My Friends and Family,
Psalm 90: 12 – Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.
Today, my efforts to live a blameless life include devoting this blog to my mother, Madonna Rose. She turns 90 years old as I post this. It’s interesting that Psalm 90 instructs us to “teach us to number our days so that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” I think she definitely has numbered her days because although she has gained a heart of wisdom, she frequently admits that she and Dad are going to die. “We aren’t going to live forever,” she often states. No remorse, just logic and acceptance, and certainly no effort to prevent it, at least not with machines. She certainly has gained a heart of wisdom, but as one could quickly ascertain through any conversation with her, she has gained a mind of logic – although we do catch her in illogical thinking at times.
Honoring her appropriately requires even more than a picture worth a thousand words could express. She has granddaughters now who could honor her in both artistry and in writing. She has grandsons now who could honor her with strength and love. If truth be told, she might value all 34 grandchildren and 21 great-grandchildren more than her own 10 children. Yet, her 10 children have honored her in their own ways. Only a master artist could portray all this “fruit of her labor”.
Yes, TEN children, 9 of them within 9.5 years…the 10th within 14 years. Maybe this is the best way to honor her…to briefly present a snippet of how each one of these 10 honor her, in the past and now. All of them seem to want to do this. In fact, they can’t keep away from it, nor did they really ever avoid it.
We all wanted to see and hear from Mom. We grew up, went to college, moved away to our first job, and yet, we continued to visit regularly, to call or await her phone calls, and of course, we all appreciated the many letters she faithfully mailed for years. Most spoke the same assurance…Jesus loves you and we do, too. She never was one to say too much (except when debating her sister-in-law, the nun; any politician would be hard-pressed to master their skill, their quickness, their tenacity and their delight, laughter, and reconciliation after verbally tackling each other; they always hugged upon departure and looked forward to the next holiday debate). Neither was she one to make things flowery. As she always told us, “The less said, the better”.
Yes, the less said, the better. Oftentimes, this principle really annoyed me, angered me in fact…and somewhat still does. If I asked her about something, especially something of concern, something which I knew was a “problem” or rare occurrence or could turn into a bigger deal, I wanted to know all the “juicy” information. I confess, I have a problem with wanting to solve problems. Feeling the burdens of others tempts me to think that I must know all the details to help solve their situation (note to self…it’s none of your business). So, if I asked, “How is Sister 7 or Sister 3 or Brother A or Brother B,” she might say, “Just fine.” I would think with exasperation, “There is nothing fine about what is going on and I know it and I WANT to know more.” She would not indulge me, however, and I believe she did not indulge others seeking information that did not concern them or that could make things worse.
Yes, she said little. With certainty, I believe that she has the “goods” on all of us. She knows things that she never told Dad. She entrusted God with it; she held our confidence; she knew it would not do Dad and other family members any good to feel the discomfort of the private problems of another; she knew that everyone makes mistakes and has hardships. She did not deny this, but she also knew and believed that time and prayer would help. She was no stranger to the pain others feel, pain from alcoholism, suicide, divorce, early death, disabilities..no stranger at all; she navigated all of these with logic and the wisdom and fragility of acceptance.
So, back to the “10.” Who are the 10 who represent her efforts of youth, who ran her life, who caused her to persevere amidst hardships, inconveniences, strife, trauma, grief and other trials and tribulations that befall each of us? Who are these 2 sons and 8 daughters that swallowed up her devoted efforts and hard work which never earned compensation except for the blessings that come with it? I will go oldest to youngest. These are their names: John Stephen, Anna Marie, Paul Joseph, Michaela Marie, Patricia Marie, Colleen Marie, Marita Ann, Mary Katherine, Maureen Ann, and Therese Ann.
Johnny, the first born. Yes, named after Dad and Grandpa Hart. Mom still looks to Johnny for direction. His first born status seemed to win him the respect (or fear) of the rest of us. Although he was blessed with this status, he was not blessed with being an only child (if that is a blessing). He did not get one on one attention, not for long anyway, just the first year. Mom could always recall that her hospital stay with Johnny lasted 5 days and cost $125. That was quite a deal. I guess I would have “bought” Johnny, too. However, you can’t buy blessings, and Johnny has been a blessing to Mom. More importantly though, Mom has been a blessing to Johnny.
As with all of us, he told her things of concern. I don’t really know what they were, but I do know one of them, a very significant one about the gal he could not quit thinking about after he graduated from college and moved home. Her name was Carol, and now she is his wife, but for a time they had called it “quits” with their relationship. Johnny moved on, but he could not “get her out of his head” I guess you could say. From what I know, Mom and Johnny prayed about it. Then one day, when Johnny came back home, Mom had a message to relay. “Carol called.” Interesting. Yes, she called. This was before cell phones, so the mother had to be the one to intercept the call. We know the rest of the story…three children with Carol, now six grandchildren to add to the tribe. Both Johnny and Carol and their family have been a blessing to Mom. All well worth $125.
