Mom and Her Mom-isms

Just thinking…

Mom had a subtle but keen sense of humor that jumped out every so often.  Usually it was accompanied by a tiny twinkle, but sometimes she just dead panned through to the end.  Here’s some examples:

1. Mom was hooked the first time she tried that gas station specialty….. “Cappu-keno”. She loved it so much that she made her own powdered version to mix with hot water whenever she wanted. We never did convince her to pronounce it any other way.

2. She had some other mis-pronunciations: A little boy named Eric became “Eeriek” when my mom pronounced it.

3.  Mom sometimes  would talk about getting the carpet fixed.  It was usually after a meal that contained cabbage…. or onions…. or beans…..

“Kenneth,” she would say to my dad, “we’ve got to get this carpet fixed.”

Or if we were outside, the line was, “Kenneth, we just have to get this grass fixed.”

If you are family, you can chuckle now.

4.  Mom loved the computer.  She was quite social and this was her tool to reach out and “chat” all over the world.  Her favorite social media?  “Facelift”…….

5.  We were poor.  Poor people have to find cheap ways to have fun.  So Mom introduced us to stomach rumbles.  This has to be done just a little after finishing a meal.  One person lays flat on the floor.  The next person lays with his/her head on person #1’s tummy.  Person 3 places his/her head on #2’s tummy.  And so forth.  The last person  has to have person 1’s head on his/her tummy.  Then we just rest and listen to the concert.  Other times we held a burp-off.

Guess you would have to be there……

Father, Thankful for humor and so very thankful to not live in a cheerless world.  Thank You for a mom who liked to laugh….. even at herself.  Amen

To God be the Glory,

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Mom and Her Hands

Just thinking…..

I contemplate my mother’s hands. She is dying….. minutes to eternity.  And yet, these hands hold mine, and give a slight move….. do I dare think it is a squeeze?

These hands held and carried me, spanked me, hugged and squeezed me, rubbed my back, wiped my tears. These hands combed the snarls out of my hair, and clasped in prayer. These hands made beds, cooked meals, washed clothes, weeded gardens, gathered eggs, slopped pigs, milked cows. These hands drove a car, played piano, wrote letters. These hands waved hello…waved goodby. These hands caressed my father’s arm as he was dying, and grasped her walker when she visited his grave. These hands signed her name in her Bible, and made hush-signs to her children when we were too loud. These hands created crafts, sewed on buttons, frosted cookies, decorated trees, played rummy cube, arranged flowers. When did her hands become so wrinkled and bruised? And what does it mean that my hands are looking like her hands? Towards the end, my mother could not talk, could not see, could not hear. But she could squeeze my hand.

Mom’s hands became so swollen and bruised as she aged…. the skin became so thin.

She liked for me to polish her nails.  Most of the time she wanted clear polish or a very light pink.  One time when I polished her nails, she thought that I put on a too-dark color. But she later said she thought they were nice, and waved her fingers about so that others would notice.  I would trim her nails, soak her fingers and clean the nails.  I would gently massage lotion into her hands and arms, careful not to hurt her.

My hand… over hers…. and my hand is now looking like the old hand.

After my mother took her last breath, the hospice workers asked us to leave the room for a few minutes while they arranged and cleaned her body.  When they ushered us back into the room, Mom’s hands were placed like this, with a fresh violet-colored flower in her hands.  I was so touched by their compassion.

The final repose….. Mom’s hands in the casket. No more bruising. The make up artist did a nice job, but I just keep thinking that her perfect heavenly body will have hands even better than this!  I miss my mother’s hands.  I miss the love they expressed with the many tasks she did and gestures she gave.  Now I contemplate my own hands.  Will someone…. someday…. hold my hands during my last breath, and remember me with love?

Father,  I praise You and thank You for the hands of my mother.  What joy to think that even now her beautiful hands are lifted in praise to You!  Make me worthy….. and help me use my hands in such a worthy way.  Amen.

To God be the Glory,

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Mom and Sunday Mornings

Just Thinking…..

We went to a little one room country church when I was growing up. There was a small basement under the church and an outhouse behind it.

