Mom by Lewis

I hardly know where to begin to write about my one-and-only mother.  "Mother" is the last descriptor she would ever want to define her function in life.  If she could, she would surely prefer to be remembered for her contributions to education, journalism, or faith than maternalism.  If I had to choose, I would say she bore more resemblance to the Mary Tyler Moore character in Ordinary People than Barbara Billingsley in Leave It to Beaver.  That is to say, she had few of the maternal instincts that we normally associate with Midwestern families of the post-World War II era.

Like Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz, my parents slept in twin beds.  My dad dressed in a separate bedroom, which also served as his office.  Although my bedroom was just across a narrow hallway, I don't remember ever hearing any sounds coming from their bedroom that would suggest anything physical took place in that sterile space.  I never saw them hug or kiss, not even a peck on the cheek.  My parents didn't even argue, at least, in my presence.  My dad was a solid breadwinner, meek and mild-mannered as Clark Kent.  Together, they were the very model of the modern, Middle American, Methodist couple--except for their fondness for a highball before dinner.

Mother grew up in the small, rural, southwest-Kansas town of Pratt.  She was proud of the fact that Alfred Hitchcock's one-time-favored actress, Vera Miles, attended school there.  Her father, the only grandparent I ever knew, was an engineer on the Rock Island railroad.  They raised chickens and a few cows on their small property on the edge of town.  There were six children, three girls and three boys.  Mother was the oldest.  As such, she had many responsibilities for home-making and child-rearing.  I suspect that that had much to do with her distaste for such menial labor in her adulthood.  She had more dignified aspirations.

Mother was quite intelligent.  She graduated from high school at the age of sixteen with her sights set on going to college.  It was 1923, however, and her parents saw no value in a daughter of theirs staying in school.  She was on her own.  She held a lifelong deep resentment over the fact that her brothers, none of whom were in the least interested in further matriculation, were given a car as their graduation present.

Denied any way of supporting herself on her own, she soon married.  By the time she was 23, she had given birth to a son and a daughter.  More and more, she was feeling trapped in a hopeless and loveless situation.  She wanted a career.  She was bright and ambitious.  Living with a man who she felt was never going anywhere in life and being saddled with two small kids was like being entombed alive.  So, in 1936, she filed for divorce.  Almost shockingly, she did not ask for custody of the children.  In those times, it was almost automatic that the children would be placed in the care of the mother.  Not so this time.  BJ and Joyce were placed with their paternal aunt, also living in Pratt.

Before long, mom and another woman had opened a beauty parlor above the Sears department store in Pratt.  She took the two kids to the movies every Wednesday evening.  Sixty years later, as Mom was brushing my daughter's hair at our house in Michigan, she started talking about the time she and the other woman ran a beauty parlor.  My daughter, who is bisexual, later related that she was getting the impression that there might have been more than business on the two women's minds.  Mother had told me some years before that her partner had, quite abruptly, sold her interest in the shop to her and taken off for California, never to be heard from again.  A lover's quarrel or a simple commercial transaction?  I'll never be certain.

The beauty shop was down the hall from the office of the man who would become my father.  They dated and were married in 1940.  It would be 4-1/2 years before mom got pregnant with me.  Perhaps it was the turmoil of WWII.  My dad didn't serve in the war because of his limp from polio contracted when he was 20.  Mixed blessing, I would say.

On the other hand, my suspicion is that Mom was just not interested in having another child.  By 1945, she was 38 years old.  She was still hoping for a career as a writer or secretary or something.  My fantasy is that on VE Day--May 7, 1945--my father swept my mom up in his arms and carried her to the bedroom where they had their own private celebration of the sweepingly historic occasion.  I was born on February 3rd of the following year.  A new era of American domination was dawning and I would be in on the ground floor.

There were a few small hitches, however.  Mom made plain many years later that I was the child my father wanted--his one and only.  In addition, in her view, I was a "deficit baby", that is, a parasite that siphoned off the calcium from her bones and teeth.  At the baby shower in my honor, they played a game where the guests attempt to estimate the birth weight of the baby.  All of the guesses, duly preserved in my baby book, were on the low side, suggesting to me that Mom may not have been taking enough nourishment.   My actual birth weight was over seven pounds, close to normal.

One of my earliest memories is Mom singing a lullaby to me.  The lyrics, written by Paul Robeson, are, in part and adapted, as follows:

Evenin' breezes sighin', moon is in the sky.
Little man, it's time for bed.
Mommy's little hero is tired and wants to cry;
Now, come along and rest your weary head.
Little man, you're cryin', I know why you're blue.
Someone took your kiddy-car away.
You better go to sleep now
Little man, you've had a busy day.
Johnny won your marbles, tell you what we'll do,
Mom'll get you new ones right away.

