We never stop wanting our mothers. That is probably our first and last longing. When I cared for patients in times of pain and need, they often called out for their mother’s comfort. We want out mothers when we are giving birth, traumatized by pain or events, and at the moment of death. Many times I have held the hand of elderly patients whose mothers had to have been long dead and had the patient call me “Mother.” I never corrected them. Who am I to say it wasn’t their mother they saw as they moved on.
Mother
Run You Little Devil, Run! I’ll Git You Next Time!
My grandfather, Pacaw, was a walking rack of bones,stooped-shoulders diminishing the six foot frame of his youth. A chain-smoker, he was never without a hand-rolled cigarette. Taking a small cotton drawstring bag from a red flip-top can of Prince Albert Tobacco, he centered loose tobacco onto a cigarette paper,licked the length of one side of the paper, then rolled it. Once complete, he put the cigarette in his mouth, cupped his hand around it, and lit it with a match while he inhaled. Though I was fascinated with the process, I always feared he’d suck the fire down his throat. I yearned for those little cloth tobacco bags and tobacco cans but wisely, Mother denied me that prize. Mother had told me so many stories of him, I watched him intently, always hoping he’d do something fantastic or say something interesting. Unfortunately, he’d smoked his whole life leaving only the shell of a body and a few embers of personality that sputtered and died before bursting into full flame.
Pacaw ate a few bites of bacon and eggs, then lit up a smoke and visited while the rest of us finished breakfast. He joined us at the table for other meals, but hardly touched food, smoking as we ate. A few times, he launched into a tale of his youth, the stories I was rabid for. Unlikely to say much the rest of the day, he spent summer afternoons on the front porch, reading paperback Westerns. Despite the suffocating Texas, heat he was never without his coat and gray felt hat. I was mystified to see him sitting in his straight chair, legs twisted corkscrew style, both feet resting on the floor.
I thought him quite grumpy, since he wasn’t partial to slamming screen doors, or kids racing by him while he tried to read in peace. Mother must have wanted us to know the man she knew, because one hot afternoon, she pulled up a chair and called us to sit with them.
“Daddy, do you feel like telling the kids the story about you and Everitt and the ducks?” He seemed pleased and set his book face down on the porch.
“I reckon I can. I was over at my friend Everitt’s house one day. For some reason, his mama didn’t like me much, so I pretty much tried to steer clear a’her. Well, we’d been to the barn to get Everitt’s cane pole and was headed for the creek, when we noticed that Miz Maxey, Everitt’s ma, had let her flock of ducks out. She was real proud a’them ducks. They was a mama duck with ’bout a dozen ducklings just ahead of us. They was just tiny little things, probably was gonna be their first time in the water. Mama Duck went right on in with her brood a’follerin’ her. They swam just like they’d been doing it for years. Just as they was about to get to the other side, one of us (I think it must’ve been Everitt) chunked a piece of wood in the crick. Them and their mama ducked under and come up on the other side. I was on that other side and chunked it back across. They ducked under and come up on the other side again. It was so funny, I guess we’d done it more than we realized ‘fore we noticed not too many ducks was a’coming up. We never thought about we was wearing them little ducks out. We was standing there worryin’ over what we’d done and didn’t notice Miz Maxey headed our way, mad as hops. She’d seen what we was up to and I took off. Last I knew, she was a’whalin’ Everitt, and yellin’ after me, “Run, you little devil, run! I’ll git you next time!” I felt just awful about them little ducks, but I sure kept my distance from Everitt’s ma for a good long time!”
He was a person with thoughts and feelings just like me after that day.
More Travels with Mother
.https://nutsrok.wordpress.com/2016/01/05/the-low-down-on-lunch-with-mother/
Travels With Mother (Part 2)
The Most Fun You’ll Never Have, Kathleen’s Amazing Bathroom Tour!
