"Your turn to tell the story, Mom.”

"No, it's your turn,” I replied, and so he began.

No connected thoughts. Lots of giggles and silliness in his 4-year old delight until he settled into his pillow.

It is easy to tell a story when the listener believes in you and hangs on every word. The plot thickens or wanes as his breathing softens or excels as your story is interrupted with listener input.

I remember one story that began with giggles and joy and ended with tears of release and hopefulness. I could tell you that story now, but more than the story what I remember from that nighttime reverie of Mom and child is a special lasting reward and joy.

That night my son looked up at me and asked, "Mom, what is the biggest number of all?"

I answered, "Nathaniel, there is none because numbers go on and on to infinity."

I know he understood for his immediate response was, "Then I love you until it never comes to an end and infinity and more.”

That was 30 years ago but never forgotten for though he is now a young father with a child of his own, when we correspond we always sign with our secret code:

I.L.Y.U.I.N.C.T.A.E.A.I.A.M.

By Ruth Scott

Labels: joy, mom and child special bonding, plot, reward, Ruth Scott, young father

Stumble This Post

Children ask very complicated questions, expecting an easy answer from that great source of all information, the one who “knows it all,” Mom.

Flattering as this may be, I’ve come up against some whopper questions in my rearing of five children. Most of the time I end up being the learner and they my teachers.

Some attempts at answering a 4-year old inquiry stand out in my memory. One occurred the day Alison, then four, watched the space shuttle. As the men walked in space she asked, “Mom, what is space?” I spent time and thought and many words showing her space and telling her what space was, such as the space in a glass, the space in the drawer, the space between where she stood, and where I stood.

Perplexed and dissatisfied, she left the room, only to return five minutes later radiant and beaming. “Mom, I know what you mean,” she exclaimed. “Space is where you don’t bump into anything!”

Now why hadn’t I thought of that?

Then there was the time when Heidi, about the same age, crawled out of the bathtub and perfectly defined “nudity,” by declaring, “Mom, I’m barefoot all over.”

And so it began, when questions and definitions got too difficult for me to explain in the vocabulary and reasoning of an adult, I could listen carefully to how they were thinking and lead them through their own words to their own truthful understanding.

Often, while learning new facts, they introduced me to things I had overlooked. This was true the day I was wandering around the yard with my own children and a neighbor’s little boy. We were hunting and collecting insects and grubs for a game I had created to teach about the environment, “Nature’s Treasure Chest,” when Gavin asked me, “Is a honey bee the only insect that makes food for people?”

I paused, I knew of insect that was eaten in different cultures, insects that produced silk and other product, but I concluded that the honey bee, indeed, was the one insect that produced a product that could be harvested for human consumption.

It was my daughter, Ann, who first showed me that the sow bug, and the pill bug carried eggs on their ventral side and that these little creatures were not insects but relatives of the crab and lobster.

Listen and you hear logical names created by children. My son was the first person I heard call a “butterfly” a “flutter by.” It seemed a better name to me, and since then I have heard others use this term.

I remember going on a hike with him and there was a dandelion seed along the trail. . . We had often picked them and made a wish as we blew the seeds to the wind. He looked at the dandelion seed and said to me, “Mom, I see a wish growing.” I was charmed and learned to listen better and I began to write the enchantment down and keep a list that I could recite to his adult ears.

It’s special to both of us, and I think he thinks I’m special for remembering and sharing.

By Ruth W. Scott

Labels: dandelion, honey bee, Ruth Scott, space shuttle, teachers, the environment, young children

Stumble This Post

I have found in the raising of five children that sometimes it is better not to talk. Write a letter. Even if the child is quite young. We choose our words better when writing than speaking in the moment. Sometimes the letter is an apology, sometimes our love and caring comes through in words.

Labels: Hallmark, kids grow up, love letters, Ruth Scott

Stumble This Post

One must be very brave to bear and raise a child.

It is amazing to me how radically our life is changed by a few pounds of bone and flesh and life-giving fluids, a squealing, shrieking, unattractive bit of life that we immediately accept as beautiful, absolutely unique of all who have ever been born and can accommodate our being, our habits, our routines, and our life forever.

