As far back as I can remember, Mom always gave me Coca-Cola when I had nausea. Most of the time it fixed it.
I went to the clinic to get the dreaded vaccinations. I heard children crying everywhere in the room. I was very small, and I remember getting my shot, then adding my cries to the mix. Mom gave me a sugar lump and told me to put it in my mouth. It was, unbeknownst to me, a Polio vaccine. All I knew was that my mother was giving me a tasty treat to calm me after that horrible shot. She was wonderful!
Mom, with a pair of tweezers, gently removed all those apple peelings I had packed tightly inside my nostrils. And no, I don't know why I put them there.
I had a bad case of measles, and I remember feeling very sick and being speedily carried towards the bathroom one dark night. Don't know what the hurry was, but it's probably a good thing that I don't remember everything. Feeling the sick is not a good memory, but the simultaneous feeling of security is a wonderful memory.
She's kneeling down next to me at the toilet. She's wiping and helping me get my underwear back on after potty-poop time. Even at 3 or 4 I remember her looking into the toilet behind me. I asked her what she was looking at, and she flat out said "I'm looking for worms." She was my Mom and she had a plan. So no more questions by me--what she said was good enough.
My Mom was the best sand spur remover of any little foot in south Florida!
She had me lay my head on her lap while sitting on the living room couch so she could apply a cool damp rag to my forehead. It had a giant knot on it from having flown over my bicycle handlebars a few minutes before and hitting head first on the asphalt. I was having fun before it happened, as I followed Colleen, and our friends Kim and Jolene. And I was happy after it happened, because I had Doc Mom to baby me.
At six and seven years of age, Mom would routinely administer alcohol baths onto my person after berry-picking trips during visits with Mother and Pop in Tallahassee. "Chigger days" may sound dreadful to most folks, but they were wonderful days to me.
I went to the dentist at age seven, a dentist who was right next door to our house on the other side of a concrete wall at the end of our cul-de-sac, and he filled my mouth good with lots of silver. It was shortly before Halloween, and the dentist told Mom to put a strict limit on my candy intake that year. I remember going Trick-or-Treating, and that evening having all my goods poured out onto the kitchen table. Mom was divvying out what I was going to be allowed to eat that year, and it was slim. I felt like that dentist had done a Trick on me that Halloween. Bummer.
She lied to me about why we (she, Colleen and I) were headed to the doctor. I was in for a tetanus shot, but mom didn't want me to stress over it ahead of time. She made it a "surprise" since I had always been such a baby about shots.
"That's all you need right now. If you eat too much of it raw it'll give you worms." I liked the taste of raw potato, and if I was in the kitchen when she was cutting up some for supper, she would always slip me a couple of pieces. "Just a couple, now."
She refused to let me get my ears pierced! No, I'm not "fondly" stating that. I wanted them pierced from at least age six, but she wouldn't let me do it until I was 12. I told her about some self-piercers you could buy to do it yourself, and she got some for me. I was a wimp and I couldn't put them on myself, since they had such seriously sharp points. Once attached, they would start to slowly work their pointed way through your ear lobes, and I especially hated pain that was self-inflicted! Mom put them on my ears, and she did them so perfectly, so aligned, that to this very day I look at my earring placement and say "thanks Mom" for making my earring holes just right. It was a very big deal to me!
During some of my eighth grade year, we lived in Florida, and I had to walk back and forth to school. No problem for me, but one day it was pouring down rain, and it was a given that Mom had no way to come and get me after school. I think she felt bad about that especially on this rainy day, as I was soaked to the skin when I got home. She had a very worried look on her face as she urged me to get out of my wet clothes. I was getting into dry clothes, and Mom was fixing me a nice cup of hot chocolate. In her mind, she was warding of pneumonia, but to me she was just being a great Mom!
I remember her washing my glass-filled bloody hand off after I cut it wide open on a broken soda bottle at the local candy store. It looked nasty, and I didn't want to look at it, so she handled it.
She urgently insisted we go to Dr. Brand to see why my side was hurting; turned out to be pulled ribs from a bout of influenza I'd had.
Mom's Food-Related Regulations and General Eating Lessons
I had most of my "eating" instructions by 4-5 years of age.
I couldn't go away from the supper table until I ate all my hominy. I hated that stuff. I lined the hominy under my small plate to "hide" it, and would then get to leave the kitchen. When the plate was removed, the tell-tale circle of hominy would be discovered. I feel sure I did this on a regular basis, but I never remember getting in trouble over it.