 

 

 

 

Going or not going to church was never an option. It was similar to no options on going to school, or going to the doctor. We just did it. We sang hymns loudly to the tunes on the old upright piano, put the numbers on the wall chart showing the offering and attendance, and played with the funeral home fans tucked into the hymnal racks. Mom would bring some cheerios in a sandwich bag to occupy our hands and mouths when we were little. Or she would take out her handkerchief (also known as “hanky”), and fold it into interesting shapes to keep us quiet. If I got really bored, I would go outside to the bathroom, and then march around the church a few times before coming back in. I’m sure my mother saw me pass the window during each round.

We had Sunday school in the basement, with wee ones in the kitchen around a little table. My mother was the teacher, and that was her passion. She loved the little ones. The rest of us were in other corners of the basement, but we could see and hear everyone down there.

Some Sundays Mom had to make the communion foods to take to church. Some Sundays she volunteered us kids to sing a special or to play a song on our musical instruments.

Now imagine Sunday mornings at our house. There were morning farm chores to be done, breakfast for our large family, dishes to wash, making sure everyone was clean and properly dressed (shoes were all shined the night before), Sunday school lesson materials such as the flannel board pictures to pack, making sure we had our music or musical instruments, and putting the pot roast into the oven before we left.

So it was no wonder that once in a while as we entered the church and slipped off coats, that Mom would find that she wore her apron to church. Or her old shoes. Bless her heart.

Father, thank You for a mother who taught us by example that worship was important.  Be with all the frenzied parents who struggle to get all the little ones to church.  Amen.

To God be the Glory,

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Mom and the Old House

Just thinking…..

We lived in an old farm house, which didn’t even have running water or electric when the folks bought it. Dad put in the electric, but it was several years before we had running water. Until then, we used an outhouse, and had a cistern out on the back porch where we could pump water, and also a well. Bath time in the summer consisted of a metal tub set out in the yard, and in the winter, the tub was moved into the house near the heat register. I always thought going to my grandparent’s house, where they had a REAL bathroom was just the ultimate luxury.

Mom was patient most of the time with that old house, putting up with the inconveniences, and the mice in the walls, and the leaky windows. But once in a while she got that creative urge.

One time she decided to paint the upstairs bedrooms. She had seen a current fad about putting texture in the paint, which resulted in sandy looking walls. So she bought the paint, but what to use for the texture? Aha! She had extra cornmeal. So she stirred in the cornmeal, and painted away. Dad was not impressed. But we kids thought it looked cool except for the times we brushed up against it and got rug burn on our arms. However…… something began to smell. Yes, our science lesson was that cornmeal mixed into paint will eventually mold.

Another time she wanted a closet in her bedroom. It was a teensy little room off the living room, but had no closet. Mom walked around with a yardstick and paper and pencil, and announced that since the stairs bordered with the bedroom wall, then we could just knock out part of that wall and put a closet in the space under the stairs. Seemed good in theory. So one afternoon, she gave us kids hammers and told us to go at it. Those old plaster and lath walls were tough, and about all we really could do with hammers was knock off the plaster and crack some lath. Then we gave up, thinking Dad could do it when he came home from work. Dad’s reaction was not what we expected. He informed all of us that the wall was load bearing (oops…) and that the space under the stairs was too narrow for even a coathanger. So the patching commenced…..

Then there was the time the folks decided to finally put in running water and a real bathroom. They turned another little bedroom into half closet and half bathroom. They found a used claw foot tub, a used sink and a used toilet. They even found a used toilet lid made of wood, which unfortunately had a crack on it that would pinch when we sat on it. Turquoise and silver were big decorating colors then, and Mom dreamed of using those colors in the bathroom. So she painted the bottom half of the walls turquoise (I don’t remember what the top part was), but what to do about the silver? She found some sticky silver tape, and used it create the dividing line between the top and bottom of the wall. It did look amazing. Especially the place where tape went upward off the line. And the place where it never would stick…..

