48 Birthdays

 

I have a birthday this month, # 67. Recently, I thought about my Mama. She was only 64 when she went home to be with Jesus. I miss her more than just about anything. 

It occured to me that Mama has missed 48 of my birthdays. She never saw me finish high school. She never saw me marry. When I went to Europe, she was not there to see me off, not once but twice. Nor was she there to greet me when I came home.

When my children were born, Mama was not there, nor was she when my granddaughter was born. Mama never rocked my sons or granddaughter. Mama never told them stories about my childhood nor read them stories from books. She never sang Hobo Bill, The Railroad Bum to them, nor Rock-a-Bye-Baby. 

When I needed advice or was in pain, she wasn't there. When I needed prayer, she wasn't there. When my husband died, I wanted my Mama but she wasn't there. My aunt and uncle stepped into as surrogate parents when Mama died but there has always been a hole where she stood. 

Mama never saw me go to college. She never read my articles in the college paper, never read the writing I did in other areas. She never witnessed my graduating from college. The first of her descendants with a degree and she missed it. Magna Cum Laudy, Mama! Can you believe it? I have as brief image formed in my mind of her standing in the audience smiling broadly. It isn't real. She wasn't there. And there is an echo of her voice from a long time ago where she said, "My girl can do anything." 

48 birthdays, Mama. So long, so very long, Mama. 

Line Dried Sheets

Have your children ever experienced sleeping on cotton sheets that were dried in the sun? If they haven't, you've deprived them of one of the most exquisite sensations in life and a marvelous memory to carry with them. 

The feeling of slipping between cool cotton sheets and putting your head on a cotton pillow case is something no one can describe adequately to you. You must experience it. 

There is also a special scent to them that only comes from line drying. I pity those who have severe allergies and cannot experience this. Being tucked between those crisp sheets and surrounded by the sweet scent of the outdoors at bedtime is one of the most wonderful memories from my childhood. I have carried those memories with me and now, my granddaughter has learned to appreciate crispy, sun-dried cotton sheets. 

Today, my white cotton sheets are out on the line, drying in a boiling sun. Those in the photo are not mine. All my favorite sheets are white, though I have a couple of pastel colors. I also still have a few printed sets. I stopped buying those when I realized only one item in any set, usually the bottom sheet, will get too worn to use and I had either throw them all away or create mismatch sets. And that sets my teeth on edge. 

I have several microfiber sets I bought when the old sets wore out and I couldn't find affordable cotton sets. Just try to find a set of cotton sheets, or try to find a single fitted sheet. I've walked Walmart, Target, and cruised Amazon many times and couldn't get cotton. That changed recently when I found Thread Spread on Amazon. I was overjoyed to find a single fitted sheet, 400 thread count, for less than $20. That's astounding. 

Why am I telling you this? I don't know. Maybe because when I was hanging up those sheets, I realized how much it felt as if I was back to a different time and place. I've hung so many sheets on so many lines. I was in my 30s before I had a dryer. We lived in the south, where it is hot and clothes lines are standard with nearly every home. If I recall, we even had clothes lines in some apartments we lived in. And in Germany, we had a line on our balcony that the owner had installed. In the winter, Jerry's underwear froze, but it eventually dried. 

Anyway, I enjoyed the sensation of hanging up those sheets and pillowcases. I was so caught up in the act that I didn't really notice how hot it was until I came inside. When I sat down, I had this flood of memories of Mama hanging up clothes in the backyard while singing hymns. Or yelling at us to stop fighting. Or calling Daddy to come take care of something. I remembered Michael in a walker darting around me while I hung clothes, and Jerry took photos of it all. I still have that photo. Warm days, gentle drying breezes, and cool, crisp sheets at the end of the day to dream sweet dreams. 

Here's a challenge. Hang out your sheets and when you tuck your child or your grandchild into bed on them, tell them about your memories of line dried sheets and your Mama as she hung them out. I hope they're cotton sheets. If not, buy a set to use for just this purpose. The memories are worth it. 