It is considered “normal” to react in this positive way.

How much of ourselves we lose is in our control. No, not really, the needs, health, personality of the newborn can be in conflict or in unison with our needs, health and personality. Some newborns are far more demanding, born sick, deformed or just out of sync with Mom’s plan. And so it goes; all are changed due to varying circumstances.

The older I become the more I wonder as I look at a newborn: How could your Mom be so brave?

Of course, when I was young and in the process of bearing and raising five distinct, unique, beautiful human beings -- this thought never occurred. I didn’t feel brave at all! I felt busy, at times harried, challenged, creative, and purposeful. It was a fulfillment to a life’s need, a maiden’s prayer, a dream come true.

It was what my life’s main theme was to be.

Even if a late pregnancy at fourty-two increased the years that I would be the mother with children at home, I was surprised to find that it seemed like a very short time had passed when one by one they were out of the house. They belonged to the world and I rejoiced.

The attachments were still strong, but with their youthful needs for me fulfilled, I was free -- released to pick up pieces of self and go back and pick up pieces of what I had started in times B.C. (Before Children).

I know I gave a piece of myself to every child. We all leave a piece of ourselves with those we encounter or get to know. Our children are just a much bigger part of the equation. We can walk out of their lives and they can walk out of ours, but never completely

Momdom is transforming and forever. 

Labels: raising children, Ruth Scott

Stumble This Post

I am writing this blog inspired by a blog I read last week.

A mother was recalling reading a bedtime story to her son.  She then remembered singing a lullaby to him.  She started singing, remembering all the words though evidently several years had passed since she had sung it to him. 

He did not find the words familiar.

We all have memories for different things, one child remembers the music, another the words, one the setting or circumstances, the people assembled, etc. 

My story is about my fourth daughter who remembered. 

I think some felt that Ann should have been a boy, but I always knew she was the perfect fourth child. Coming from an all-girl family, I thought having all girls was normal.  I always sang my children to sleep after reading a bedtime story, as they were so non-critical to the pitch and talent of my singing.

I often made up the words and rambled on until they slept peacefully.  I remember reading somewhere that lullabies often reflected the mother’s feelings or situation. A poor mother might be singing her woes such as in the song, “Poor little lamb what will I do wee you.” Or the rich mother’s chanting, “All the pretty little horses.”

My song for Ann was that of a mother who had three older children and knew that no matter how hard you tried, you could not guarantee your child a lifetime of happiness. Each child must strive to fulfill his or her own needs.

And so I wrote and sang: 

Oh Ann, these arms that hold you tight.

       Protect you but for infants night.

                                                And from these arms soon you must go.

                                                Into the world, where I don’t know.

And I will try to cast a spell.

To keep you safe and warm and well.

But I have no magic on which

time will not tell.

 

For Ann, these arms that hold you tight.

Cannot stop time in its flight.

And from these arms soon you will fly.

Into the worlds arms opened wide.

And since I cannot cast a spell.

I will try to teach you well.

To stand alone and find a home,

in which your heart can peacefully dwell.

Ann asked for this song over the years and soon remembered the words better than I. Then came the day of her informal outdoor wedding and she had found the home where her heart would peacefully dwell. 

At the reception there was an open mike where friends and relatives were invited to speak, congratulate the happy couple or relate how they happened to have met Ann and Paul. Then Ann invited me to sing her song with her.  She had the words in case I’d forgotten, but together we remembered. 

Today she is an OBGYN in Portland and has three children of her own.  I must remember to ask her if she sings our song to them.

By Ruth Scott

Labels: daughters, lullabies, mothers, Ruth Scott

Stumble This Post

Many of us go rushing through life thinking we should do something important, be someone, and then we die and recycle back into another piece of the whole and what is remembered?

I think of my mom and remember her Angel Food Cake.  No one ever has, or ever will, make one like it. 

I have her recipe and I fail every time I try to make it; so do my daughters.  With her flat, antique whipper she produced it joyfully to the end; partly because I had surpassed her in so many other endeavors as she grew older.