The last example is the kitchen. Mom wanted a little diner type of eating corner. So she designed some benches, which Dad built. One bench was snugged in under the window. The second bench was on the opposite side of the table. They were just plywood with a plastic upholstery, but we thought they were great fun. The slanted back would tilt down and we could hide things in there. It worked great. The unfortunate part was when their much loved oldest child set a hot pan on the seat of the bench…. melting the plastic….. scorching the wood. Mom had had a brilliant idea, but that hole and scorch mark were there the rest of its life.

Father, Thank You for the gift of creativity.  Thank You for perseverance.  Thank You for patience.  Thank You for parents who always did the best with what they had.  Amen.

To God be the Glory…..

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Mom and the Sewing Machine

Just thinking…..

Mom didn’t sew very much. I never saw her do embroidery, knitting, crochet, tatting, and the like. She did use her treadle machine to patch clothes, but rarely did she sit down and actually construct clothes. Mom had me use the treadle to learn how to sew in straight lines, but most of my sewing knowledge came from my grandma and 4-H.

However, I still remember one time when mom made dresses for us girls and a shirt for my brother out of matching material. The material was  bluish green with a pattern of happy little stoplights scattered over it. Mom did a great job sewing all of those and we looked pretty good.  (Note:  I no longer have any of this fabric.  This picture is only an approximation of the original fabric.  The background would have more green in it.  But it gives an idea…..)

Then we wore our matchy-matchy outfits to church. Someone at the church had found the same material, purchased bolts of it, and made curtains for the stage of the church. They were long…. probably 10 foot…. and were stretched on a wire that ran from one side of the church to the other. The idea was to have the curtain there in case we did some plays.

The problem became very evident. Four children in  bluish green material with scattered happy stoplights…. standing in front of a curtain of  bluish green material with scattered happy stoplights….. meant that the audience only saw us as chubby faces and spindly arms and stick like legs.

Really…. I wish I had a picture.

Father, thank You for the good memories.  Thank You for a mother who took time to sew for us.  Thank You for her willing hands.  Amen.

To God be the Glory,

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Mom in the Kitchen

Just Thinking…..

Mom was a culinary genius. Like most geniuses, she had the occasional flop, but I remember so many of her ideas about food. Although I like everything today except turnips, that was not true when I was growing up.  I was a brat about eating, and truly did not appreciate my mom’s cooking.  Most of her cooking was the everyday meat and potatoes type, and it was delicious. But a few stories come to mind about meals that were different.

One year, we visited my aunt and uncle in Denver, who announced that we were having pizza for supper. Pizza? Never heard of it. It was not an everyday word in our part of Iowa. So we were introduced to pizza, and Mom fell in love with it. She worked out all kinds of ways to make pizza…. far beyond the then-standard hamburger tomato sauce and cheese. Whatever was a left over could potentially find its way onto a pizza.

Usually she made pizza crust when she made the weekly bread loaves. But then she discovered pizza mixes at the store…. were they Chef Boy R D? Anyway, it was a box of flour mix (just add water), a packet of tomato sauce and a little packet of parm cheese. She still made most of her pizza with bread dough, but I remember that she bought those mixes one year for my birthday, and my friends could all help make pizzas.

Another food discovery for our family was spaghetti. We knew its cousin, macaroni, but were not aware of spaghetti. Macaroni showed up on our plates as mac ‘n cheese, or tuna noodle cassarole, or macaroni salad. We never called it pasta. But after our first experience of eating spaghetti somewhere, Mom perfected and then reinvented that dish. Spaghetti could come with hamburger, or sausage, or chicken, or…….

Mom usually only used salt and pepper to season her cooking. She had some spices like cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves, which were usually put into sweet rolls. But my creative mom decided one time to surprise us by cooking chicken with some other spices. I could tell from the aroma that this was not a regular chicken. And when I tasted it, I must admit that I made a face….. and probably said yuck!

She had put cinnamon with the chicken. It just was not a 1950s Iowa thing. Now I know that she was ahead of her time. Many ethnic dishes, which I now love, will combine those spices with meat…. and even add raisins or apples. But at the time I had no appreciation of her cooking.

