June 1997
Someone told me about a contest on TV. Some channel was having a writing contest for Mother’s Day. Although I missed entering the contest by a couple of weeks, I am so glad I wrote this. It is something I’ve been meaning to tell you, Mom, for a very long time. So, Goldie Mae Routh, I didn’t win you the trip to Hollywood, or a new microwave oven, but you have won my love and admiration. I know this won’t fill a photo album or cook a chicken, but I hope it will fill your heart with love.
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One sunny spring morning, when I was about eight years old, my mother and I walked hand in hand to church. As we sat in unforgiving hard wooden pews, dressed in our Sunday best, we rebelled to such harsh tush treatment by writing notes to each other on the church program; this secret banter was our Sunday ritual.
“Did you see the lady in the big red hat? Doesn’t she look like Aunt Betty?” Mother wrote.
“More like giant tomato.” I replied. At eight, I was considerably more rude than my mother.
I remember another mother-daughter ritual: eating pie at Marie Callendars Pie and Coffee Shop. On select Saturday afternoons, we would shop at the local mall, and on the way home stop for pie and coffee. (Yes, I drank coffee from the time I was 13 years old, and no, it didn’t stunt my growth. Although, who knows, maybe 5’7” wasn’t my peak.) Well before my driving privileges came of age, we would talk my father, who had chauffeur privileges, into stopping for pie on the way home. This wasn’t too difficult considering my father’s love for good food. My mother and I would talk conspiratorially about my father’s need to order hash browns when there was so much good pie to be had.
Yet, above and beyond these precious memories, I remember my mother’s hands: not beautiful and graceful according to magazine standards, but strong and true. She worked with her hands from early morning until late at night, always striving to make our lives a little safer, a little more comfortable.
Someone told me about a contest on TV. Some channel was having a writing contest for Mother’s Day. Although I missed entering the contest by a couple of weeks, I am so glad I wrote this. It is something I’ve been meaning to tell you, Mom, for a very long time. So, Goldie Mae Routh, I didn’t win you the trip to Hollywood, or a new microwave oven, but you have won my love and admiration. I know this won’t fill a photo album or cook a chicken, but I hope it will fill your heart with love.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
One sunny spring morning, when I was about eight years old, my mother and I walked hand in hand to church. As we sat in unforgiving hard wooden pews, dressed in our Sunday best, we rebelled to such harsh tush treatment by writing notes to each other on the church program; this secret banter was our Sunday ritual.
“Did you see the lady in the big red hat? Doesn’t she look like Aunt Betty?” Mother wrote.
“More like giant tomato.” I replied. At eight, I was considerably more rude than my mother.
I remember another mother-daughter ritual: eating pie at Marie Callendars Pie and Coffee Shop. On select Saturday afternoons, we would shop at the local mall, and on the way home stop for pie and coffee. (Yes, I drank coffee from the time I was 13 years old, and no, it didn’t stunt my growth. Although, who knows, maybe 5’7” wasn’t my peak.) Well before my driving privileges came of age, we would talk my father, who had chauffeur privileges, into stopping for pie on the way home. This wasn’t too difficult considering my father’s love for good food. My mother and I would talk conspiratorially about my father’s need to order hash browns when there was so much good pie to be had.
Yet, above and beyond these precious memories, I remember my mother’s hands: not beautiful and graceful according to magazine standards, but strong and true. She worked with her hands from early morning until late at night, always striving to make our lives a little safer, a little more comfortable.
My mother’s hands baked. We always had fresh cookies or pies or cinnamon rolls to warm our tummies on cold winter days. As we reaped the benefits, my family said a silent prayer of thankfulness for my mother’s insatiable sweet tooth.
My mother’s hands sewed. Even when I didn’t appreciate it, I had the most beautiful handcrafted clothing; the detail work matched only by the love invested in every stitch. If I’d only known then what I know now, I would have reveled in these one-of-a-kind treasures instead of harping about not having “store bought” clothes to wear and be “like everybody else."
