Impressions of my Mother

Today would be Mom's 86th birthday. I wrote the following tribute for her memorial on March 13, 2011. Denise kindly read it for me. Happy Birthday, Mom!

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Impressions of my Mother

I know my mother best by what she did, not so much by what she said. Though she spoke sparingly and without drama, Mom consistently told her children she loved them. Even in those final months before her death, when her sentences made little sense, Mom sometimes uttered those three cherished words: “I love you.”

She spent a lifetime backing it up with action. Putting her family’s needs ahead of her own, Mom devoted her life to her four children and college sweetheart, Ray.

Mom and I sharing a laugh, perhaps in 1980

Mom was a very good listener. Quiet, but not shy, she handled social situations well, often hosting dinners and gatherings at our home. She was a master at turning attention away from herself and getting others to talk. Her ploy often worked on me. During my childhood, Mom patiently listened to every question, complaint, musing and tearful lamentation I could muster. And when my conversation turned sour, she knew just the right moment to wash my mouth out with soap.

Mothers are dictionaries for their children. One of my earliest memories occurred at age four or five when Mom took me with her to visit a neighbor. When we left the woman’s house, Mom commented on how she was such a, quote, “compulsive talker.” Of course, I responded with the question, “What’s a compulsive talker?” Not only did I learn a new term that day, but I discovered my mother’s listening skills had their limits.

Mom was not a critical person. More often than not she found ways to compliment people. She spoke well of those who volunteered for their church and community. Her few criticisms were reserved for hurtful people -- and that one compulsive talker.

Non-family members had to earn Mom’s respect, but her love for her husband and children was unconditional. My behavior, whether good -- or very bad -- did not alter her affection toward me.

I tested Mom’s love during my teenage years. It was then I discovered she could cry. Though I regret bringing her to tears, it proved how much she cared.

Mom watched over her children even after they left home. If she saw a genuine need -- as in financial need -- she took the lead in meeting it. Mom knew when to give and when to hold back.

Mom was a Christian, but showed little interest in theological discussion. She was ever practical about things. My guess is she saw her Christian faith as meaningful insofar as it tangibly helped people. I think she would agree with James, the brother of Jesus, who wrote, “If a brother or sister is poorly clothed and lacking in daily food, and one of you says to them, ‘Go in peace, be warmed and filled,’ without giving them the things needed for the body, what good is that? So also faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead.”

Mom was a lifelong teetotaler, but did not hold others to that strict standard.

She was a black-and-white pragmatist and rarely gave reasons for her actions. If asked to explain, she’d likely give a brief, unsatisfying answer, then go about her business. Most people take at least one practice swing before hitting a golf ball. Mom just grabbed a club and hit it. This always baffled Dad and me. But really it made sense. If the purpose of golf is to hit the ball, then why waste time swinging at air? Mom backed up her method by consistently winning the women’s division in company golf tournaments at Coast to Coast Hardware.

Mom’s consistent, daily meal preparation, spread out over decades, reflected her selfless devotion to family. Her cooking completed that warm sense of what home was all about. Nowadays they call it comfort food. In truth, she transformed common meals into works of art. I’ll always hunger for her delicious masterpieces: potato salad, fried chicken, green bean casserole, Manhattan style clam chowder, German chocolate cake, sugar cookies, pancakes -- and so much more. I’m thankful for her gift of cooking.

What did Mom do for herself? She designed the Bridge Street house to fulfill her dream of the perfect home within a budget. The builder made few alterations to her original house plan. View was everything to her. Whenever she spent a night at the coast, Mom always demanded a room overlooking the ocean. Likewise, she planned the living room at Bridge Street to maximize the view of Haagen Creek and her wonderful garden.

Gardening was her passion. She once mentioned to Dad and me how the term “hobby” was an insult when used to describe her love for gardening. It’s like telling a farmer that raising crops is just an occupation. No -- it’s in the heart, the soul, the blood.

Mom designed her landscape, always asking the question, “How will this look from the living room?” Hydrangeas, rhodies, azaleas, camellias and native dogwoods predominated, surrounded by endless varieties of perennials.

All of her children inherited this love for gardening. Mom was as excited as I about the blank-slate-of-a-backyard at my first house. Her housewarming gifts consisted of loads of plants to help me convert a weedy lawn into a lush garden. Certain plants will always remind me of Mom.

I love my mother and will always miss her. My soul struggles with emptiness and loss over her death. More powerful than the sadness are the wonderful memories of this beautiful woman. She will always cause my heart to smile.