurred to them.  They frequently gave each other hugs and even occasionally held hands. 

She was totally exasperated by her own mother.  Different as day and night the two rarely agreed on anything except their love for each other.  Although, they could keep that hidden pretty well. It was an eye opening experience to see her trying to deal with the demands and interference of my very domineering grandmother.  Watching her, I came to realize that even if you don't agree it doesn't mean you don't care.  I saw her stifle her irritation and cheerfully do the thousand and one demands that my grandmother could dream up.  I only realized the depth of my mother's frustration, when in an unguarded moment she confided, that her biggest fear was that she would grow old and her children would dread getting up in the morning because they had to deal with their mother.

In my mind I see her laughing because that's how I remember her.  Laughing with us as we told of our school days, laughing with daddy in the kitchen, laughing with Aunt Wickie as they told probably unprintable tales, laughing with groups of friends, both men and women, laughing with customers in her flower shop or just sharing a quiet laugh with her family.

Not a bad way to be remembered.....laughing.