My mother’s hands cooked. At 3:30 to 4:00 p.m. every day of every week of every year that I can remember, my mother started supper. It was always delicious, usually consisting of meat, potatoes, bread, gravy, some kind of vegetable that I wouldn’t eat, and a salad. Of course, a fresh baked dessert followed! Mom cooked farm food for hearty appetites and it never left us wanting, although it would be considered a little heavy with fats and starches compared with today’s healthy standards.
My mother’s hands worked. From the time I was about ten years old, my mother worked outside the home from 6:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. at the local high school’s cafeteria. She chose these hours so she could be there when we came home from school. It was often exhaustive to rise so early, work so hard, and then come home to another set of chores and family demands. She kept on going though, never looking back. Now that I think of it, that is probably why there was always a pot of coffee brewing in our house!
My mother’s hands cleaned. The most vivid and touching memory of my mother was when she had to bandage cracked and bleeding fingers. Too much soap, detergent, cleansers and hot water reeked havoc on already tired and dry hands. She would sit with the Corn Huskers Lotion, Neosporin, a pair of scissors, gauze and white adhesive tape doctoring and wrapping each cut and abrasion, wincing at the pain, but never complaining.
The memory of those bandaged hands, not soft or smooth or manicured, is so beautiful and precious to me: a symbol of a mother’s love and devotion to her family.
When my mother turned eighty, she slowed down quite a bit from those child-rearing years, yet she was still filled with that amazing, never-say-die attitude I so admire. Not long after her eightieth birthday, she had exploratory surgery to determine if two recently discovered uterine cysts were cancerous. The cysts turned out to be benign, but the surgery wasn’t. They had to remove her uterus.
Yet, three days after surgery she was home from the hospital and I came over to cook some meals ahead for my mom and dad. She rose late the next morning, moving slowly and cautiously at first, unsure of her capabilities, and what movements would bring on the pain. While I worked in the kitchen, we talked endlessly about old times, family and loved ones. I had come to feed her body, but instinctively fed her soul. And as I did, I could see a change take place, and by late afternoon a power from deep within strengthened my mother. She called it gumption.
“You must be tired from cooking all day. Here, let me do that,” said Goldie Mae Routh. And she started to cleanup the mess I had made in her kitchen.
I marvel at her lack of self-pity and constant will to continue as before: just doing her best at living life and loving those around her.
So, Mother Dearest, you will forever be loved and remembered as a truly remarkable woman, for I will teach my son and my grandchildren (if I am so blessed) from whence they came. They will know of the hands that loved.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you.
When my mother turned eighty, she slowed down quite a bit from those child-rearing years, yet she was still filled with that amazing, never-say-die attitude I so admire. Not long after her eightieth birthday, she had exploratory surgery to determine if two recently discovered uterine cysts were cancerous. The cysts turned out to be benign, but the surgery wasn’t. They had to remove her uterus.
Yet, three days after surgery she was home from the hospital and I came over to cook some meals ahead for my mom and dad. She rose late the next morning, moving slowly and cautiously at first, unsure of her capabilities, and what movements would bring on the pain. While I worked in the kitchen, we talked endlessly about old times, family and loved ones. I had come to feed her body, but instinctively fed her soul. And as I did, I could see a change take place, and by late afternoon a power from deep within strengthened my mother. She called it gumption.
“You must be tired from cooking all day. Here, let me do that,” said Goldie Mae Routh. And she started to cleanup the mess I had made in her kitchen.
I marvel at her lack of self-pity and constant will to continue as before: just doing her best at living life and loving those around her.
So, Mother Dearest, you will forever be loved and remembered as a truly remarkable woman, for I will teach my son and my grandchildren (if I am so blessed) from whence they came. They will know of the hands that loved.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you.
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This was written in June 1997. It is now December 2019 and my mother passed away in 2005 from an unforgiving, unrelenting disease called Alzeheimer’s. It pained me so to see her like that, and yet, when I looked into her eyes, I saw nothing but love.
This was written in June 1997. It is now December 2019 and my mother passed away in 2005 from an unforgiving, unrelenting disease called Alzeheimer’s. It pained me so to see her like that, and yet, when I looked into her eyes, I saw nothing but love.
© 2018-2020 by Colleen Dunn Saftler all rights reserved