Sadly, that was a rare moment of tranquility between Mom and me.  Most of my recollections of close contact with Mom involved physical pain on my part.  Not to paint myself as a complete innocent, however.  Some of you may remember my story of many months ago about climbing the neighbor's chimney.  Years later, there was the time I walked home from school in a light rain without a jacket.  Mom was standing in the front doorway.  As I opened the door, she slapped my face, hard. 

"How dare you not wear a coat in the rain.  Do you want to get sick?"

"I'm sorry.  I wasn't thinking", I said in complete contrition, hoping to appease her anger.  (After all, it had worked before when I suggested that mom stop worrying and ask God to take care of me.)  Still, I was blind-sided by her action.  Looking back on it now, I believe that Mom resented being stuck at home as a lowly housewife and my getting a cold would only aggravate her sense of obligation and despondency.

When I had a spanking coming, it's delivery came at the hand of my mother.  Her hands were good for other things, as well.  When I had ringworm of the scalp, it was she who was stuck with the most unpleasant job of removing the hairs from a circular patch of my scalp about two inches in diameter with a pair of tweezers, one-by-one.  About five minutes at a time was all either she or I could stand.  When I got stabbed in the hand with a pencil at school, it fell upon Mom to dig out the remnants of graphite with a needle.

I believe that Mom simply did not have the disposition for being a caregiver.  I remember her telling me about having to care for my paternal grandmother, who was dying of colon cancer in the early 1940's.  It was clear it was not something she found rewarding. 

But Mom's hardness was shown in other, perhaps even less endearing ways.  When I graduated from law school, my parents drove to Detroit from Hutchinson, Kansas, for the ceremony in Ford Auditorium downtown.  With about an hour to go before the procession began, Mom announced that she wasn't feeling well and wanted to stay at our house.  I was terribly disappointed but not surprised.  She had been deprived of the opportunity to be a part of such an occasion in her own right; how tough it must of been for her to look back on her life of nearly three-quarters of a century as principally a home-maker and not feel big-time self-pity.

Her predicament came most into focus for me on her 50th birthday.  I was practicing my Hawaiian steel guitar--hats off to The Lawrence Welk Show--in the utility room across the tiny dining room from the kitchen, where Mom was ironing.  All of a sudden, she burst into tears.  I had never witnessed such a scene in our emotionally sterile household.  Being gay--though closeted even to myself--I wanted to rush over to her side to comfort her.  But I had not the slightest idea what to say to her.  I had no clue what was going through her head.  Had Dad said something before leaving for work?  So, I just kept on playing my syrupy music, which seemed to be of no help whatsoever.  Fifty years old, ambitious, and still ironing in the kitchen.  That's enough to depress anybody.  I myself don't iron to this day.

On my parents last visit to Michigan in 1989, Mom was sitting in the new family room addition.  At one point, she said, "I think I must have left my cane upstairs".  We had no upstairs.

After my Dad died in 1990, my entire family--wife, two kids and I--went to Kansas to take care of Mom.  It soon became apparent that Dad had been covering for Mom for months.  She was not able to live by herself.  We moved her to a "progressive living" type of senior housing--independent living, assisted living, and nursing care. 

Initially, we thought independent living would be the best choice, as she was still able to do quite a few things for herself.  Ten weeks later, we got a call from the staff.  Mom was having hallucinations about someone being under her bed and was not regular about showing up for meals.  They suggested moving her to the nursing section.

Within a week or two, we got another call, one which caused my mind to harken back to my daughter's story about my Mom's possible sexual orientation.  My mother had gotten out of bed and dragged her roommate from her bed onto the floor.  Then, Mom had sat astride the other woman demanding sex, saying, "You are my husband and you owe me!"  The institution informed me that they had to tie my mother into her bed with straps and that she would have to be moved to a different facility as they were not equipped to handle such behavior.

Not only was Mom suffering from the side effects of medications that lower one's inhibitions, but she also was apparently afflicted with Alzheimer's disease.  It was Christmas Season.  I had to quickly find her a place with an Alzheimer's patient wing.  The nearest decent one was in Wichita.  We moved Mom there as soon as the arrangements could be made. 

At this point, I would have given almost anything to have my old Mom back.  Her disease may have dulled the loneliness and frustration of losing all track of time and familiarity of face and habitat but I can only imagine that those last three years were nearly unbearable, both for her and the staff and other inhabitants, for whom Mom had nary a kind word to say.  It was during that period that my half-brother--her son--died of lung disease at the age of 63.  I never told her.  How could I, when she kept saying that BJ was coming to pick her up for a drive?  At the end, she no longer recognized me.  She died surrounded by strangers, pushing a walker down the hallway, saying antagonistic things to those she passed.  Was she ever truly happy?  Did I ever make her smile?  Either I don't know or I can't remember or both.  I do know that I made my Dad smile and I guess that will have to do.

© 2 December 2013 

About the Author  

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn't getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.

Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband's home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.