Remembering Mama by Laurean Brooks

Mama, as I sit near your bed studying your gnarled fingers, the fingers which pulled a trigger on the shotgun to scare off critters. Those same fingers made dresses for my sisters and me on the treadle sewing machine. You didn't want an electric one. Daddy bought you a nice one, but you would not use it.

Watching your chest rise and fall, I can't help thinking of the changes you've seen in your ninety-seven and one-half years. Your soft gray hair brushed back from your pale creased face, gives you a commanding air. The light from your blue eyes is slowly fading. As I listen to your soft breaths, my mind sweeps back through the years to your childhood and the stories you so eloquently told.

Born in December of 1920, you were no stranger to hard work. As the eldest daughter on a farm, you were given a double load of responsibility. You worked in the cotton fields in  Hickory Valley, a rural community not far from Memphis. You planted, hoed and picked cotton, even as a small child.

Your early life was not easy. You endured an abusive father who freely swung his razor strap or a thorny switch when his temper was riled. He deserted your family when you were nine, and died a few years before I was born. But you told us he was an angry man who slapped your mother around at the least provocation. It's no wonder you had trouble trusting men.

You had few comforts, rode in a wagon pulled by mules. But mostly you walked wherever you needed to go. I'm sure the three-mile walk to school and to the Hickory Valley grocery store were not easy ones, especially when the weather was disagreeable. Bread was 10 cents a loaf then, and your mother stitched dresses for you and your sisters from the cloth sacks that contained 25 lbs of flour.

At age seventeen, during the Great Depression, you took the train to Chicago to find work to support your mother and three younger sisters. It was during this three-year stay with Aunt Willie that you were introduced to the young interim pastor of Western Springs Baptist Church. He was none other than Billy Graham, and he was single. You always blushed when I teased you that Billy Graham might have been our father if you had only batted your eyelashes at him. But you were not the flirting kind.

Mama, you often seemed unapproachable. Maybe it was because you needed to be tough to stay in control. You rarely showed affection, neither did you accept it. But after Daddy passed I started embracing you. At first, you went stiff, but as time passed, you accepted my embraces, even patted my shoulder while I hugged you. 

I don't think I ever saw you cry while I was growing up.  We did not understand why you often pulled into a shell, withdrawing from us. We knew you loved us. You just didn't know how to show it. Whether you showed it or not, your sacrifices spoke volumes. And when one of us got sick, your nurturing side emerged. You looked in on us every few minutes, touched our feverish faces as we lay in bed with the mumps or measles.

We saw your fingers, cracked and bleeding from hanging clothes on the line in the dead of winter. My sister and I helped with the wash, but you went the extra mile, heating tubs of water on the range and emptying them into the wringer washer and into the large rinse tub. I will never forget the stinging scent of bleach on wash day.

Daddy's job on the riverboat required him to be away a month at a time. During those times, you took charge of your rowdy bunch. Mama, you would have made a great drill sergeant. No one dared disobey you. If they did and got caught, there was the "devil to pay."

You rose at the crack of dawn on frigid mornings to build a fire in the wood stove. Your hearty breakfasts consisted of a full 8'' x 11'' pan, plus an iron skillet with golden-brown biscuits, a large bowl of milk gravy, and scrambled eggs straight from our free-range hens. Some mornings, you made chocolate gravy to scoop over our biscuits. And, was it yummy! On Saturdays, we had pancakes smothered in sorghum molasses. Everything was served with tall glasses of delicious cocoa, made from cocoa powder.

We sometimes whined about hoeing in the gardens and the cornfields, about cutting and packing firewood, feeding the livestock. But like a drill sergeant, you never wavered after you gave us our orders. And you saw right through us when we feigned an illness at the mention of work.

On Sunday mornings, you made sure we went to Sunday School and church. No excuse would do. After a morning of your bustling about, we kids climbed into the station wagon and waited for you. Because you had spent the morning searching for our lost shoes, mates to socks, or cleaning up the kitchen, you had to rush to get ready. 

We were always late for church. It embarrassed us when the congregation turned to stare as we marched inside and took a pew near the back. Years later, I realized that you sacrificed your time to ensure each of us had what we needed. By putting us first, you had to rush to finish dressing. 

I remember the frosty March morning when I started to leave for school, and the others already had. You staggered through the back door, blood running down one leg. You had slipped and fallen on a stob while feeding the chickens. It made a deep gash in your leg. You pressed a clean rag to the wound, then dropped down on the couch, moaning. Daddy set his coffee cup down and tied a thick towel around your leg to slow the bleeding. Then you passed out and I started crying.

You had always been so strong. I thought nothing could hurt you. Seeing you lying there pale and helpless, I feared the worst. But Daddy waved me away. “Go on to school, honey. Your mama will be okay. I'll get her to the doctor.”

Daddy scooped you up in his huge arms and carried you out to the car. I opened the car door so he could settle you inside. Then I made my way to school. But I couldn't concentrate on my lessons for worrying about you. What relief to find you bustling about the kitchen when I got home! As if nothing had happened.

Decades passed, Mama. Most of us kids moved out and/or got married and had kids of our own. We lost Daddy in the summer of 1980, and eldest brother Johnny in 2007. You grew more independent on your own, never wanting to be a burden to anyone. You even mowed your own yard until you were past 91. 

Your heart softened with age, Mama. You became my best friend and confidante. You were still strong, both emotionally and physically. Even your arthritic joints didn't hold you back. But looking at your fragile body now, weak and wracked with pain, I hardly recognize you. I sense life ebbing from you with each breath. It's hard to believe this frail frame once seemed so invincible and intimidating. 

Mama, you have fought the good fight and soon God will send His angels to whisk you away. I sit here beside your bed fighting an emotional battle. It will be a struggle to release you--if I even can. I cannot imagine life without you. I ache at the thought of you not being here to offer me sound advice, or to just listen to me ramble. The only comfort I derive from these, your final days, is knowing you will soon be young and vibrant again, free from a pain-wracked, exhausted body, and that you will be reunited in heaven with your family members and loved ones gone before, including Daddy and Johnny.

Each day brings us closer to your departure, but Mama, I can't bring myself to say goodbye. Instead, I want you to know how much I love you, how, I will miss you, and how much you will always be a part of me. 

Will you do me a favor? Mama, save a place at the banquet table for me. And maybe the Lord will let you bake up another batch of your famous cat's head biscuits for the feast. I can already taste them, buttered and melting in my mouth. Until then, Pass the sorghum, please.

                            ***************************

Today, I would like to post the link to the book I wrote as a tribute to Mama.  Journey To Forgiveness is loosely based on her life. The joys and the struggles. It's a tender, humorous romance. I hope you will enjoy it.

https://www.amazon.com/Journey-Forgiveness-Laurean-Brooks-ebook/dp/B01FEDR8O8/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1534561525&sr=1-1&keywords=Journey+To+Forgiveness+by+Laurean+Brooks