When her hands grew arthritic, the grandchildren did the whipping and under her direction they were prideful and successful. The cake was there when I had a birthday, when my children were born; when I came home after surgery, and always appreciated.

I remember my Dad for wonderful rowboat rides up Curly Creek where he spun extemporaneous stories of the Adventures of Princess Virginia, or recited Shakespeare, Kipling, and Robert Service aloud to any and all who would listen.

I knew the “Quality of Mercy” from “The Merchant of Venice” by heart, long before I could understand its meaning. I remember breakfasts where he starred as the chef, making imaginative pancakes where his thin batter somehow managed to spell out our names or take the form of balls and bats or monsters.

I asked my eldest daughter once what she would remember me for. Without a moment’s hesitation she answered, “For showing me the star in the apple. You taught me to cut the apple the other way so I could find the five pointed star.”

I told her that her father had shown me the star in the apple before she was born, when we were first married. 

My youngest child was birthed after his paternal grandfather had died, yet his older sisters would take their two fingers and walk them up his arms and legs chanting, “Here comes the walking man, the walking man, the walking man,” just like grandpa Scotty had done to them when they were toddlers.

Our son would giggle and squirm with delight unaware of this link with the past, the fact that he was experiencing grandpa’s immortality. Pasternak says it all in “Dr. Zhivago” with one line, “You in others, that is your soul.” 

We are not to choose or ever know what small or great act will live on after we are gone and recycle back into the whole. Perhaps that is the true mystery of life, the meaning of oneness.

And so it goes on and on and on. What we are to each other we will perhaps never really know, but I think the good we do, the joy we produce, the positive, somehow goes on and the rest is eventually forgotten, forgiven, or just weeded out.

By Ruth Scott

Labels: children, life, parents, Ruth Scott

Stumble This Post

I have found in the raising of five children that sometimes it is better not to talk.
Write a letter. We choose our words better when writing than speaking in the moment.

This letter was sent to all five of my children. At the time some were at the university, some in high school and one in grade school.

I remember nursing you,
Completely aware;
How soon passing.
How soon passing.
It will never be like this again.

I remember swinging you,
Thinking;
How soon passing.
How soon passing.
It will never be the same.

I remember your first step,
Marveling;
How soon passing.
How soon passing.
I am blessed to see this.

I remember carpooling,
Listening to your chatter;
How soon passing.
How soon passing.
Thanks for these moments.

And when you're grown and on your own,
I'm glad that at the time I knew;
How soon passing.
How soon passing.
It will never be the same.

But I took time to record each moment,
Every stage, memories rich to call upon.
Knowing that I took advantage of those moments;
How soon passing.
How soon passing.

That created a new you, a new me.
Love Mom

P.S. Other kids are lucky! Their moms sent Hallmark cards!!!

By Ruth Scott

Labels: Ruth Scott

Stumble This Post

I wrote this in 1975 after spending a day with my son who at the time was two years old, going on three. I sent it to him today as he is the stay at home father of Ruby Nicole who is two going on three.

I had come into the house from an hour or two spent in the yard exploring nature’s wonders and
playing in the sandbox. I put him down for a nap and sat down to my typewriter and wrote.

I want to thank you, Nathaniel, for keeping me in touch with the intuitive.

What you know at two, I must learn again. Is this wisdom?

I must learn the love and fascination of simple things: moons, bugs and love.

I thank you for teaching me that the answer to “I love you” is “I know it.”

I thank you for forgiving my hassles and mistakes, listening to my home-made lullabies, and being someone fun and rewarding to be with.

I thank you for the instantaneous joy of lizards, butterflies and creek water that ripples over our bare feet, and the pleasure of wading in puddles after the rain.

I thank you for proving that a penny is still a magic coin that buys bubble gum from the machine and shouts of “I got a blue one,” or yellow or green. A penny still fits in your shoe and gives a bounce to your step with thoughts of the delights it will buy.

A penny makes the red flag in the parking meter disappear. A penny is a power that spins and rolls and sometimes disappears down cracks producing laughter, sighs, and tears.

You teach me that tears are free, self-created floods that release the pressure behind the dam and allow the sunny smiles that follow close behind to appear again.