Songs in My Heart

 I'm not feeling well today. I hurt all over, that wonderful steamroller sensation one gets when you lie down in the road in front of one. I lay down earlier before getting a showerand examined all my pains. They are as follows:

The bottom of my feet, ankles, knees, hips, the palms of my hands, elbows, my left upper arm and shoulder (PT yesterday was extremely rough). The swollen lymph node beneath my left arm hurts and my neck skin hurts. I also have a mild headache.

My sister, Roselynn, asked if I had a fever because my face is very red. I don't run fevers but I am hot after my shower. 

While we sat and chatted, I had a memory. I do not know why, but I remembered a song my Mama used to sing. I can still hear the tune but could find no trace of it online. There are other versions, but they're not at all the same.

A Psalm of Life

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

What The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

   Life is but an empty dream!

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

   And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

   And the grave is not its goal;

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

   Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

   Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each to-morrow

   Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

   And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

   Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,

   In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

   Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!

   Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act,— act in the living Present!

   Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

   We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

   Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

   Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

   Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

   With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

   Learn to labor and to wait.

Imagine my surprise as a teenager when I picked up a book of Longfellow's poems and found that poem in it! He became my favorite American poet, and I found many poems in the book I loved. I read a lot of classic poems as a teenager and it continued as an adult.

Mama also knew the following poem. See, in the period she grew up, education meant learning a variety of things and the educated person knew poems and pieces of classic literature, even little country girls. The following poem is one I always loved, and I too memorized it. However, today, when trying to recite it, I found I'd forgotten most of it. Mama never forgot a word of either of them. 

The Arrow and the Song

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

I shot an arrow into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For, so swiftly it flew, the sight

Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For who has sight so keen and strong,

That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak

I found the arrow, still unbroke;

And the song, from beginning to end,

I found again in the heart of a friend.

I don't think poems today have such sentiments. People don't think of life as anything but a party until the music stops. And they don't go looking for songs in the hearts of friends.  

Fading Flames

Mama, Aunt Phillis, Alice (my mother), and Daddy.
Mama and Daddy were my aunt and mother's parents.

I keep coming back to these old photos and studying them careful. This was taken the year I was born and what you see in this photo is what I always saw. Oh, there were terrible times and things I'd like to forget. Like everyone else, they did stupid things. They cried and got angry and depressed but if there are any good memories of my life, this photo reflects them. They always seemed to be laughing.

This image also reflects any gatherings of my family. We usually end up laughing at something and often it involves a story from the lives of one of these people or something one of us has done. We are a family of natural humorist. We are funny without trying to be funny. And we laugh most at ourselves.

This morning it occurred to me that this photo also depicts the three women who most profoundly affected my life and directed its  course. These women determined my outlook, my character and my goals. They made me most of who I am today, good and bad. I can't imagine what my life would have become without them. They gave me the strength to survive trials and turmoil and grief and continue laughing, even through tears. They gave me a desire to become more. I love them, each in a slightly different way but far more than any of them could guess.

Mama would say, "My Cindy can do anything." My aunt always says, "You are so smart." My mother always said, "I'm proud of you." I had no idea who they were talking about. I wanted to be like all of them to one degree or another. I wanted to love the way Mama loved. I wanted to be the kind of Godly women Mama and my aunt were. I wanted to be as beautiful as my mother, to have that presence that made heads turn when you enter a room. She drew people like moths to a flame. I always thought if I could have inherited the best qualities of these three women I could shake the world. I do not think I've ever approached that goal.

I can't say my mother and I were close. Her parents raised me but I still loved her, with bitterness and then, with resignation. I loved her humor, her laughter, and her singing. She had a beautiful voice and I loved riding in the car with her and listening to her and Mama sing gospel songs. They'd let us kids sing with them but those two voices were about as close to a heavenly choir that I've ever gotten. I loved her ability to go out job hunting at 8 and come back with a job at 10.

Put her in a crowded room with boring people and where she was standing would be a party. When she was a waitress her customers were the happiest in the room. It was not unusual for her to carry home $200 in tips for an evening's work and that was in the 70's. People just flocked to her and she reveled in that. When I was a little girl and she came home from time to time, I loved the moments when I was the focus of that dazzling smile and I felt the warmth of that flame. I was special for a little while and when she left, I always missed her.

Thursday I will see her one last time. The flame of my mother's life is extinguished. She's left me again.