Filed under: Memory, Movie, True Story, reminence | Tags: birthday party, family, happiness, Momma, Rememberance
It is Momma’s birthday, April 22 and even though she may not be physically here, Momma is with me today to celebrate her life and remember how much she enjoyed the many parties I gave her on her birthday. Even when I was young, Momma loved her day, especially if my sister and I planned something. As a very young boy I used to think for weeks to determine what my Sister and I could do to make the day special for her and then we spent an equal time trying to decide what was a perfect gift, a gift just for our Momma.
There was more than one time our funds were not as abundant as I thought they should be. Momma was always willing to give me a little money. I used to think I was pulling a fast one on her, but as I grew up I realized Momma always knew what I was after.
After Momma and I moved to Arizona, following my father’s death, the real parties began for her. The first big splash was for her seventy-fifth birthday, a day Momma was very nervous about having it arrive. It was the only time Momma didn’t yearn for tomorrow. Earlier in the year all three of her sisters felt she would never make to seventy-five. There Mother died when she was seventy-four and for some ridiculous reason they felt Momma would leave first and follow in her Mother’s footsteps. Sadly, Momma did leave before they did, but they had to wait an additional dozen years for it to happen. I often wondered if they knew how mean they were when they suggested that to her.
In the years following Momma had many wonderful parties and she never was hesitant to have another birthday. Her birthdays were like her tomorrows. They were something that she needed to keep looking forward to rather than dwelling on the past. Even last year, her last birthday with me, was joyfully embraced by her. Momma always adapted and that day her strength was paramount. She had just been in the hospital, very frail and barely could speak loudly, yet she was ready to get dressed, sit on the sofa, rather than stay in bed. It was Momma’s day and the hair, makeup and dress had to be perfect for her. When we sang Happy Birthday I lit candles on a plate of pastel White Chocolate Nips as Momma’s cake. Her swallowing had become very weak and she was not able to eat, yet even those little nips with candles were very special to her.
Momma was and is a very special person. I shall never be able to equal her in humor, wisdom or compassion. She has always been my guiding light and continues to be. Many days I know my Mother’s hand help direct me through what I am doing. I know Momma is here with me now as I write and as I prepared the movie that will help share our special feelings during her memorable birthdays over the last decade.
Please join me in sharing my memories–
Everyday I try hard to deal with grief and yet I miss my Mother around. It is hard to forget the last 16 or so years when we were so close to each other. Most of the regular tasks and enjoyments of life were shared with her. Even M. occasionally admits that it isn’t the same and gets very sombre. These past weeks in Arizona I realize just how poignant it is to remember and want the feel of the hug, the brush of the lips on the cheek for a kiss, the smile on the face or enjoy the willingness to always share life and the want to accompany where ever you go.
No there isn’t much I do that Momma isn’t there or was there with me doing it. If I wash clothes I then miss her doing the laundry. Each towel perfectly folded on top of each other, smelling so fresh and fragrant. Each shirt or pants pressed to the “t’s” and each sock alwys twinned with its right partner. Some how my finished laundry is never as delightful to see, hold and smell as my Mother’s.
The passage of time may make these occasions seem less poignant in the future, but in a way I hope that it stays with an intensity that remains constant so that the tactile memories are still sentitive and clear.
Today a friend of mine asked me if my sister was like my Mother. This led into a long and involved chat, because to answer the question simply is a “no”, but to be able to answer the question completely takes the time to give some interesting differences. It was a pleasant conversation because I enjoyed finding some old memories to give exampes of the differences and similarities between my Mother and my sister.
As I reflect on so many wonderful memories, they do make my happy. They also make me yearn for a touch or even the smell of cologne as you open her closet door upstairs. More importantly, I am beginning to believe she is about, here or wherever, guiding and influencing the tasks and enjoyments my sister and I have.
It is good to remember and yearn. It is good to imagine the touch and actually remember tactilly what was felt on a past day. All of that will lead me to smile brighter one day!!
Each week I do the laundry and you visit,
As I sort the clothes, I know it is you that guides me.
Put the Darks with Darks, Lights with Lights and I will remember
Whites are something different from the lights.
b
Sis wrote this week that you are in her and with her
as she scurries to bake and cook, to dust and clean!
It is you, guiding and inspiring her on to do all the things
you loved to do and what always are not her favorite!
b
No matter what I decide to do, suddenly I feel a guiding touch,
Warmly placed upon my hand, a touch that says to remember you.
Now when I take a pot, grab a cloth, chop a carrot I feel you say
“check and see and know that just may be some dust is still under the bed!”
b
Your touch upon our grocery cart, leads us to memories of family meals made by you and
directs our course through the aisles, as we look upon the items on the shelf.