You make me happy that I am still here to see you turn three. You teach me simplicity while you daily learn complicated things.

You make me realize that all your intuitive truths will be severely tested before you turn them into wisdom and that maybe this will never have a chance to occur.

But today, I thank you most of all for just being you, almost three, and at this moment, here with me.

Love you, Mom

By Ruth Scott

Labels: Ruth Scott

Stumble This Post

My son seemed depressed, really depressed. He didn’t want to get up in the morning. His energy level was the lowest I had ever seen, even though he was always hungry and ready for something to eat.

Time to have a “man to man,” “woman to man,” “mom to son,” -- heart-to-heart talk!

“Is there anything going on that I should know about, Nathaniel?”

“What do you mean, Mom. You know everything,” was his quick, glib reply.

“Oh, I was just wondering. You seem to have no energy, no real drive. You just want to stay in bed and sleep. Can I do something to help?”

“Sure, Mom, you can do something. Stop worrying.” He sauntered out the door.

The days passed and still he showed little of his usual enthusiasm and zeal. Even lacross, at which he excelled, seemed to require inordinate encouragement.

One day he initiated the conversation stating that it bothered him that I expected so much energy and constant enthusiasm about everything from him.

“It doesn’t give me much self esteem knowing you consider me dull and slow, Mom,” and then he added sarcastically, “just because you’re such a perpetual motion machine who loves to get up at day break.”

I thought about this for a day or so. Rather than talk about it, I sat down and wrote him a letter, a letter about self-esteem. Look at the words, I told him. I cannot give you what you must take for yourself. You must feel that what you are achieving is sufficient, your best, or at least makes you proud of yourself and satisfied that you did your best.

This seemed to alleviate my concerns. No more was said. Time passed and he matured into a son to be proud of, one who has well deserved self-esteem and gives credit and thanks and notice to others.

Years later, my son remarked to me. “Remember, Mom, how I hated to get up in the morning, how tired I always was, and how much this bothered you? Those were the two to three years I grew from five feet, nine inches, to six feet, four imches. My feet went to a size thirteen shoe.“

I realize now that he was right. You have the same number of years to reach six foot four as you do to grow to five foot hour, and growing and building additional bone and tissue takes a lot of extra sleep. It’s so logical to think about now, but at the time I was not aware. I was thinking of the psychological implications of the need for extra sleep.

Hindsight does not always help much in mothering.

By Ruth Scott

Labels: Ruth Scott

Stumble This Post

At thirty nine I had cancer. The type I had could have been fatal as there was little known at that time compared to current treatments. I found the tumor myself, a lump in the groin, and asked that it be biopsied as the doctors did not think it to be a problem.

When it proved to be cancer, radical surgical procedures were performed. I experienced a very special event during the week before surgery. I was walking down the street in Mill Valley holding the hands of my four-year old daughter, Ann, and my seven-year old daughter, Alison.

In their other hands they each held an ice cream cone. I remember extreme awareness of my surroundings as I thought to myself, "If this is all there is then I am blessed.” At that moment I saw every leaf on the tree before me as individual, unique, and important, yet interconnected to the whole. I've never forgotten that moment. I later heard someone describe a similar feeling that they had experienced with psychedelic, acid-type drugs.

I could understand why they would want to have this experience again. Life with cancer had given me a blessing. I felt centered, free to be in the moment.

Twenty years later I had my second cancer. One of my thinking processes at these times was to accept death, and try to learn its lessons. I wrote, "Thoughts of death bring sweet return, when from them more of life we've learned."

If you do not live you have little use for this lesson, but there is always the chance that you will have time to practice what you have learned. I admit that I have learned many more things than I have been able to put into practice. I believe it was Goethe who wrote, "A seeker of truth is a student of death.”

I believe this is true.

I created a game, a habit, of looking at or experiencing things as if it were, "For the Last Time.”
.
We go through life learning new things, doing them for the first time. First we learn to see. Our eyes do not focus so vision must be practiced and learned, and it really is exciting if only we could remember. You can watch a child take his first step and see the joy and excitement it brings. We may record his first spoken word.

