Her mother, Hannah, died at 32 years old. She had eight children, and one child died. Her father, Lonnie, after a spell, decided to remarry. They were from Shelton Laurel, NC. Mountain folk, farmers, moonshine, tobacco, ginseng, and anything else that helped support the families. The upshot of it was that after Lonnie remarried, there wasn’t enough room for all those children and hers too. So my mom’s dad said, “You have to go somewhere else to live; you and your brother.”
Some say Mom was eight, and someone else said she was ten. She told me she was around eight. She went to her Aunt Delph’s for a spell and wound up with her grandmother. That family had 10 in it. This is a shortened version of this, but Mom was upset at her dad, to say the least. As a little boy, we went to visit, and I never knew the story till much later. Mom would give my dad “fits” sometimes and I often wondered why. He was a good father and provider and was gentle. I think, looking back, that she never completely trusted men, even her husband and lover and father of all of us.
This was a way of life in the early 1900s. You did what was best for the family – or what you thought was best. I’ve often thought though that those boys could have kept the family together. My mom never saw one of her sisters again. She said, “I think I passed Gladys on a bridge one time, but we didn’t speak.” Gladys passed away at a young age, and she was gone.
I was going to share this story along about Saturday, but when I got to thinking maybe someone needs a lesson in forgiveness… When Mom was ninety, she said, “I want to go to the cemetery Saturday.” I said, “Fine, I’ll come up and we will go.” I presumed she wanted to go to Marshall to Dad’s and my brother’s grave. She had went to Roses and gotten flowers and such. So, Saturday morning, my wife, sister Laura, Mom, and I loaded up my van, and Mom had a folding chair she wanted to take also. I said, “I don’t know if we can get up to the graveyard at Longbranch.” She said, “I want to go to Shelton Laurel.”
Well, we got to the cemetery; they are always on a hill, usually hard to get to, and that was because any decent piece of ground was tilled or pasture. Mom said, “Get my chair and flowers and put them over by Lonnie’s grave.” She said, “You can’t stay here.” There was a huge elm tree on up the hill, and I pulled the van up there. We got out in the cool shade, and not a word was said. I knew I was seeing something on this warm, summer day that was a life lesson. I looked down the hill and this old, gray-headed mountain mom was sitting in that chair and leaned over a bit and she was talking. I could not make out the words. (I have wished so many times I knew what was “exchanged” that day.) It felt like something broke and started running inside me, and I began to weep, just like right now…
After a bit, she motioned us to come down, and she got on her knees and fixed his grave and put flowers on it. Ninety years old before she forgave and buried the hatchet. And she said, “I’m ready to go now,” and she was, for she died not long after. The thought came to me, Mom, you should have done this 50 years ago. If anyone is bitter at your own mom or family, think about getting it settled before Sunday. You can be like my mom – ready to go.
I never knew about this. Mom was too busy protecting me, changing my diapers, kissing my boo-boos and making them all better. She thought castor oil would cure anything. She could hear a whimper through three walls and be there instantly. She had x-ray vision; “What are you doing in there?” and she already knew. She had eyes in the back of her head; she saw everything I did in church and never looked around… I still wonder how she did that.
She was a timekeeper; “Get gone, or you’ll miss the bus.” She was the referee between me and my sisters; she believed in the laying on of hands at an early age. She was overworked and underpaid, but she never complained. She cooked, cleaned, and took care of us relentlessly. She washed clothes outside by the well, kept fires going, and she was the best cook in the world. She didn’t have time to harbor those resentful feelings. But she did. She was my Mama. And I love her for her toughness. And I love her for the softness in her eyes that said I love you and I’ll take care of you. How many times did I hear her say things like, “You fall off that old bridge and break a leg, don’t come running to me.” But Mom, where else could I go??
I miss my Mom.