God was with us. We got to our destination, Hot Springs, Arkansas without a lot more drama. We checked into our room, a nice suite with two king-sized beds and an extra bed for the fifth in our party. For some reason, though it was 104 degrees, we freshened up a bit before going out to see the town, allowing us to start out with a less vintage sweat. Within minutes, we were rank. Not to be deterred by a little thing like heat exhaustion, we explored every shop on Main Street, till Mother found a little shop selling belly-dancing costumes. She wouldn’t be budged. Now, as I’ve said before, Mother is tight. She had no intention of making such a frivolous purchase, but had to admire herself in one. Every inch of the stifling shop was crammed with exotic outfits with no space devoted to dressing rooms. The proprietor obviously didn’t expect belly-dancers to be overly modest. Not to be denied, Mother just slipped her favorite on over her clothes, despite the heavy customer traffic. She is a little old church lady, after all. I would never have expected so much business in a store selling belly-dancing costumes.
Mother had us hold her things while she tottered and struggled into her racy choice, bumping customers at every turn. They had to have thought her mind was gone and we should have looked out for her better, or that we were in geriatric sex-trade, pimping her out to some perverted creature with a fetish for demented, antique belly-dancers. Neither choice made us look good. Eventually, she pranced a bit and had us take a picture or two for her Sunday School Class, before being convinced to leave. The store clerk was not amused by any of this, but I figured if she thought she was big enough to straighten Mother out, she could go for it. I know when I am whipped.
An amused motorcycle guy and his girlfriend were taking all this in and invited Mother to meet their friends waiting on their bikes just outside. I think the burly guys exact words were, “She reminds me so much of my mama!” With him as Mother’s escort, we escaped the wrath of the store owner who was obviously thought it was past time we left.
Mother charmed his friends. Her new friend invited her for a ride, which she refused, but she did climb behind him on his bike to get her picture made. Regretfully, he helped her off, after telling her, “Ma’am, you don’t have to go home with these girls if you don’t want to. We coaxed her away after she exchanged phone numbers and addresses with them, insisting they all come visit.
Later that evening, we made it back to our hotel, only to find the air-conditioning and bathroom both out of order in our room. Mother took charge, went to see the manager, and got us transferred to the only room they had left, the Presidential Suite, complete with a hot-spring bath. I suspect the manager thought, “She reminds me of my mama.” For once, a bathroom drama with Mother worked in our favor.
We enjoyed the rest of our visit. On the way home, my sister Connie hung her purse strap on a toilet handle and broke the toilet in a station. She takes after Mother.
It’s Not What You Tank!
–If you haven’t read the first story, The most fun you’ll never have…please follow link above and read first.
When I left you, the infuriated man had just escorted Mother in the convenience store, had a long conversation with her about how much he missed his sainted mother, bought her coffee and a snack, and made sure she knew where the bathroom was. Not a word in my defense dropped from her quivering lips, nor did she explain the situation. I guess it was on a need to know basis and he knew just exactly what she wanted him to know. I wish he’d hung around for the bathroom catastrophe she initiated next.
As I mentioned earlier, Mother’s bathroom stops are leisurely affairs, involving meditation, warm conversation with new friends From the bathroom, and meticulous hand washing. Afterwards she digs lotion from her bag and admires herself in the mirror from every angle. The minimal bathroom break is thirteen minutes. She flew in ahead of the rest of us as we were making our selections in the store, since it was just a one-occupant bathroom. In this than a minute she flew out, wiping her wet hands on her jeans.
“Let’s go! Let’s go!”
“Just as soon as we go to the bathroom.” I protested. “I haven’t been to the bathroom or paid for my stuff.”
“! “Let’s go, now!” Catching that unmistakable look we’d all had so many times in the past, we left hurriedly, despite that fact that no one but Mother had taken care of any business. There had to be something terribly amiss. Mother never got in a rush to get out of a store or bathroom.
The story came out as we drove off. After Mother flushed the toilet, the tank kept filling. Ever the good citizen, she removed the tank cover with the intention of jiggling the lever. Overestimating her abilities, she dropped the tank cover into the toilet bowl, shattering both, hence her hasty exit. Water had flooded the bathroom and was pouring out into the hall. As we searched frantically for another rest stop, Mother watched for a police car to pull us over as our full bladders spasmed. I know Mother would have thrown me to the wolves if we’d been apprehended.