There is a different excitement and joy that comes from doing things and seeing things for the last time. There is a sense of appreciation and thankfulness, a gratitude for having the experience that a "first" cannot compete with on the same terms.

To watch my grandchild take her first step is magnified and appreciated for perhaps I will never again experience that moment when a child launches herself into the bi-pedal upright stance. I savor the moment as I do all the times in the last few years that I have skied down the perfect slope on a clear winter day for the last time. You see, I can still ski, I just can't fall so I'm sure I should quit while I'm up, but I go back to relish the last time.

This summer I jumped off the Scott's jumping cliff on Long Lake below Mt. Elwell, again, for the "last time.” The height scares the grandchildren; the cold of the lake challenges me, but it's there and the "last time" makes it seem easier, not so cold. “I won’t have to do this again,” I say, and I jump. My grandchildren may return at seventy five and remember, saying, "Well, Grandmom did it, so can I.”

Perhaps, I'll inspire from the grave what I could not inspire in life.

I climb again to my favorite pine that grows high on a rock over Big Bear Lake. It is alone, and one cannot see any soil around its trunk, only rock. Year after year this pine is still there, facing winter storms, the cold, and the weight of wind and snow, and still it survives, bonsai, and beautiful. I come back every year for the "last time" receiving comfort and strength. "If you can make it, I can make it,” I say to this tree, my friend and inspiration.

I can walk through Mill Valley for the last time and it's amazing what I see and review and I am renewed. It is enough to have had each experience and if it is the last of the last times I am fortunate to have appreciated each moment in time.

First times you can only have once; last times you can experience over and over again.

By Ruth W. Scott

Labels: Ruth Scott

Stumble This Post

My son seemed depressed, really depressed. He didn’t want to get up in the morning. His energy level was the lowest I had ever seen, even though he was always hungry and ready for something to eat. Time to have a “man to man,” “woman to man,” “mom to son,” -- heart to heart talk!

“Is there anything going on that I should know about, Nathaniel?”

“What do you mean, Mom. You know everything,” was his quick, glib reply.

“Oh, I was just wondering. You seem to have no energy, no real drive. You just want to stay in
bed and sleep. Can I do something to help?”

“Sure, Mom, you can do something. Stop worrying.” He sauntered out the door.

The days passed and still he showed little of his usual enthusiasm and zeal. Even lacross, at which he excelled, seemed to require inordinate encouragement.

One day he initiated the conversation stating that it bothered him that I expected so much energy and constant enthusiasm about everything from him.

“It doesn’t give me much self esteem knowing you consider me dull and slow, Mom” and then he added sarcastically, “just because you’re such a perpetual motion machine who loves to get up at day break.”

I thought about this for a day or so. Rather than talk about it, I sat down and wrote him a letter, a letter about self-esteem. Look at the words I told him. I cannot give you what you must take for yourself. You must feel that what you are achieving is sufficient, your best, or at least makes you proud of yourself and satisfied that you did your best.

This seemed to alleviate my concerns. No more was said. Time passed and he matured into a son to be proud of, one who has well deserved self-esteem and gives credit and thanks and notice others.

Years later, my son remarked to me. “Remember, Mom, how I hated to get up in the morning, how tired I always was, and how much this bothered you? Those were the two to three years I grew from 5’ 9’’ to 6’ 4”. My feet went to a size thirteen shoe. “

I realize now that he was right. You have the same number of years to reach 6’ 4” as you do to grow to 5’ 4” and growing and building additional bone and tissue takes a lot of extra sleep. It’s so logical to think about now, but at the time I was not aware. I was thinking of the psychological implications of need for extra sleep.

Hindsight does not always help much in mothering.

By Ruth Scott

Labels: Ruth Scott

Stumble This Post

"Your turn to tell the story, Mom.”

"No, it's your turn,” I replied, and so he began. No connected thoughts. Lots of giggles and silliness in his four-year old delight until he settled into his pillow.

It is easy to tell a story when the listener believes in you and hangs on every word. The plot thickens or wanes as his breathing softens or excels as your story is interrupted with listener input. I remember one story that began with giggles and joy and ended with tears of release and hopefulness.