Mom liked to try ethnic foods.  We didn’t know they were “ethnic” at the time.  But Dad’s side of the family was Swedish, and Mom’s side was Welsh.  So we enjoyed a smorgasbord of foreign foods:  ostakakka, lute fisk, rarebit, yorkshire pudding, fruk soppa, and pickled herring.  We sometimes cooked out of a 4-H project book of foreign foods.  All of this gave us a taste of foods beyond Iowa….. just not chicken with cinnamon.

For a while our family had to receive “commodities”, which were basic staples from the USDA for poorer families.  Once a month, my parents went to town and came home with boxes of dried milk, peanut butter, dried eggs, flour, sugar, oats, olives, cheese, butter, rice, etc.  There were recipes that came with the boxes; one that I remember us eating often was Spanish rice.  Whether there was anything Spanish about it or not, it was good.  Mom would transfer the foods to other containers as she didn’t want people to know that we received commodities.  But the food was a godsend during a time that my parents were struggling to keep the farm and feed a large family.  We ate well during those times, supplemented by the garden and orchard, and our chickens and livestock.

Butchering a pig or cow usually happened in the winter, when the meat could hang and drain without spoiling in the hot weather.  We routinely killed chickens year round as we would eat them right away.  Mom would fry the chicken, grind pork into sausage and also have ribs, pork chops, and bacon.  The cow ended up being steaks and hamburger. Sometimes Mom would can the meat, with the fat rising to the top of the jar.

In later years, she was not able to garden or process the meat.  Yet it was important to her to have her freezer and pantry filled.  At the end, she had three chest freezers in the basement, two refrigerators, and a huge basement pantry.  She became unable to navigate stairs, and the food sat in the freezers and on the shelves, mummifying.  When it was time to move Mom out of her home, we had to empty those freezers and shelves.  This brought her to tears.

“This food was for you children,” she cried.  “This is your legacy.  You will never be hungry.”

Father, I am so grateful for my mother’s love.  Food was her love language, and she provided for us so well.  Bless those whose hands raise, and prepare food for their families.  Bless those who teach their children how to cook.  We ask that You continue to provide.  Amen.

To God be the Glory,

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Mom and the Massage

Just thinking…..

“Massage” was not a word Mom used very much….. and when she did, it was not a favorable connotation. She liked “rubs”…. back rubs, shoulder rubs, head rubs. Often she would ask, “Would you rub the back of my neck?” Never did she ask us to rub her feet: no one touched Mom’s feet except the doctor.

I get regular massages due to complications from a car wreck many years ago. When my folks came to visit one time, I was touting the benefits of massage, and then I gave each of my parents a certificate for a massage at the place where I regularly went. Dad was elated. Mom did not think it was a good idea.

“You know about those places,” she murmured. “Not nice people  there.”

Dad chuckled. “She thinks you are taking her to a red light district!”

So I assured her that it was on the up and up and respectable. We went, and Mom went in first. She was shaking like a leaf. I helped her undress and helped her up on the table. Then I left. The look on her face was of sheer terror.

“It will be fine,” I assured her.

“Just don’t let them touch my feet…..”

When she came out, she smiled. “It was a rub!” she said. “Not bad at all!”

Two hours or so before my mother died at Hospice, a Hospice volunteer who is a licensed massage therapist, gave my mother a “rub”. He gently massaged her arms, her legs, her shoulders and neck and scalp…. and yes, her feet. She had been restless that day, not really conscious, but the massage settled her and relaxed her. I think it helped her die more peacefully, and I am so grateful for the therapist who voluntarily gave of his time.

I miss giving my mom little massages. I would pick a favorite scent of lotion and make little circles with my finger tips on her fragile skin. She loved the neck and shoulder area the most. Aye….. there’s the rub…..

Father, I thank You for the caring touch given to my mother that eased her into eternity.  May I ever be mindful of those times when I can reach out to comfort others. Amen.

To God be the Glory….

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Mom and the Telephones

Just thinking…..