We stop for no reason, smile and see that certain something sitting there upon the shelf,
That certain something surely missed when we are at home.
b
Then at a another time as we travel along, first a shoe catches the eye,
Then a sweater, a scarf or particularly for me, the glistening gems in the jewelry counter,
The glistening colors beckon me to stop, first to buy for you and then I know its not to buy,
It is a moment to take to remember and be with you.
b
Your little hand guides us both along our way, in and out of the house.
During the day or in the middle of the night you visit to help me on my way.
But, just to say that it is even more than your guidance that I treasure and Sis remembers
It is that you are in our hearts each and every day in a very golden way.
b
Let Sis set her table when company comes with your china, silver flatware and fine linen napkins,
Watch me when I bake a tender cinnamon roll and bring it to the table hot from the oven,
Your tender touch will always be upon our minds, hands, and memories too,
That guide us to do the best we can and brings to mind the hundreds of your dinners upon those plates.
b
You my Momma, you will always be there with us every step of the way.
As we travail upon our new forged path with memories tucked with in our hearts,
You will be there guiding us on and helping us to find our way through the strange new time,
Realizing that you have never left, but rather you are just leading the way.
My Momma taught me to waltz. While we were cleaning the house Momma would stop and play records,
one of which was Over the Waves and I soon learned to waltz. Please push the audio to join us in a waltz.
April 22, 1921–November 15, 2008
As I tug my bags out of the car and get them up on my shoulders, to walk in the house, I remember Momma each time I visited her. Regardless, whether I arrived for a stay, returned from a trip or was going to take her to the grocery store her greeting was always the same. She may have come to the car in the summer, waited by an open door, or stayed in the kitchen, she greeted me with arms outstretched, my name a repeated a couple of times as I came close and as we hugged Momma planted little kisses on my neck. If she had been just a tad taller the kiss would have been on my cheek.
Her kitchen always smelled of something being made, whether she had just baked cinnamon rolls or the dinner was emanating aromas of tasty food in the oven. Momma loved to cook and she passed that love on to me. Often she said that she couldn’t cook as good as me. Always I clarified the issue. I was trained in cooking and she wasn’t. I knew the buzz words of food and she didn’t. I may know how to set a table for a ten course meal perfectly, but does that really matter when you are sitting at a table, eating something someone has prepared because they love you?
Not only only was my Mother’s cooking very good, her canning was superb. The cellar shelves were filled 
with colorful rows of vegetables and fruits from their garden. When my sister and I went to Iowa for visits going to the basement was like going to the grocery store. Early on I asked my Mother to write down how she made the items I loved: Tomato Juice, Tomato Sauce, Cooked Tomatoes, Hot Peppers, Jams and Jellies and more. During the time last three years I had lots of vegetables and fruits. The first year didn’t bear much of anything to can. The second year I had fruits and vegetables to can. Momma sat in her wheel chair by the stove and walked me through each one of the recipes. Then when it was ready, she sat at a small table and helped put whatever I made in the canning jars. That whole time she had a smile on her face!! Little did we know that in a couple weeks Momma would be in the hospital, the stay that began her final, year long fight to live. This year Momma was unable to help. Late evenings became the time that I prepped the tomatoes, apples, etc. and then canned. In between the steps I sat to Momma to sit with her a while and thanked her for showing me last year hoqw to can. A, small rare smile would appear on her face.
When I was young, Momma’s closets were like any others except every outfit was perfectly hung and pressed. Much later in her life, particularly when we were in Arizona, my Mother’s love of clothes became paramount. When we first moved Momma rented an apartment that had a walk-in closet. Compared to her closets in Iowa this looked big. In just a year the closet was a little tight. After that, for the next three years Momma brought seasonal clothes to her big walk-in closet in my house. By the end of the fifth year she was getting restless and wanted a bigger apartment. We found one with lots of closets, a bigger kitchen, a small room for an overnight guest, etc. She was so happy. The day I moved her in we both laughed when I put her clothes in the different closets. They were almost filled to the brim!! I told her not to worry, she still had the closet at my house.
Momma was one of those people who was always thin, had a great shape and kept it that way. After my Father died I told her she didn’t have to watch her figure so closely and so she lightened up just a little, but it was still important to her to not ever be more than a size 6. After Momma had her stroke I made all her clothes for her. It all started as a very basic design and in due time Momma had found fabrics and suggested little tweeks to the design. Next came finer fabrics and clothes for all occasions. We shopped a lot at Joann’s, which is very close to us, for crafts and to look a fabric. As her 86th birthday approached I suggested we look at the fabrics for a dress. As I pushed her in her wheelchair down the racks of fabrics, suddenly the hand went up and I knew she had found something. Before her was a new collection of denim fabrics, some embroidered and some plain. That birthday Momma wore her new denim dress embroidered in lavender and purple stars designed traditionally with jean buttons, shirt-style front and buttoned cuffs. and she enjoyed wearing each one. I always enjoyed making something new and surprising her.
