My South: Mother’s Day

Looking through Facebook posts of my friends this week, I felt a little envious and sad. It seems every other post is someone’s smiling mother. I especially like the older pictures that look hand-tinted. There’s something about those old photographs that almost brings them to life. When my mom died on Feb. 20, 2012, she left an empty place in my heart that can never be filled.

My mother was a piece of work. Her life path took her through hard times. My mother came from a big family. She and her siblings could have fielded a football team with an extra one serving as a water boy. She was born in 1924 and, like many of our parents, suffered through the Great Depression. She knew the taste of hunger. As a result, she was reluctant to throw anything away. She washed and reused aluminum pie plates and plastic spoons.

She was quiet and easy-going most of the time, but when something got her hackles up, we all knew to give her some room. She also didn’t make it a habit of telling her kids to do something twice. As a kid, whenever I considered ignoring one of her requests, I remembered the hickory stripes on my leg. That gave me the motivation to take out the scuttle of coal ash left from the fireplace hearth each morning.

She was slow to cry. In fact, it was years before I saw tears fall from her eyes. Maybe it was growing up during those hard years that made her feel that crying made her look weak. 

The first time I remember seeing tears in her eyes was when my older brother Neil graduated from high school. Of course, those were tears of pride. Neil was not a model student. There were some report cards during his high school years that bled with red “F’s.” She was unconvinced that Neil would walk down the aisle wearing a cap and gown.  But he pulled it together, and she was as proud as I’ve ever seen her. 

All us kids moved out of the old house in Sloss to make lives of our own. When my dad died in 1986, she lived alone for years. Each Sunday she cooked dinner. At first, it was for her kids and grandkids, but it evolved into a community event. It was not uncommon to arrive at lunch on Sunday and needed a traffic cop to help with parking. Our family, cousins, friends and her church buddies all broke bread together. The laughter was loud and no one left without a go-box with butterbeans, cornbread and a slice of pecan pie. If anyone left hungry, it was not her fault.

I have one of those old pictures of my mom and dad on the mantel of our fireplace. It’s not one of those items that blend into the background of our home and becomes invisible. I look at it every day and think about my mama.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Rick Watson is a columnist and author. His latest book Life Goes On is available on Amazon.com. You can contact him via email at rick@rickwatson-writer.com.