I had to eat my English peas before I left the table. Colleen and I were alone in the kitchen one night after suppertime, she at the sink washing dishes, and me still at the plate of peas. I dropped a pea onto the floor, and was glad that away rolled one I would not have to eat. Colleen picked it up and cheerily dropped it into the middle of my pea pile on the plate. I, the screaming little tattle-tale, wailed loudly. Mom came in and released me, instead making Colleen eat the peas with the unidentifiable dirty one in their midst.
At lunchtime, Mom would tell Stevie it was time for him to go home for his lunch, then I would come into the house for mine. I really loved the chicken noodle soup she gave me. After lunch, Stevie would be back over yelling for me through the back screen door. Life was good!
When I turned about six or seven, I found out that my cousin Angie got to have cinnamon toast and chocolate milk for breakfast. I liked the sound of that, but when I suggested it to Mom, I got a "no" and "you'll have your Cream of Wheat...it's better for you." Oh well.
Probably well before 4-years-old: I remember being in the backyard sitting on a bench next to Colleen. I was wearing only my underwear, and I had an ice cream cone. I guess Colleen had one, too, but she was old enough to stay fully clothed. I saw ice cream drip onto my thigh. It was vanilla. I don't know what the occasion was, but I'm sure Mom was behind it. Else why would I have been dining outside in my underwear?
Worried Mom/Defender Mom
When I was in the 2nd grade, my class shared our room and teacher with a 3rd grade class. We sat in the classroom, half of it 2nd, half of it 3rd, and Mrs.VanZant in the front. We also shared recess together. Mr. Tibbert was our gym teacher. He was a tanned, muscular man with dark hair combed in a side part and sprayed with something stiff. He wore dark sunglasses during gym class, and he always acted like he had just gotten' out of the Army. He talked to us like he was a drill sergeant , and made us sing march songs as we exercised. We would stand in our respective class lines and follow his military song-lead as we did deep knee bends or arm extension moves: "I've got a headache. Take some aspirin." Over and over we repeated as we flexed and stretched, and bended and turned. Class over, Mr. Tibbert lined us up, grades side by side, to "march" out. "Quiet!" he'd say. I talked too long, and Mr. Tibbert came over to me, grabbed my arm, and shook it several times while yelling at me in very close proximity to my scared little face. He was gripping hard and shaking my arm, and he was very angry at me. I was stifling sobs, and trying to stifle the pee running down my legs. As the puddle formed on the concrete ground, Bradford from the 3rd grade line next to our line yelled out joyfully "She's peein' in her pants! That girl's peein' in her pants!" Mr. Tibbert never acknowledged that I had peed. My mind had blurred and I really don't remember for sure, but I think he barked at Bradford to "shut up" as he went back up to the front to dismiss us. I was just hurt and embarrassed. When Mom came to pick me up after school, my friend Sydney came with us as she had done sometimes before. As I cried, Sydney told Mom what happened. By that time I had developed bruises on my arm from Mr. Tibbert's grip. You could see the "mad" growing in Mom's eyes as Sydney spoke. My mother promptly escorted me and her wrath into Mr. Tibbert's office. She put him in his place as she showed him my arm and read him the riot act about how he needed to keep his temper from her child. I don't remember him saying a whole lot while Mom was letting him have it. He was a humble man as we took our leave. My Mom GOT mean Mr. Tibbert for me!
In high school, I backed into a girl's car in the parking lot. I had no insurance at the time, and the girl's dad came to the house to "settle" when I was not there. The man made improper suggestions to my mom--made an unsolicited pass at her--and I got to the house as he was leaving. She was visibly aggravated and annoyed. She didn't ask for all that hassle, and I felt guilty about being the cause of the situation. She shrugged it off and told me not to worry about it.
I was a 17-year-old who wasn't at home one night when Mom thought I should be. I had been hanging out with Brian, my friend/boyfriend "sort of", at the gas station where he worked. I drove Brian home after he closed up, I dropped him off, then headed home. I hadn't been doing hanky-panky, or anything out of the ordinary (for a change), but Mom had made "inquiry calls" around of my whereabouts (I found out that the next day from the call recipient--yet another story). When I got home I got a "fussing at" which informed me I was supposed to still let her know if I was alright, "even at 17-years-old." She was genuinely concerned, which was reassuring to me. Something I really needed during that time in my life.