Momma passed on so much to me during the last fifteen years that we were together, whether in Arizona or Illinois. I am sure that if I had taken the time previously, before my Father died, that Momma would have shared herself with me, but I was always on the run working. Her greatess gift to me is her love. Secondly she passed on to me her curiosity, although it was not until after her death that I started to understand why Momma looked forward to tomorrow. It was the unknown and she loved thinking about what may happen. I think I had already inherited her ability to share. If I had not then I doubt there would be two blogs I write on, one writer’s site and one cyber community that I am the Manager of a writing group. Unlike her, I do not have the ability to play with words. M, admired my Mother for this. He would give her a phrase and she would quickly turn the word and phrase back with a new meaning to him. My sister has that ability, as well as the ability to hear words and rhyme them, as my Mother was able to do.
She has always been my anchor in Life and the one person that was always consistent with me. Her love never lessened, it only grew stronger. If she became annoyed with me it was temporary because her love was deeper. She became my Sunshine and now I have her safe within my heart and she will continue to provide me with sunshine all the rest of my days.
So often as Momma made graceful swirls with the frosting on a cake I thought, “Just think if I know how to do that, well then, I can lick even more frosting than Momma gives me”. Of course, if I tried to eat too much, she would stop me, but oh, how I wished I could do all those things. Unfortunately I did not understand how much there was to learn if you wanted to cook and bake! I wished, yet somewhere in side me I knew I didn’t realize how much I had to learn, nor did I comprehend how much time would be needed learn all the intricacies of cooking and baking!
I continually daydreamed about cooking and baking, yet I was afraid to ask my parents because I knew my father wouldn’t allow me to anything and unfortunately my mother rarely tried to change his mind.’ I needed a good plan to be successful and finally one formed in my mind.
On the morning of my mother’s birthday in 1957, she and my father left for most of the day. They said they would return in the afternoon. It was the second time they left my sister and I alone on the farm and this time they would be gone a long time; it would be enough time for me to make a cake—a cake for my mother’s birthday.
Just as soon as they left, I begged my sister to turn on the oven for me. She was twelve and I 10. Although we were close in age, she knew how to light the oven. My sister gave me the third degree about the oven and wanted to know what I was going to do. I told her I wanted to make Momma a birthday cake. She questioned how could I since I had never baked. In my little baby brother voice, I asked if she would make sure I read the recipe properly and check if the ingredient’s measurements.
The oven was on. All that I had to do now was get the ingredients ready for my sister to check. Happiness spread across my face in a big grin. Everything was going great! When I was done preparing my sister checked things out and gave me the go ahead. She also told me to be very careful!
As I mixed the ingredients, I questioned the term “cream” next to the butter and the sugar, but continued putting all the ingredients into the bowl all at once. It was difficult for me to stir everything together but I did the best that I could. I put the batter into the pans and placed the cake in the oven. The last thing to do was to set the stove timer so I would not forget to take the cake out in time.
Without another thought, I ran from the house to play in an old summer kitchen that was a distance from the house. Time passed and I continued to play. After a while longer, I glanced at my Roy Rodgers watch and saw that more time had passed than what I had set on the stove time. I returned, breathlessly, to the house and opened the kitchen door with trepidation and excitement. This was my first baking adventure and it had to be good!
As I slowly opened the kitchen door, I smelled something strange. I bent slightly, potholders in hand, to reach for the Roper oven door. I pulled the handle down to look at my cake. Inside the dark Roper oven the shiny aluminum pans, glimmered against the badly burnt and flat cakes inside. The edges were black, as well as the center of the cake. Huge tears flowed down my checks in rivulets of anguish. I cried so loud my sister came running. We both decided it was best to get rid of the evidence. She told me to take the cakes outside and dump them somewhere.
When Momma and Daddy arrived home, the kitchen was clean and cool as it was when they left. Daddy went out by the barn and Momma came to the house. As she entered the house, she stopped immediately, looked at me and asked, “Where is the chocolate cake?” I broke down in tears! Momma took my hand and asked if I had been baking. I nodded yes. She then asked to see what I had made. Eventually I took her hand and led her to the pig bucket under the big tree. Momma looked inside, smiled and motioned to return to the house.
We walked hand in hand back to the house. My tears continued. Inside she wiped the tears from my cheeks and told me if I wanted to bake then she would teach me. Next, she gave me a kiss and a hug. From that day on, every Saturday Momma taught me something new to make. The next Saturday we made the cake. This time Momma had a birthday cake from me!
