I Remember Momma.

She was tough as nails and soft as butter.

I remember Momma, doling out medicine, putting a cool cloth on my brow when I was sick.

I remember Momma rocking my baby sister in a chair late at night on the farm. Sue had an earache and Dad was at GI school trying to learn to make a farm out of a pile of rocks and clay.

I remember Momma telling me I could be anything I wanted to be when I grew up.

I remember Momma working all day in the shirt factory and coming home to sew most of the night to make aprons to sell to the other women to make extra money. Dad was out of work and sick. Momma earned forty dollars a week at the shirt factory. There were six of us kids at home.

I remember Momma loved the flowers. She spent as much time as she could growing vegetables and flowers in her ever-present garden. We ate the vegetables of course, but the flowers were for Momma. She picked bouquets and gave them to everyone. During the season, the church never went with out flowers. Momma said they were God�s gift to her and it was her privilege to share the gifts.

I remember Momma teaching me the ways of the woods, teaching me what I could eat and what I could use for medicine.

I remember Momma going out in the spring, scouring the countryside for a few new leaves of milkweed. It was all she could find and we had no food. I remember her feeding it to the baby. She explained it to us and we all understood. There were tears in her eyes.

I remember Momma switching my legs with a thin reed of wood because I went out with some kids and let them take me in the river to haul me across in an old inner tube. I couldn�t swim and there was supposed to be a bottomless hole there. There were tears in her eyes then too.

I remember Momma telling us that death was a part of living and when a loved one passed on it was a time to rejoice because they were on a special journey to a place where there would be no pain and suffering.

I remember Momma said crying was selfish because we would be crying because we were losing a loved one and we weren�t really losing them. They would always be in our hearts and minds.

I remember both my Momma and my Dad telling us that when they passed, they wanted no funeral. They didn�t want folks coming to pretend to grieve. They said if they cared they would come and see them when they were alive.

I remember how much it hurt my Momma to see my Dad in the hospital dying. They wouldn�t let him smoke. At that time they could have taken him in a wheelchair outside to smoke. A day later they cut off his legs. That night he slipped into a coma and died.

I remember Momma said when her time came, she didn�t want to die in a hospital with machines and tubes prolonging her suffering. She wanted to die with dignity.

I remember the last two months of Momma�s life. She was in and out of the hospital three times with infections and pneumonia. The home would transport her nearly fifty miles by ambulance.

I remember Momma spending countless hours in the ER, having that IV shoved into her fragile veins. She was always covered in bruises. She was 81 years old. She begged them to leave her alone. Eventually, they would send her back to the home saying they could do nothing that the home could not do.

I remember Momma�s stories. She had some great ones to tell. Some were her�s and some were ones she�d heard or read somewhere. My Momma read whenever she could find the time.  She said one should never stop learning.

I remember Momma telling us stories while she was in the nursing home. She had her stories all mixed up with reality. Sometimes she was living on an island and engaged to a king. Sometimes she was a pilot smuggling illegal cargo.

I remember Momma�s stories were funny and interesting to me. One of my sisters and her daughters couldn�t understand that. They were embarrassed and tried to shut her up. I thought if the stories brought her comfort or even just took her mind off the pain and where she was then it was a good thing.

I remember days when Momma didn�t know who I was. Sometimes she thought I was my sister Sue�s mother. Other times I was just a stranger.  Sue and I understood. It was at these times that she was in a place in her mind that made living easier. Towards the end she thought Sue was her mother. If that gave her peace then why complain?

I remember the last two years of her life, when the only visitors were Sue and Me and Tommy and the people we brought with us. My other relatives said they couldn�t take her not knowing them. Mildred said if she didn�t know who she was then what was the point? But to us there were those precious days when a light seemed to flick on her mind.

I remember one day in the hospital when Momma looked at me and said, �I love you!� In that moment, she knew who I was and she cared that I was there. A moment later she said, �You know you look like my daughter. You dress like her, too.� I smiled and patted her thin hands. There were tears in my eyes.

I remember the last time I saw my Momma. She was in a hospital bed for the last time. The home had transported her because she wouldn�t eat or drink. They had IV�s in her. She lay in the bed looking lost and alone.

I remember asking the nurses if Momma�s three nieces who were nurses in that same hospital knew she was there. The nurse told me that other than me and my sister and my son, she had no visitors.

I remember holding Momma�s hand, dampening a towel and wiping her fevered brow. There were tears in my eyes as I kissed her goodbye, knowing in my heart that it was the last time I�d see her. She never woke up except to cry in pain when they stuck needles in her to draw blood.

There are no tears now. Momma is with Dad and the four children she lost before they had a chance to live. I�m sure she�s happy and without pain and no one is sticking an IV in her. I treasure the time I spent with her even the sad times for they were a part of that tough as nails and soft as butter woman who was my Mom.

Next

Home