A "fun guy" friend of mine, Mark, drove unexpectedly into our yard kind of early one Saturday morning. Mom, never having met Mark, woke me up to tell me I had "visitors" out there in the car. I looked out the window, saw Mark, and the two guys he had in the car with him. I didn't know the guys, and I wasn't interested in Mark romantically (anymore, that is, but all that's another story), so I was not thrilled to see him. I was friendly enough though, and wore a smile as I headed out the front door to talk to him (them). Mom stopped me by grabbing my arm with a soft grip, and she firmly, absolutely, almost angrily, told me "don't you dare go off with those guys!" I assured her that I wasn't planning to go away with them, but as I walked out that door, I was a beaming 17 year old who knew how much my Mom loved me and wanted to keep me safe from the ills in the world. I felt comforted as I watched Mark and his buds drive away.
A couple years later, Mom talked me up after a wreck I had in my Malibu. She came out in the night, and informed the other driver of my lack of insurance and my "multiple troubles and financial woes". The driver left feeling sorry for me, and went on to handle the dent in her car without me.
Practical Mom (and Just Being A Nice Mom)
I had a lollipop in church, and Julian, one of Mom's babysitting wards, had none. We were in the pew, Mom in the middle, and me eating the lollipop. I don't know why I had one and he did not, all I remember is him leaning up every time Mom leaned up, and back every time she leaned back. He was trying to keep my lollipop in his line of vision at all costs. He was kind of getting on my 5-year-old nerves! Mom pulled out a Life Saver from her purse, and gave it to him. Julian de-stressed; problem solved.
She provided Batman and Robin capes for Stevie and me to play in. At least that's how I remember it. She may have made a Robin cape for me for Halloween (at age 5, I liked Robin best), and made up a Batman one for when we played the caped crusaders in the backyard. Regardless of how they came about, she is the reason we had them, and the reason I have great memories of running around in capes and saving folks.
It was hot in south Florida, and we kids were always outside playing. Mom would hand us plastic bowls filled with Kool Aid infused ice cubes. That refreshing and tasty treat always made play-breaks just fine!
She made a ballerina costume for me for Halloween, in my 6th or 7th year, when I began thinking outside the tomboy box. She also made a cloth trick-or-treat bag one year, since the paper bag I used the year before tore through and all the candy went out into the street.
She let me join the pre-Girl Scout club Brownies, and gave me the dimes for our weekly 10 cent fee. She made, for the most part, the Brownie cushion that I was supposed to make but couldn't get enthused enough about the sewing-up aspect of it. Shortly after beginning the Brownies, I received a swimming pool. I talked Mom into letting me skip the regular Tuesday afternoon meeting so I could play in the pool. The next week came and I still wanted to swim. Next week and the next, and that's how it went. She let me drop out of Brownies, after having invested who knows what for the uniform, the little purse, the change holder, the belt, the book, and so forth. Probably a small fortune for 1966-67. She never fussed at me about it.
I got in a car wreck at age 19 and bloodied up a beloved trench coat I had. During stitches at the ER, Mom learned about the power of peroxide for blood removal, and when we go home she spent a few hours on my coat. I wore that coat for the following 15 years, until it wore completely out. I was always grateful to her for the work she had invested in the coat that night.
Pensive Mom/Philosophical Mom
"If you cross your eyes, they might get stuck that way and never un-cross."
Mom always told me not to handle puppies or kittens too long, or the mother would reject them. Although I suspected this was just her way of getting me away from the adorable objects of my then desires, I grew up to learn that parents always tell their children this story. I've told it myself on several occasions.
"You'll ruin your eyes if you sit too close to the television set." It didn't, and I still do.
Aged eight and traveling up the Blue Ridge Mountains. I'm horrified already about the height, and the U-Haul fishtailing behind us, and the sharp curves in the cloud-smothered roads. The tension in the car was so thick, Colleen and I in the back seat, could feel Mom and Bill's uneasiness from the front seat. That's about the time Mom looks out and down and says "if you fall here you'll starve to death before you hit the bottom." I took it quite literally, and my worries were promptly compounded for the remainder of the ascent.
Mom-Schooling
I accidentally knocked over the dog Tinker's water bowl. When Mom asked me what happened, I remembered Colleen's truth a few days before about the same issue, "Tinker knocked over the water bowl," I lied. I got the gentle yard stick, and the gentle guilt-talking-to. Don't lie to your mommy.
I tried it again with the Oreo cookies Stevie brought over and gave me. I ate them after Mom said "don't eat any cookies." When she saw the black crumbs on my mouth, she asked me what it was, and I said it was dirt--that I had fallen in the yard and dirt flew up onto my face. Yard stick and talking-to. Don't lie to your mommy!
