My Sweet Mother

Considering that my mother was about the sweetest, nicest woman who ever lived, I really have not written a lot of material about her side of the family.       She was quiet, and seldom told me stories of her family. Most of her sisters moved to the bright lights of California before I was born, and the others followed soon after, except for Mom. The few times I have carried on a conversation with her sisters, for the most part, was when I was very young. Her brother, Euriel, lived nearby, but he and most of his sons died early of heart problems. Mom’s other brother died as a child. I never met Mom’s parents. So there ya’ are. My knowledge of Mom’s family, for the most part, distills down to what transpired between my mother and I. She did tell me lots of stories, but most were funny, fictional and entertaining. They weren’t about her family.

     After Dad came back from the WWI he went to the oilfields of Oklahoma. When his father died in 1922, he was called back to Wing to run the farm. He first became engaged to a Humphreys girl, (I was never told the first name.) She died soon after. From what everyone has told me, The Gillum family just loved that girl, totally had their heart set on her being Dad’s wife. Dad had even built a house in the meadow for her. I’m not sure how much time elapsed after that happened before Dad and Mom married, but Dad was 33, Mom 21. Since there was no electricity in the Meadow House, Dad and Mom first lived with Grandma Gillum.  Hallie, Dad’s school teacher sister lived there too. For a time, a picture of Dad’s dead sweetheart continued to hang on the wall. After a while, a picture of mom’s former sweetheart, Searce Pickens, appeared on the wall also. Well, Searce Pickens was now working for Dad, and both pictures soon came down.

     My oldest brother Harry, the first born, told me that Grandma Gillum, and also Hallie, on occasion, did not treat Mom well.  I don’t know why, because my mother, when I knew her, was wonderful. Very kind, loving, and hard working. From what I have heard, my best guess is that Mom came from a family that was very different from the stern Gillums, and they were harsh in judging her. After three children were born, Mom wanted out of that house. They moved to the meadow house, even though there was no electricity, and Dad had to do without a radio. Jan was born there. Later, Dad bought the Marion Turner house, which was larger, and they moved there, where Barbara Lou was born. Both of these houses were within hollering distance of the house on the hill. After Grandma Gillum and Hallie both died in 1941, Dad and Mom moved their family back up on the hill. I was born there in 1944.

     Mom was a very hard worker. Since the Gillums were determined to put up enough food for two or three years, just in case the dry years returned, she sometimes canned as many as 800 Quarts each summer over that hot wood stove. They were stored in the concrete cellar, dug underneath the potato house and smoke house. The concrete floor was not very thick, and water often began to seep into that cellar in wet times. It had to get 3 feet deep or so before it reached the canned food, and before that happened,  We often all worked most of a day, carrying it out bucket by bucket. Later, Dad figured out how to siphon it out, and he and I would do that.

     Mom worked full time, while raising six children. Setting a bedpost on a dress tail of a toddler made a good baby sitter while Mom worked. Later, as the girls got old enough, they handled that.

     This is a typical day for Mom on a summer day with no other major projects scheduled.  She arose early, and had a full breakfast of hot biscuits, (made from scratch) sausages, oatmeal, coffee, etc. ready at daylight. After the kids were up and dressed, the entire house was swept. Our dogs entered our house only at great peril from Mom’s broom. Mom might then work in the garden awhile, then it was time to start dinner. Always a full meal, always hot. After the dishes were washed, the dogs were fed the scraps, (dogs were only fed scraps. If there were none, it was their responsibility to go catch a rabbit, or whatever, though Mom normally made a little extra cornbread for the dogs. So they seldom went hungry.) Dishes and pots, skillets, etc. were washed and put away.

     Afterwards, Mom might have 30 minutes of down time, then she might head for the truck patch, a quarter of a mile or so down in the pasture. Most of the food growing took place there, a couple of acres or so. She would hoe weeds, or do whatever needed to be done, then she would head to the house, carrying with her a good part of what would become supper. 
     Time to milk both the cows. Mom always milked them alone, and they were so used to only her milking them, the cows would allow nobody else to touch them. Some of us could have helped, but I guess Mom figured it was just easier to do it all herself than to try to get the cows to tolerate us.         Time to cook another hot meal, do the dishes, then maybe a little down time before bed time. Of course, as we grew older, we helped in all this. I helped Mom for several years before I graduated to helping Dad in the fields. Then, I was one of the MEN.
      The girls, Barbara Lou, Jan, and Jonnie, worked very hard helping Mom, also. If it was a very busy time in the fields, one of the girls brought dinner to the men there.

     This daily schedule varied, of course. One day per week, Mom would wash all the dirty clothes in the big black pots down by the creek, 200 yards down the hill, using a rub board, lye soap, and bluing, whatever that is.  The clothes were hung out on the fence or clothes line, and hauled in at night.           On another day, all the clothes that needed it were ironed with flatirons heated on the stove. That always made the house very hot. Mom even ironed the sheets.  The milk had to be hand churned to make butter and cottage cheese.

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. Maybe it was a God thing, but I don’t think so. 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 Hades 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 were only babes when Mom died.  When they discover one of them, such as meeting Edith Turner at my book launching at Wing, they 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. Kinley, my daughter, said "Holding her hand was like finally getting to hold my grandmother's hand."

     After I graduated college and Barbara Sue and I lived at St. Paul, Ar. 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.”

     My brother Harry arrived from California. I took Harry in, and told Mom, “Harry’s here.” She stirred noticeably. I now knew she had heard me when I  told her I loved her. 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 during our lives 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.