I could tell you that story now, but more than the story what I remember from that nighttime reverie of Mom and child is a special lasting reward and joy. That night my son looked up at me and asked, "Mom, what is the biggest number of all?"

I answered, "Nathaniel, there is none because numbers go on and on to infinity." I know he understood for his immediate response was, "Then I love you until it never comes to an end and infinity and more.”

That was thirty years ago but never forgotten for though he is now a young father with a child of his own, when we correspond we always sign with our secret code: I.L.Y.U.I.N.C.T.A.E.A.I.A.M.

By Ruth Scott

Labels: Ruth Scott

Stumble This Post

A Thanksgiving I’ll always remember:

Ann was born! Scotty had died! What are we thankful for?

The children spoke differently that year. Perhaps for the first time.

They were aware that life and death were givens, were equal, were part of each other.
Grandpa Scotty was gone, but Ann was here, a newborn.

The beginning and end of life collided in time. Suddenly, all present felt blessed by both.

No elaborate ritualistic grace at this dinner. Always in our house we went around the table and said our “thank yous.”

Voices of eighty-year olds blended with voices of two-year olds and this year the occasional demanding cry of the newborn. We placed Grandma’s turkey on the table garnished by great-grand mom’s dressing recipe.

The “thank yous” began.

“I’m thankful for turkey,” said Jennifer.

“I’m thankful I’m alive,” reflected Heidi.

“I’m thankful for Ann,” purred Alison.

“I’m glad it’s Thanksgiving!”

Around the table we went.

We came to Helen, the bereaved widow. She raised her water glass and without a tear in her eye, and with great celebration, looked upward and proclaimed, “I’m thankful for you, Scotty, without you and what we created together, none of us would be here tonight. Thank you! Happy Thanksgiving to all.

"We are blessed.”

By Ruth Scott

Labels: Ruth Scott

Stumble This Post

Step back in time? Is it possible? For what reason? What purpose will it serve?

I think it is worthwhile to try and we have done it now for almost forty years.

Each year we spend a week in the Sierra living 1920s style. There is plumbing and electricity,
but no telephones (except one for emergencies), no central heat, water comes from a pure
unpolluted spring, and there are miles of hills, lakes, creeks, waterfalls, and mountain
entertainment that one must be willing to discover and create for herself.

Computers and electronics are left behind.

Three generations of one family have built and operated this complex of cabins and lodge for
the past eighty seven years. They have served the natural surroundings as well as those who
come to experience mountain adventures with a true pioneering spirit.

The lessons learned each year are not from a book. They are lessons of nature that are
gleaned from experiencing the annual return. Such as how things differ after a rainy, snowy winter compared to a dry drought year. The change in vegetation or the depth and course of the creek and its pools.

We have taken our children for years and we now return with them and our grandchildren.
This year the newest generation numbered eight discovering the world that their great
grandparents, whom they had never met, lived in.

Each generation explores for themselves The same jumping cliffs, meadows of wildflowers, where the creek’s pools are, and what waterfalls carve good swimming holes. Nature provides more rides and thrills than Disneyland and they constantly change as trees fall, or the creek alters it course. The unpredictable variances teach alertness and acute observation, skills that keep one safe so the joy of adventure can continue. The first jump off the cliff into the ice cold lake is preceded by checking out the landing field. Has anything changed since last year? Are there any new rocks below?

No! Let’s go! This is fun, but it is the real world, and we are the ones who row across the lake (no motors), climb the cliff, make the decisions and take our risks. We are our own life guards and we plan accordingly.

For a year our six-year old twin granddaughters were determined that this was the year
they’d climb to the top of the signature mountain in the area. The first day there they
put their feet to the trail and off they went. Not a complaint, just determination. Yes they
“made it to the top” and gloried in their triumph all the way back to their cabin. All week
long, new areas were pioneered, lakes traversed in rubber boats pulled from back packs and
cooperatively blown up. A recent new creation is Forest Frisbee Golf, and Pine Cone Bacci
Ball.

Of course, one option is to just stay at the cabin and visit the lodge. Ping pong, a player
piano, puzzles and board games contributed by four generations of guests, and at night a
fire in the fireplace enhanced by popcorn or marshmallows roasted on a stick. Never get to
stay up this late at home but there is so much creativity going on and make-your-own-fun
times to get to know cousins from afar, that no one is ready for sleep.

