I Remember, Mom

On this Mother's Day, I remember, Mom.


I remember, Mom, that 12 years wasn't enough time with you, but I keep the memories of you with me.


I remember, Mom, that you were left-handed, that you always wore a watch, but I never saw you wear a ring. You would never give us kids an answer when we asked about wedding rings.


I remember, Mom, the bruise on your middle finger nail bed from a sewing machine needle.

I remember, Mom, your feet with cracked heels.


I remember, Mom, that you were afraid of snakes and one time when I was mad at you for some reason, I put a rubber snake in your purse. Yeah, you were scared, but not as much as I was for getting caught!

I remember, Mom, that you almost always wore dresses.

I remember, Mom, that you made me dresses out of flour sacks. I wore them and was never embarrassed they were flour sacks.

I remember, Mom, your letting me help you make pancakes. I would stand on a step stool next to the stove and "help" pour the batter.

I remember, Mom, helping you warm bottles for my baby brother.

I remember, Mom, you using a wringer washing machine and hanging clothes on the line to dry. Even though I have a automatic washer, I still like to hang my clothes out to dry.

I remember, Mom, when I cut my arm open on glass and you and Dad had to take me to the emergency room. You had wrapped my arm in a nice, white towel to stop the bleeding. When we got to the hospital, and the doctors/nurses unwrapped it, you passed out. There you were on another gurney next to me. Fourteen stitches in a seven-year old's wrist looked really bad but I got special treatment for a while.


I remember, Mom, how you run "Winans' Grocery" and gave credit to everyone.

I remember, Mom, you at the store taking a little boy in a diaper and setting him on the counter and giving him a Black Cow sucker. I'm sure you gave something to his big sister and brother, too, but I don't remember. The little boy was sticky from head to toe. How could we know, Mom, that years later that little boy (Elwood), his big sister (Diane) and brother (Ray) would become my step-brothers and sister?

I remember, Mom, that you didn't get your drivers license until your mid-30's because you were afraid to ride in a car with a policeman.


I remember, Mom, trips to visit Aunt Ninny in PA. I remember one trip in particular. We had all piled into the car and we had only got just past Philippi on Rt. 119 when we were hit by a dump truck. It was a miracle no one was hurt. But I remember, Mom, that there was a trickle of blood on your arm from a piece of shattered window glass. I remember crying because you were hurt.


I remember, Mom, all us kids climbing on the bed with you and you telling us stories and singing us silly songs.

I remember, Mom, how each of us kids always had a special birthday. We would have cake and ice cream.

I remember, Mom, all the weiner roasts we had.

I remember, Mom, how angry you were when Donna Jo eloped.

I remember, Mom, how you would try to keep my hair cut short. I hated short hair. When I wouldn't let you cut it, you made me keep it in ponytails. One time, you decided to give me a perm. Oh, how embarrassed I was going to school with hair that looked like Bozo--frizzy and sticking straight out, somewhat resembling curls.



I remember, Mom, the day you died. It was a sunny, warm first day of Spring. I was looking forward to coming to the hospital to see you that evening. I was 12 then and was allowed to visit. But when Junior and I got off the school bus, something was off. There were lots of people at the house. No one would look us in the eye. Then Aunt Polly took us in another room and told us you had died.


I remember, Mom, so many people coming to the funeral home to pay their respects. You had so many people who loved you.


I remember, Mom, going back to the house and feeling the void you once filled. The void remains to this day, but I remember you, Mom.