The first telephone I remember us having was a big wooden box on the wall in the kitchen. There was a part that stuck out of the front where you talked, a part that you put up to your ear to hear, and then a crank on the right hand side. It was a party line phone, meaning that several families up and down the road could pick up the hearing part and know all your business. Each family had a distinctive ring pattern of long or short rings. So if the Millers had a pattern of one long and two shorts, and we heard that pattern, we could lift up the hearing part, try not breathe loudly into the mouth part, and hear all the gossip. Mom didn’t let us do that. She was busy with all of us kids, the gardens, the chickens and all the other parts of a working farm, and there was no time to spend in chit chat  and eavesdropping on the phone. It was there for emergencies and information only…. and long distance calls were rare, requiring the help of the operator.

The signal for an emergency was a LONG long ring: one that just kept going and going. One time, Mom had taken me into town for my flute lesson. On the way home, she stopped at our friends, the Joneses. Mrs. Jones came running out of the back door, flapping her apron. “Go home! Go home!” she shouted. “Your house is on fire!” Mom turned the car around and threw gravel driving fast toward our house. She kept saying, “Do you see any smoke?”

When we reached our farm house, neighbors were still there, but the fire was out. The chimney had caught on fire. Dad had put the younger kids into the truck and drove it out into the corn field, warning them to stay put. Then he ran back, and cranked up the party line. As neighbors picked up on the emergency ring, he told them to get to Newquist’s…. house on fire. They came, with axes, and buckets and shovels. They chopped a hole in the wall where the chimney was, and poured buckets of water down it. The house was sooty, smokey, wet, with plaster all over the floors. But Mom just gathered us all around, in tears, and we had a group hug. And my parents that night had us do a fire escape drill, and designated a certain tree in the yard as the gathering place.

That old crank phone gave way to an on-the-wall dial phone with a short cord. There was no privacy on our calls, as we could only walk a couple  feet away from the unit. By this time, we used the phone a little more socially, but Mom was usually right there, listening in to the calls. She always knew who we were talking to and what was said!

Long distance calls were rare and special. They were expensive and we had to watch the clock so that only a few precious minutes and cents were spent. For some reason, Mom thought that since we were talking to people who were further away, that she should up the volume of her voice. No matter how many times we told her that she didn’t need to shout on long distance calls, she still continued to raise her voice.  And because long distance was such a luxury, we had a special signal that we used to let Mom and Dad know that we had arrived safely at our destination:  we called home…. let it ring once…. and hung up.  No charges that way!

Pay phones were something else to deal with. Mom always made sure I had a dime with me…. just in case…..

We have some favorite memories of Mom and the phone. She had called a local business, called The Big Bear. That company always answered the phone with, “Good morning (afternoon). This is the Big Bear.” Mom must have mis-dialed. The woman answering the phone did not say those words. That flustered Mom, and she blurted out, “Is this the Big Bear?” There was silence on the other end….. and then the woman said, “Well, I never.” and hung up. We found it hilarious. Another time she called a farm supply store, looking for an electric cattle prod. Once again, she was a bit flustered during the call, and tried to explain to the fellow on the other end that she needed it for her husband. More laughter…..   Another memory:  Mom always cleared her throat several times before answering the phone…. or making a call.  And she didn’t answer with the typical “Hello”,  but rather she said, “Yellow.”   We never figured out why.

The wall phones and desk phones with the squiggly cords gave way to cell phones. Mom was absolutely taken with the cell phone. By this point in life, the phone was a social need, not just something for emergencies or information. She loved to settle back, and dial her sisters, or her children and chat away. Just think….. no extra charge for long distance! But if she was sitting in Iowa talking to someone in Colorado, she still talked louder.

By the end of her life, Mom spent some time in rehab nursing care. The little cell phone went with her, along with her charger. Her sight meant that someone had to help her dial, and to plug in the charger. Her phone mysteriously got wet. The replacement disappeared, probably accidentally dropped into the trash can. Then she used our phones. We would dial, put it to her ear, and she would smile and start chatting. I think it was a highlight of her day.