Having twenty-four hours a day, day after day, creating new games, often with rocks, leaves, whatever nature provides allows you to know people in a completely different way. No real supervision just hang out and find some new creation to make, such as “mud pie” and “rock soup”garnished with “staghorn lichen." Learn to differentiate a golden mantle ground squirrel
from a chipmunk. Hike to the deserted mine that is almost impossible to get to now, and
yet when it operated was accessed and built with mule teams, no roads, no power tools
to dig shafts or excavate ore. One gains admiration for the early pioneers and appreciation
for the modern world and the inventions that have made tasks easier.

So we will return again next year, three generations of Scotts to relax and challenge ourselves, and teach the youngest generation that you can plot your own goals, create your own fun and share, for a week of truth and self-made adventures, teaching that oneflourishes by strength and support of family. Ah, the power of traditions!

By Ruth Scott

Labels: Ruth Scott

Stumble This Post

Why is it so hard for some of us to get to know our mothers while they are alive?

Every year I get to know my mom better and better. I always knew Dad. He was so enchanting, a story teller, a romantic, and so in need of our love. He deserved it and he got it. I admire him still.

He loved us, but he really, really loved Mom.

They say girls are attached to fathers, their first love. Perhaps, this is true, but I realize more and more that I am a lot like my Mom and she taught by setting an example. She asked for little more than that we be straight-forward, always honest, and do the best we could.

She loved us and wanted us to stay at home forever, but she let us go and admired us for leaving. She was from a third generation of Swedish immigrants that had homesteaded on impossible agricultural land in South Dakota and eventually ended up in Minnesota where they were successful farmers.

She was a woman of few words, (whereas my father, an author, had many). She was
stubborn and tenacious when it came to integrity and honor in all dealings and she was the most kind, understanding person of infants and toddlers that I have every known.

My Mom had an “ear for music.” We used to tease her that she should play with her ears. She would sit at the piano and say, “Just hum the song. I can play it,” and we did, and she would. She really never understood that this was a great talent. In fact, she couldn’t understand why we couldn’t do it for ourselves. It was a natural part of being alive for her.

She never saw herself as special or having any special ability or talent. In fact, I think she sometimes felt like she was not special. I wonder now if this leads back to an accident when she was very young. She was one of nine children on the farm and all went on to get some sort of advanced education. She became a teacher. She was in her early 20s and teaching grades one through eight in a one-room schoolhouse, which were common at that time in sparsely populated rural areas.

One day, a blizzard occurred and as some of the children came a distance to school each day she choose to keep them there and not allow them to venture out into the storm, visibility being zero.

She rotated the children around the pot-bellied stove that furnished warmth. The storm raged and they spent the night in the safety of the school room. The happy part of the story is that all the children survived, and the storm broke with no catastrophe, except to the teacher. My Mom had saved her class from frostbite, or worse, but on each foot two of her toes had been frozen, and were removed. She, perhaps at first, felt slightly deformed but overcame it and never mentioned this loss as in her words, “It’s what’s inside that counts.” It became her mantra. She never saw herself as special, a heroine. She had just done what was right.

When I lost a breast to cancer, the other saying of hers that served me was, “Whatsoever, things be beautiful, look upon these things.”

My mother died of cancer and had but one request and that was that she die at home. The last time I saw her, I knew that this stoic, stubborn, determined child of Swedish immigrants needed to go home. My Dad made that possible.

I called my Dad and he said she could no longer talk. I asked him to put the phone by her ear. I said, “Mom it's okay to go. I need a guardian angel.”

Within a half hour she peacefully died and I have been served at times of need every since. As I grow old and wrinkled, I am renewed by her words, “It’s what’s inside that counts.”

I love my Mom, keeping everyone else warm and safe, stoically moving on, not asking for acknowledgment. The deed that serves the day is enough. She is still an inspiration and when in need, my guardian angel.

I’m still getting to know my Mom.

By Ruth Scott

Labels: Ruth Scott

Stumble This Post