Keep in mind, this is only the first bathroom stop on this trip.
To be continued……..
The Most Fun You’ll Never Have, Kathleen’s Amazing Bathroom Tour!
Kathleen Swain and her daughters
Upper Left, Linda Swain Bethea, Right, Phyllis Swain Barrington
First Row Left, Kathleen Holdaway Swain (see how deceptively nice she looks) Connie Swain Miller, Marilyn Grisham
It’s discouraging writing about my mother, Kathleen Holdaway Swain. Despite my long, rich history of complaining endlessly about the trials of dealing with her, she keeps getting the best of me. It’s made worse because I tower over her, outweigh her, and am much more physically imposing, but then, who isn’t? I do my best to take care of her, and should I exhibit the slightest impatience, onlookers treat me like I am maligning a saint. Granted, she is tiny, far less than five feet tall, has a squeaky Minnie Mouse voice, and looks like a delightful little old church-lady. Though she smiles and greets every soul she meets, inwardly she is malicious and conniving, constantly plotting to make me look bad. Sometimes it doesn’t take much.
Not so long ago, my sisters and I took Mother on a girl-trip. We were laughing just before we got out of the car about the way she’d lecture us against potential bad behavior before she had to drag the five of us hyenas (her word) into a store or business. When we inevitably started to ask for stuff, anyway, despite her stern warning, she’d fix us with a look from Hell and warn, “Don’t start! Just don’t start!” That dried us right up.
First of all, Mother is the slowest person in the history of Motherdom, in case I never mentioned it before. As she walks along, she keeps a look out for lost coins in the parking lot and frequently finds them, additionally stopping to greet all passersby. This was the first stop of the trip. I was hurrying ahead leaving her to drag up the rear, since I had to buy gas, thinking my sisters could keep her out of trouble. Rather than dawdling with them as they got out of the car, she came running behind me like her life depended on not getting left, and believe me, it was not because she intended to buy gas. She has four daughters to take care of that. As a joke, she picked it where our conversation left off, calling behind me, “Linda, wait for me! I want you to buy me…….”
Not realizing we had an audience of a couple in their late sixties, I called out behind me, without bothering to look, knowing she was just continuing our conversation from the car. “Don’t start! Just don’t start!” Men in their fifties and sixties just love Mother, assuming she is just a sweet, little old lady, just like their dear mother. They have no idea of the trouble she is capable of. The man glared at me, striding into the store, leaving my poor, mistreated, little, old mother alone and uncared for, abandoned in the parking lot. He took her by the arm and helped her into the store, making sure she had all the attention she needed. He fixed her up with a sandwich and coffee, after fixing me with a scathing look of hatred. I had no idea what I might have done till she rubbed my nose in it later. I only wish he’d hung around long enough to know she was on her way to destroy the bathroom, literally, but more on that tomorrow.
To be continued…….
Travels With Mother (Part 2)
Mother and I spent a few days in Haddonfield, New Jersey, visiting with friends and relatives on the occasion on her eighty-second birthday. Haddonfield is a wonderful place to visit. Everything is in walking distance. We walked miles seeing all the sights, restaurants, and shops. We took the opportunity to attend a meeting at the Friends Meeting on Sunday. I thought Mother understood how meetings worked. We filed in and took our places in the lovely old meeting house. Mother leaned over to whisper something as soon as we were seated. I gestured there was no talking, so Mother, a staunch Southern Baptist, sat waiting for the services to start. Worshipers sat quietly meditating as Mother looked increasingly puzzled. Finally, she let me know she was ready to leave after about twenty minutes. She had a little difficulty understanding no talking in church. That twenty minutes was the longest I’ve ever known her to go without talking.
After the service, we took a peaceful stroll through a beautiful cemetery. Cemeteries can be so lovely, a place to reflect and spend a little time in meditation. The more we walked, the more Mother admired it. This one looked so good, she decided she might like to be buried there. She stretched out to see if it felt as enticing as it looked. I offered to check on immediate availability, but she decided she’d like to finish out the trip, but she is still considering.
https://atomic-temporary-73629786.wpcomstaging.com/2014/10/24/the-indian-princess-gets-hen-flogged/
Above see Mother’s original art and link to story she told little girl at tea party.
