The winter time schedule varied from this, of course. There
were clothes to be made, (mostly from chicken feed sacks) quilts to be made,
etc. Mom was an expert at wringing a
chicken’s neck. I’ve seen four headless, bleeding chickens flopping about the
yard at one time. Then they were scalded, feathers picked off, then dressed and
cooked.
Winter time baths were a major undertaking. Water was hauled
up the hill, 100 yards or so, bucket by bucket. Then it was heated on the wood
cook stove. When the round bath tub was filled, we took turns. Being the
smallest, I was last. I was nearly grown before realizing; bath water was not
supposed to be brown.
After we went into the egg business full time, of course
that became a large part of the daily schedule. We kids knew nothing of
allowances, pay for work, etc. It didn’t exist on our farm.
In spite of all her hard work, Mom always found time for
each of us, every day, though I don’t know how. If Mom ever got a few dollars
ahead, it was never spent on herself. She would tell me, “well, I’ll buy this
for you now, then when you are grown and well off, you can buy for me.”
Unfortunately, Mom died at 68, and that time never came.
Mom always found time for her neighbors. Edith Turner told
me this year of Mom bringing them loads of vegetables when they moved into
Wing. We children never worked on Sunday, and officially Mom did not, either,
but somehow, some way, all those great Sunday meals magically appeared. We were
always in Church on Sunday, Mom saw to it. We had a very large children’s
picture book, filled with bible stories. Mom saw to it we read every one, again
and again. I fear I learned far more about the bible under Mom’s watch, that at
any other time in my life.
Mom always loved having flowers in the yard. It was about
the only extravagance Mom allowed herself. During dry times, we always found a
way, somehow, to find enough time to haul water up from the creek and keep them
alive.
One year, My oldest brother Harry came up with enough money
for Mom to go to California and spend her birthday with her sisters. The well oiled machine that was the Gillum farm
went totally to Hell while Mom was gone. Dad trained me as the dishwasher.
“Son,” he said, “ the open hand makes a great dish cloth.” Barbara Lou and Jan
took over the milking. The cows wanted no part of that. Early morning screams
emanating from the cow barn became a regular thing. What with all the kicking
going on with the cows, more milk dripped from the ceiling than wound up in the
milk bucket. After a couple of weeks, mom returned, and we all realized that in
spite of the hard work by all the rest of us, Mom was the glue that held that
well oiled machine together.
Everybody in Wing and Rover just loved my mom. A very small
handful of Mom’s dear lady friends are still alive. My children, when they
discover one of them, such as meeting Edith Turner at my book launching this
year, just cannot seem to ever let her go. They are hearing, from a third
party, just how wonderful my mother truly was; they are realizing, it’s not
just me saying those things. It’s the total truth.
After I graduated college and Barbara Sue and I lived at St.
Paul or Fayetteville, I would slip by and see Mom when I could, surprise her.
After I did that several times, she finally told me. “Pat, please let me know
when you’re coming by. Otherwise, I find myself sitting on the porch, looking
down the road for you, every day.”
Dad Passed away, at 78, while Barbara and I lived at
Fayetteville. When we decided to move to Hannibal, Mo. suddenly to a teaching
job, Mom begged, “Let me go with you. I can cook and clean, and grow a garden.”
I knew Mom was not doing well, living alone. But we were moving with only a few
days left until school started, and we didn’t even have a place to live yet,
and very little money. I told her, “When
we get up there, get set up, and get a house, I’ll come back for you.” I could
see the disappointment in her eyes. I have wished for many years that I had
that decision to make over. But life does not work that way.
We had only been in Hannibal a short time when we got word
that Mom was not doing well, Barbara Lou had taken her to Memphis to live with
her, and she was now in the hospital. I rushed down. When I arrived, she was
already in a coma. As I sat by her bed, I realized. I had never told her I
loved her. Open expressions of love were just not normally said in our house as
I grew up, or maybe that was just me. I started telling her over and over that
I loved her, but in her coma state, I did not know if she heard me or not. She
was moved to ICU, and I lived there in that waiting room for days. A couple of us could go in and see her every
few hours.
The chairs in the ICU were very sleep
resistant, unless one had one of the few recliners. One night, I did have one.
About midnight, two young women and their mother came in. The older lady was in
very bad shape. Her husband was in the ICU. I gave my recliner to the older
lady, and moved over and answered the phone the rest of the night. The next
day, I noticed that one of those three were always in that recliner. About 8
o’clock that night, one of the daughters called me over. She said, “You gave
this recliner to my mother last night when she was in very bad shape. We’ve
been saving it for you all day. You need to sleep tonight.”
Harry arrived from
California. I took Harry in, and told Mom, “Harry’s here.” She stirred
noticeably. I now knew she had heard me. But way too little, way too late, for
a mother like God blessed me with. I should have told her I loved her every day
I lived with her, and I knew it.
Mom died shortly afterwards. I made a vow, then and there,
that there would never again be a shortage of open expressions of love in my
family. And I have kept that vow.
I did not set out to write a sad story. But, in writing of
the older generations, it just seems to work out that way. We can’t change
that. But we are given the opportunity many times to help improve the quality
of life leading up to that ending. Once written, it can never be rewritten or
erased. We just have to live with that.
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