Mom never quite mastered the idea that one could be somewhere besides home and still talk on the phone. Sometimes when she would call me, she would say, “You must be home now.” At first I would tell her that no, I was in the car, but my phone was with me. Then I just began to agree. Home was wherever the phone was.

Father, may we never forget the benefits of communication…. with both You and with those we love.  Thank you for the gift of technology and help us to not abuse it.  Amen

To God be the Glory,

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For Ever and Ever….. ??

Just Thinking….

I was folding laundry in the bedroom this morning, when our neighbor came over to bring the city newspaper. He and his wife are so kind as to share the paper with us. We moved to this home about 2 1/2 years ago, very grateful to find this nice of a home here that we could afford. And it has been a blessing to have good neighbors who share with us, who stop to talk, who look after our home when we are away.

Anyway, the neighbor said that the obituary for the man who sold us this house was in the paper. The Hubs and I looked at each other in shock.

Flashback to 2 1/2 years ago: We had been coming to this city almost every weekend to look for a house. Our house had sold (although we had started looking before it sold), and we had a time constraint on finding a new home. Frankly, it was discouraging. Nice homes, like we were used to, were out of our price range, and what we could afford were old, rundown, leaky, moldy, had poor layouts, no garages, small rooms, not enough space, in a bad area of town, etc.

The real estate guy told us he had another place to show us: a place that actually had not even come on the market yet, but he had wind of it soon being up for sale. We went through the house and were immediately sold. It was an older home in an older neighborhood, but everything in the neighborhood and in this home were well taken care of. There were things that needed to be done to the home, but we could get around to those in due time. The roomy layout flowed nicely, and it was comfy…. homey.

The agent explained that the husband was a professional who had been downsized. The stress from that had provoked a heart attack. So they needed to move. We entered negotiations about the house, and met the owners. They were very nice folks and we could tell that they had taken pride in the home. The sale was completed, and we all moved.

But they didn’t move too far: just across the street! That gave us a little more opportunity to meet them and talk. And then a job opportunity came up, and they moved again. That was the last I saw them…

…until the picture today with the obituary. I stared at the picture, with an unfolded T-shirt in my hands. I willed it to look like the former owner, and there were traces of the man I remember. He was so young…. much younger than Hubs and I. And despite the heart attack, he had seemed so active and vital….. and alive.

Stenciled above our bed are words that the previous owners had placed: “For Ever and Ever.” I began wondering about when they stenciled it there. Did they think about how it might not be for ever and ever? Did they talk about how short life is? About counting their days? Did they cuddle right below this stencil, talking about their dreams of growing old together?

I was sitting in the family room tonight. It is bitterly cold outside and we have a fire burning in the fireplace. I remember the previous owners being proud of that fireplace, and Hubs and I have been oh so grateful for it. I wondered: Did the previous owner stare into the flames, thanking God for the beauty and warmth? I looked out the window to the backyard, the deck, the bird bath that they left here. Did he enjoy that view as much as we do? There is a little pantry door in the kitchen. Did he ever open it and grab a snack, like we do? Did he wander into the sunroom with a cup of coffee and enjoy the early morning, like I do? Did he ever linger by the front door, enjoying the lake view across the street, like we do?

I had a sudden urgent appreciation for this new home, and am sorry that I did not appreciate it as much as I should have when we moved here. My rhythms of life are being established here now; it feels like home. I’ve memorized the light switches, know the number of steps from the bed to the bathroom. I know what time the neighbor’s yard light comes on in the evening. I’m on speaking terms with the sump pump and its periodic groan.

When I am gone from here, will a new owner sit in the window seat and watch the maple tree sway lazily in the summer wind? Will the new owners be mesmerized by the fire? Will “For Ever and Ever” still be stenciled on the bedroom wall? Will they walk in the same rhythms?

Oh Father! Life is so short! I can’t help but pray for the wife tonight, who knows that for ever and ever is broken here on earth. Let her find Your comfort. Please give me awareness of life, the beauty of life, the shortness of life, the sacredness of life. Let me make the most of my days, for Your sake. Amen.

To God be the Glory…..
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