I awoke at 3AM one morning and had taken an allergy pill before bedtime to help sleeplessness and it helped wakefulness. “Tossing and Turning” was a great 50’s song but not so good at bedtime. I had Mom on my mind. I don’t remember when her hair turned gray. I don’t remember the exact time the wrinkles and tired lines appeared. Just one day they were there. She never did say or complain about how she got them, but I know a few good sources that tend to produce them. She was raised by her grandparents in Shelton Laurel, NC, after 8 years with her Mom and Dad and a short time with Aunt Delph. Her Mother, Hannah, had died at 32 years old. When her Father, Lonnie, remarried the stepmom said there isn’t room for 7 children and me. A couple of the boys were mostly gone anyway, but at least four of them had to go elsewhere. My Mom was near 8 years old. I now know how hard that was from my own experiences keeping Foster children. I know how hard she had to work from her telling of that to the way it was in the mountains of Appalachia in those years. The work never stopped for vacation back then. And her Grandfather John Shelton was mad at her Dad, so she never got to see him much. The Presbyterian Church came to Shelton Laurel and emphasized helping women and pushing the agenda for education. She was able to go to the eighth grade. The two story house that my Great Grandfather built was a sawmill frame house and is lived in today and has been remodeled and not changed looks outwardly. I pulled into the driveway a while back. After looking at the house and the old rock house outside, I closed my eyes like I do in old barns. I could hear the banjo and fiddle on the front porch and could see my Mom running through the yard laughing and singing. Just a little girl. There is something to be said here about our mountain heritage. No matter the size of the family, if anyone needed a place to stay or a drink of water or feed for a horse, or a meal they would supply that need. In the census there are unusual names in a lot of households that were not family. Mom said she had to work hard and even at times when the honeybees were in the season of swarming. She would have to miss school and watch for them, for they were a precious commodity, and honey was a source of income.
I could always see the softness in Mom’s eyes whenever we went ‘home.’ And always the words, “Are you hungry?” But as a little boy growing up, I saw the steelness in her eyes whenever I misbehaved. She had no problem making me go cut a switch and striping my legs. She was tough. She had to be. She was a product of the mountains at the turn of the century. She was immensely gifted at taking care of a family and caring for my Dad. Whether cooking, canning, making quilts, sewing or washing both clothes and me, she knew how to best do those things.
I can’t recall when she went from Autumn to the winter of her life. Her arms got weaker and her steps were measured and slow. Her cooking was just as good but she cooked less and less. She never ate as much or as often. I bought her a long tee shirt thing that said, “I don’t do mornings.” I didn’t or couldn’t face the idea that time had taken it’s toll. And I still didn’t ask the questions I should have. I got the feeling that she felt useless. The truth is our Moms and Dads and others have so much to offer, the trouble is we don’t ask the questions. We celebrate the youth and bypass the elderly in too many ways. I remember Mom sitting in her bed for long spells in silence. It wasn’t boredom. I think she was remembering her youth and life, and enjoying those good times. The bad things that happened to her were trivial to her then. She was almost 90 when she settled things the right way. I told her, “Mom you could have done this 50 years ago.” She said, “I wasn’t ready.”
Here is exactly how it went down. One day she said, “I want to go to the cemetery and take flowers.” I said, “OK, we will go next Saturday.” So My wife and I get to Asheville the next Saturday and my Mom and sister were ready. Mom wanted to take a chair. And we stopped at Roses and she bought some flowers. I thought we were going to Marshall where Dad and family are buried. She said, “I want to go to Shelton Laurel to the Haney Cemetery.” Ever since I was 4 we had gone to decoration day most years. And somehow Mom had an old Brownie camera and she took lots of pictures. Where that money came from I have no idea. But I am so blessed to have the pictures of that other time. We got to the cemetery and Mom got out and I took the chair and she set it beside her Dad’s grave. She looked at us and said, “You all go on.” So we went up the hill and she sat down in the chair. I could hear her talking to him but couldn’t understand what she was saying. Let me tell you, something broke loose inside of me watching that old woman make peace with her Dad. She motioned for us to come on down and she got down on her knees and placed flowers on Lonnie’s grave. After a while she said, “I’m ready to go home now.” She meant it two ways – Home at her house and Heaven. The Holy Spirit was all over that hill that day. I still get choked up sometimes. Another sad part of children being shopped around is a younger sister named Gladys that Mom never saw again. It still haunts me when she told me she thought she passed her on a bridge one day but never spoke. We can’t find out who raised her even though she married a Omar Fillers and had 2 children, I think. We can’t find a picture of her. But that was the way of the mountains and not unusual for children to be raised in other homes. But it was still hard on the little ones. God just took care of all of this family, for they all were outstanding family folks. Truth is Mom was bitter at her Dad and we never knew it for she never talked about him to me. Maybe my sisters, Laura and Leta, knows a bit more about this.
Life isn’t roses all the time, is it? Trouble and heartache and gain and loss are part of it. I was a prodigal for a while and gifted at it. I stayed away for the most part. But my Mom always left the porch light on. Oh, I don’t mean the bulb hanging down with the string tied to it, though it was on a lot, too. But somehow even in those prodigal days, I knew the light was on. I knew I was welcome in any condition. And the words, “Are you hungry?” would echo through my heart. Never, ever did she say, “You drinking again? Are you taking care of your family? Are you going to church?” I was hungry alright. And one morning at a sunrise service, that I didn’t want to attend, but pressure from a long time friend and my wife caused me to go. The Holy Spirit filled me up and He helped me become the son to my Mother and Dad that I was supposed to be.
I probably mentioned this in the other series but for those who didn’t and for myself, I will tell it one more time, and not the last time. I gave my Mom a doll dressed country and she set it on her dresser and said it was good. A month or so before she died she said, “Take the doll and give her to someone or keep her. She has been good for me.” So I took her home and put her on the top shelf in the closet. Around a year later, I got her down and opened the box and Mom had put a note in it. I opened the note and the first line put me on my knees crying. She had written in a shaky hand, “To My Darling Son”…It took me a while to finish the note. “Don’t grieve for me, I am so sick, I know you won’t forget me. I love you, Mom.” Now I ask you, how could you forget someone who has given you so many reasons to love and remember them? Especially your Mom…