One afternoon, we walked down to a little tea-room for tea. A grandmother had taken her precious little four-year-old granddaughter there for birthday tea. Mother, the little miss, and her grandmother got into such an animated conversation, we ended up being invited to join them. Mother told the little girl a story from her own childhood and ending up buying the little one a special teacup. We all had a lovely time. We strolled home late in the afternoon full of the unexpected pleasures of the day.
When we got ready to go through security at the airport on the way home, I was chosen for expedited board and told to skip the security line. I explained to the attendant I was traveling with my eighty-two year old mother and couldn’t leave her unattended. Hearing that, Mother immediately switched into her daft mode. “Where are we going? I’m hungry. Where’s my kitty-cat?” Fearing a lengthy exchange with an Alzheimer’s sufferer, the attendant waved both of us on through. All the while, Mother was pulling on my sleeve wanting to know when she could eat and demanding her cat. (She doesn’t have one.) Her ruse worked, but I don’t know if it was worth it since she kept it up for a while since she was having such a good time with it.
I had requested a wheelchair meet us at the gate to get Mother through the airport quickly, not because she’s disabled, except for her extremely short legs. The wheelchair attendant whisked her through in record time. When we got to the gate, Mother gave her a dollar and a heartfelt thank you. I slipped her a five behind Mother’s back. She’d earned it!
video on YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=blq9f8NSkCkCut and paste into your browser. There are a few videos there.
To be continued……..
The Boogerman’ll Get You By the Hair of Your Head!
shamMother and I natter on incessantly. Yesterday we went to visit my aunt a couple of hours away. As we rode along, I was asking Mother more about the details of her early marriage at eighteen. She slipped up and confessed a tale she’s felt guilty about ever since. I couldn’t believe she stumbled and told on herself after sixty-nine years. She usually bumbles right away. To set the stage, you have to know she has a ridiculous conscience. If she suspects there is a rule somewhere, she is obligated to follow it, no matter how senseless. If she fails, she is required to feel guilty. That’s the rule.
Mother, married at eighteen. Within months Daddy moved her into the house with his widowed mother and her two daughters. They were poor and lived in a decrepit unpainted house miles out in the country, not the newlywed home she’d envisioned. To put the icing on the ruined cake, Aunt Julie with her two squalling brats had settled in as well. The house was uncomfortable, Mother felt unwelcome, Daddy was never home except to sleep.
The kids, two and four, whined without ceasing, unless they took a break to throw a fit. One day, she was alone in the room with them and was totally fed up with the whining. She told Yvonne, the oldest, “Stop that squalling or the Boogerman will get you!” To reinforce the lesson, she stepped into the next room, scratched on the door-facing and wailed “Wooooooooo!” The terrified kids shut up immediately.” From then on, when the whining started, she’d give them another little dose of Wooooo, if she got the chance when Aunt Julie wasn’t in the room.
“Why didn’t I ever hear this great story before?” I had to know.
“Because I felt guilty, I guess. I didn’t mean to tell it now. I’m still ashamed,” she confessed.
“Well, you should be. I am sixty-five years old and I could have been enjoying this story my whole life!”
Breakfast With Barbie
Mother’s house was bedlam the morning after Daddy died. Someone made a quick trip to the store for breakfast fixings for Cox’s Army while the rest of us pulled the house back together. The term “quick trip” was relative, since the nearest grocery store was twenty-two miles away. It was a mess since we’d had to find beds for fourteen the night before, Continue reading
Footloose and Fancy Free (Part 3)
Bobo’s old truck rattled in one Saturday about four. White-headed kids in overalls piled out of the back, their bare feet kicking up a dust. Fishing poles dangled out of the truck bed. Grinning, Bobo slung a stringer of bream over his shoulder. Inez slid out of the front seat, wagging a newborn and helping her twin toddlers slide to the ground. One was diapered, Continue reading
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