Mother's Day Memories #Somebody's Mother

  

What is your favorite memory of your mother or someone you may have called Mother or Mom??

I was privileged to have my mother for almost 96 years. Mentally alert, the day before she went to the hospital for the last time (one of the few times in her life), she was still looking up Scriptures for another book project. Our "God, Mom, and Me" team completed and sold dozens of titles in the 24 years after God called me into full-time writing in 1978. There is no way I could have been successful without my proofreader, editor, and cheerleader.

Random Ramblings

A former school and Sunday School teacher, Mom loved the Lord, her family, friends, and people of all ages. Kids and teens flocked around her, never tiring of her stories of the "olden days" and how many times God came to her rescue in times of trouble. Favorites:

• a cougar [mountain lion] stalked Mom and her siblings on Thanksgiving Day when they were children. They shouted and sang all the way through the forest until they reached their little village.

 
 

•  the old car she was riding in with all Dad's and her wedding presents shot off a hand-operated ferry and into a river. Dad shoved aside the window curtains and hauled her onto the top of the car. Mom's grandfather and dad's father were swept downstream. Hats sailed after them. 

 
Mom's irrepressible sense of humor (which I have inherited) kicked in. She laughed so hard it is a wonder Dad could keep her on their precarious perch until the ferryman could bring a canoe and rescue them. The blessing was, the river was at its lowest level ever and Great-Grandpa Towne and Grandpa Reece were able to swim to shore.

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Note: Years later these incidents became true stories that have inspired countless readers in a variety of magazines. 

 

Mom at 94 with childhood friend, Claire

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No matter how lacking in money we were, Mother's Day was always special. Mom treated every bouquet of wildflowers as if they were priceless roses. At times, they were wilted from hot little hands that had clutched "Mom's bo-kay" too tightly.  

Of all the Mother's Days, one stands out. I was always good at memorizing. During World War 2, when I was about eight or nine, Mom and an aunt got special permission for me to leave school long enough to "speak a piece" at a Mother's Day luncheon at the church my great-grandfather built, which was just across the quiet street.

I proudly recited a poem about a mother who kept a smile on her face when her son  went to war. All I remember is the ending. When the soldier came home, everyone laughed , but "Mother cried like all get out!" it was a big hit. I followed with a poem that is still one of my favorites.

Somebody's Mother, Mary Dow Brine (1816-1913)    

The woman was old and ragged and gray
And bent with the chill of the Winter's day.
The street was wet with a recent snow
And the woman's feet were aged and slow.

She stood at the crossing and waited long,
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng
Of human beings who passed her by
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eyes.
 
Down the street, with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of "school let out,"
Came the boys like a flock of sheep,
 Hailing the snow piled white and deep.

Past the woman so old and gray
Hastened the children on their way.
Nor offered a helping hand to her -
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir
Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet
Should crowd her down in the slippery street.
   
At last came one of the merry troop,
The happiest laddie of all the group;
He paused beside her and whispered low,
"I'll help you cross, if you wish to go."
   
Her  aged hand on his strong young arm
She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,
He guided the trembling feet along,
Proud that his own were firm and strong.
Then back again to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content.
   
"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,
 For all she's aged and poor and slow,
And I hope some fellow will lend a hand
To help my mother, you understand,
If ever she's poor and old and gray,
When her own dear boy is far away."

And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head
In her home that night, and the prayer she said
Was, "God be kind to the noble boy,
Who is somebody's son, and pride and joy!"

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May God bless and be with you all as we pay tribute to mothers everywhere.

Colleen