Stevie and I were sitting on the ground playing, Mom came and sat down on a flimsy metal chair beside us. She had a book with her she was going to read while she watched us. The chair toppled backward with her on it. Stevie and I laughed and, as she got up to rectify the situation, firmly stated that "it's not funny!" We shut up immediately. I think back to that moment when I was five years old, Mom was only 25. She had on a mid-60s dress, and her hair pulled into a blonde ponytail. I wonder now what that book was she had. Did she hurt herself when she fell? I think that was the only lesson I needed in my young life to teach me not to laugh at another person's misfortune. No, it wasn't funny, but I remember it fondly regardless.
I came home from a second grader's day, and went to the kitchen to tell Mom a joke that a girl named Debbie had told me. I said "say cheese." "Cheese," she said. "Dirty dirty Japanese," I blurted out with a big smile. I got the riot act from her about not making fun of others people's race--about liking everybody no matter their skin color. I felt very ashamed, and that feeling and lesson stuck with me always. For me, that was the instant anti-racism principles began to be convictions.
Mom and I went to visit her older sister Lucille in Tallahassee. Lucille had a son named Michael who was mentally challenged, and I don't even remember him being able to speak words. I liked Michael, and I played with him while Mom and my aunt chatted. I found a plastic egg-half in the yard, and held onto it until we left. When Mom saw it as we were going down the road, she seriously made me feel bad for having taken it. She said that it might have been Michael's, and I felt very guilty for having it in my possession, especially since I felt sorry for Michael already. As I look back, I don't figure Michael missed that piece of plastic, but that wasn't Mom's point. Her point for me was to not take other people's property.
Aggravated Mom
Mom would get so frustrated trying to comb out the tangles in my hair. I'd never comb it, and it would get matted up pretty bad. She finally gave up and started cutting my hair in what she called a "pixie" cut, which was really short and boyish. I was a tomboy anyway, so that was fine with me.
Mom used to fuss at me for picking my nose. She told me not to do it. I particularly remember being about six years of age and coming home from school, and having Mom get really mad about dried nose pickings all over my dresses. By the time I was 7 or 8, I learned to wipe them onto the girls' dresses in front of me while standing in lunch and recess lines. Sweet!
When I was in my teen years, Mom would stand at my bedroom door fussing at me about how badly it needed cleaned up. She'd say "this room looks like the Dickens!" in a very angry tone. I couldn't help it but I always burst out laughing. What did that mean? What did Charles Dickens have to do with that mess? I was usually laughing too hard to ask her for details about the metaphor, but as she walked away, she'd be stifling smiles. I generally cleaned the room up after those episodes.
Regarding "this room looks like the Dickens": I could now say likewise about a room or two that Mom has.
Fun Mom
She took me to see Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs at the drive-in when I was six or seven. Just the two of us, and the first movie I ever remembered going out to see. It was magnificent!
She got two string art boat kits, one for her and one for me, when I was about 15. I thoroughly enjoyed the two of us working on these fun projects together. I still have mine. I will always treasure, not the boat, but the togetherness we shared making our art projects.
In our Twilleytown living room, Mom and I accidentally stumbled onto a PBS channel that was showing us our first taste of British humor. We both seriously cracked up over something called Picadilly Circus--we laughed so hard the entire show. At 17-years-old, it was an especially memorable bonding moment.
My 18th birthday was a hoot. Mom braved it all and came with Colleen, Teresa, and me to eat out at El Palacio's Mexican Restaurant in Birmingham, then on to the movie house to see Halloween. Mom sat calmly--unmoved and unshaken--during the killing spree of nutcase villain Michael Myers. She did however get some entertainment watching the three of us wildly screaming and flailing all through the movie, as the monster always just missed Jamie Lee Curtis.
General Momming
Aged three or before, by the toilet, and Mom just took off my underwear. She is pouring a whole bunch of little turds, similar to the pelleted droppings that a rabbit leaves behind, from my underwear into the toilet. I remember them landing like BBs in the toilet bowl water. A "fond" memory? Believe it or not, yes. That was Mom taking care of me.
Mom and I went to some church camp for a few days, and I only remember staying in some barracks-type buildings. Doesn't sound cozy, but it was, because I remember I got to sleep in the bed with Mom.
From baby to about four years of age, Mom made me take an afternoon nap. I remember one day I was lying in my bed in our room (Colleen was at school), and listening to the quiet. I was supposed to be asleep, but I got up, sneaked to the door, peeked around into Mom's room, and she was lying on her bed trying to nap. She was awake!! She got up quietly, came walking towards me in her mid-60s dress, and I rushed back to my bed in big hurry--like I hoped I'd be asleep by the time she got to me. She didn't "get to me", and the last thing I remember is her at my door, and me frantically crawling up onto the bed. I stayed put; Mom was kind but she was scary.
