For Mother's Day

I was raised in a small farming community in northern Indiana. It was a Norman Rockwell kind of place. I could ride my bike from one end of town to the other – and I often did. There was a community swimming pool where I hung out in the summer, and my uncle had a farm just outside of town where I hung out any other time I could. Everybody knew me – or my Mom and Dad.

The thing that I remember most about growing up there was my extended family. Until I was thirteen I lived in the same town as both sets of my grandparents, four of my six aunts and uncles, and six of my ten cousins. Holidays were long, large, and loud. Everyday living could include a trip to both grandparents – and often did. I didn’t realize until much later in life how much this influenced who I am.

My mom was a teacher and a homemaker. For most of my early years I thought she was just my mom. I say ‘just’ because she didn’t work ‘outside of the home’ (as we say today.) She didn’t have to because there was plenty of work for her to do inside of our home. In those days we had one car and her first ‘job’ was to take my dad to work. (I walked to school – I also walked home for lunch, which mom made each day.) I don’t remember what she fixed, but I liked it more than the cafeteria food that Tilly-the-school-cook made. After school Mom met me at home for the de-briefing – “how was your day, what did you do, do you have any homework.” Then it was out to play.

My friends each lived a short bike ride away so when it was time to be home for dinner, Mom simply yelled out the back door; “M-A-R-R-R-R-K!” When I heard that I knew I had about three minutes to get home.

When I was a little older, Mom drove me to my music lessons in a neighboring city where there was a small college. On that thirty-minute drive we talked and joked and generally had a good time. I saw a side of Mom I don’t know existed – she was fun. Sometimes we sang our own song, “Terror of the Highways.” On weekends, the family often went camping together and Mom would hike with me or help me build a fire or shoot my bow. She was involved in my life everyway she could be until I moved away.

Mom died in 2000 after battling Alzheimer’s disease for nearly ten years. The real tragedy of this sickness is it changes the way we remember people. For a while I remembered Mom as the person with dementia that I took care of – who couldn’t remember any of the details of her daily life, including who I was. But now, after time has passed, I remember Mom as the person she was in my life – my coach, teacher, friend, disciplinarian, and Mom.

Thanks Mom. I love you.
Father Mark