Thank you Mom for letting me watch Captain Kangaroo every morning. I know that he was a sitter of sorts while you did stuff around the house, but I loved that show. And after the Captain, Stevie would come over, stick his face to the back screen and yell "Amberrr". I say again, life was good!
Mom knew Stevie and I played "noodles" (never mind!!) and didn't make a big deal out of it like Colleen did. Sounds strange, but those were innocent, and truly pleasant memories. Mom also placed five-year-old me in the bathtub with three-year-old Joey (with our underwear on, mind you) and didn't monitor us. By then, I had the "noodle" game experience under my belt, so to speak. Surprise Joey! Thank you mom for giving me those opportunities for some early peeks!
Mom woke me in the dark of the early morning one summer day. Dressed me, and we got in the back seat of a car. I laid my head on Mom's lap to go back to sleep. "Where are we going?" I asked. "Alabama," she told me. We went to Corona, AL to the Frost home place, and stayed in a very old and cool house next to a creek and railroad track. We were with Geraldine and Diane, ladies from church and good friends of my Mom. We bathed in the creek, and in the washtub in the kitchen. I collected fireflies in a jar. I saved a frog from the well. I have such wonderful memories of that place and that time spent there.
A mean little girl waltzed into our backyard from some houses way behind ours, and Stevie and I were in the yard with our capes on. The girl had a particular liking for my little red wagon, and she nonchalantly grabbed the handle and started home with it. I began crying, standing there in my Robin cape, and Mom came out to see what was up. Stevie was mad that the little girl had done me wrong, and he asked Mom if he could go get it from the girl. Mom said "yes, please" and off he went, my 5-year-old hero in the Batman cape, to get my wagon. From the distance I could see he pried the girl's hand from it, and she went towards her home crying. Stevie came back with my wagon. He said "you like me, don't you Amber?" and I, sniffling, nodded my head vigorously up and down. Mom had already gone inside and missed the "Amber likes Stevie" drama. Well, she probably stayed on top of all that through the screen windows. In any case, I never saw that mean little girl again.
My first grade teacher Mrs. Metcalfe came to visit us at home one night to talk to Mom about my school behavior and/or grades. I do not remember Mom getting mad at me about that, although I do remember feeling some tension in the air while Mrs. Metcalfe was there in the living room. Whew!
My Sweet Mom
Way before I was old enough to properly bathe myself, I remember Mom giving me my tub baths. She would rub the soapy washrag over my arms and shoulders, and it would feel a little cool, but I knew to expect the subsequent contrast of warmth as she squeezed bath water over me to rinse the soap off. What a comforting and strong memory of my Mom.
A few years ago Mom and I were in her backyard next to the kiddie pool she had. I had just used it to bathe and flea-dip her two little dogs. I dumped out the insecticide-laden water, and the earthworms began coming out of the ground where we stood. I commented that the chemicals had driven them out, and that they would probably die. My mother bent over and started picking up the worms. I could not believe what I was seeing--my Mom trying to save earthworms in distress. I teased her a little, but in reality I was stricken by this renewed view of my mother--this tenderness and "motherliness" she exhibited towards some of the smallest of creatures.
My Literary Mom
Mom gave to us (Colleen and me) some of the neatest LP 33 records that provided many hours of story-telling enjoyment. These early-day audio books were Disney stories, Hans Christian Andersen, Washington Irving, etc. Kids didn't have their own televisions in the mid-1960s, and these records were fantasy worlds that carried me far away to wonderful lands. I still have the records, and every once in a while, I sneak away to "closet listen" to a few of my favorites.
My Mom is the reason I read books. She began providing books for me to read long before I could read the words. I have a very early book made of plastic so my toddler paws wouldn't tear it up. She would read to me when I was small. She always gave books to me as gifts, and she always had books around the house. She loved to read, and she passed that passion on to me. After I was about 12 or 13, she recommended a book for me to read called Miss One Thousand Spring Blossoms. It was a good romance for a young girl. She introduced me to author Phyllis A. Whitney, whose works I truly loved over my teen and young adult lifetime. Mom bought a book for me, The Sword of Shannara, which absolutely opened up another realm of fantasy for me. I realized the fantasy world was better from a book than from any television programming. Because of my Mom, I love to read and always will. Because of that knowledge, skill and creativity that Mom encouraged, I write for enjoyment and therapy. Mom's reading background and teaching is the bottom line and root of how I come to write my blog.
I love you Mom. ---Amber
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