The oldest daughter and the one with the loudest laugh and largest family, Anna Marie. She came one year and 16 days after Johnny thus robbing him of “his only child” status. I was so much younger than Anna Marie, so I did not have much of a relationship with her, but I do know that she used three different colleges to get her bachelor’s degree. She also acted liked she was blind. She did wear glasses, but her leading role of the blind wife in “Wait Until Dark” shed more light on fear than my little farm girl cultured experience afforded. We actually went to a dinner theatre to watch Anna Marie in this lead role. She did a great job. I am sure Mom enjoyed it (Dad too).
But I know Mom did not enjoy it when Anna Marie was traversing the Rocky Mountains on her way to Arizona State University after her acting career ended. Anna Marie must have concocted her own recipe of a “Rockstar” before they were developed because she decided to do the 3-day trip in 2 days, thus she was not in a position to call home – you know, middle of the night, driving, no cell phone. Mom could not sleep that night; she was so concerned. She said she finally decided to quit worrying and prayed. She fell asleep.
However, Mom never fell asleep when she was “babysitting,” “doing laundry” or “cleaning” at Anna Marie’s house on the many days that she went to help. Yes, Mom went to do “labor” after each of Anna Marie’s nine babies were born, seven of whom were boys who acted like boys. She did this more often than just at the time of birth. It was a regularly scheduled part of Mom’s “accomplishments.” Mom even fulfilled her life principle while helping Anna Marie at Anna Marie’s house. With the speed of light, she would exit out the front door even before Anna Marie’s husband Bucky entered after arriving home from work.
Yes, Proverbs 25:17 was a “law” she put upon herself, and no one could catch her being a hypocrite here. “Seldom set foot in your neighbor’s house, lest he grow weary of thee and hate thee.” One might accuse her of taking this too far. After all, Bucky was not her neighbor, and Mom was actually helping them. Mom would not chance it. The Italian husband would even say, “Madonna, you don’t have to leave.” She was not going to tempt human nature, hers or his. So, in essence, Anna Marie provided an opportunity for Mom to practice what she preached along with a lot of blessings for Mom…7 more male grandchildren and 2 beautiful Italian granddaughters, both of whom are skilled and intelligent.
Now the third strike, son Paul. Calling Paul a third strike is far from the truth unless he was pitching the baseball. Most of us have vivid memories of Paul’s agility both on the baseball field and the basketball court. If one needed to understand finesse, a YouTube video of him, not possible back then, would be the one to watch. Although Mom definitely enjoyed her largest baby (over 9 pounds) growing into a hardworking athlete and a strong, lean man there is so much more to Paul than the finesse, skill and agility of his athletic prowess demonstrated.
His finesse to manage Mom and Dad for so many years and to take over the farm required a lot of strike outs along the way. As any farming family knows, when a son follows his father’s footsteps to take over the reigns, a bull to bull (and not in the bullpen) challenge has to occur. It happened with Dad and his father, and I am sure plenty happened with Paul and Dad which caused Mom to “say little” and to pray much. Her observation of tension and frustration is not something I envy, but like anything, it allowed her to support not only Paul but his whole family along the way.
Supporting Paul’s family in some way should be payback for all they have done for her. Paul and his wife Rita have been such a daily part of Mom (and Dad’s) life that they and their five children will probably endure the most grief when she isn’t in the farmhouse anymore. The oldest granddaughter, Michaela, (another story in itself) blessed Mom with more than she bargained for. “I am not going to babysit anyone’s kids,” Mom would adamantly proclaim while Rita was singing during her pregnancy, singing as beautifully as anyone could, and that is not hyperbole. “No way! Not going to watch grandchildren!”
This is the message I heard from Mom. However, I never heard anyone “asking” Mom to babysit, but after Michaela was born, and Mom got to hold her and sing to her, Mom started singing pretty well about “babysitting.” Not sure if that tune made it to the Top 40 Chart, but in Michaela’s world it ranked Number 1. This type of blessing comes with pain, however. The early and devoted grandma grew to love this first granddaughter severely, and probably it is reciprocated, thus the grief at losing her could potentially be so much harder. I don’t envy this. My own grandparents were old when I was born. I did not have a grandma like my mother has been to most of the grandchildren, especially those from the three oldest. Their blessing comes with a price, yet it is priceless.
Now that Mom is 90 (and Dad 92), Paul, the one with finesse, blesses them with the finesse of patience, the agility of flexibility, and the athletic prowess of devotion. He is still with them daily having the same conversation most days (with patience), speaking to them with respect (as if he were still a youth) and regarding them with dignity (as if they still commanded their own house with the clarity and authority of their prime). What a blessing to Mom. She highly regards both sons as she should. What Johnny doesn’t do, Paul does. What Johnny does, Paul supports; two good sons for my good mother. They are quite a “battery” just like they were when they played baseball together. Paul pitched; Johnny caught. Anna Marie still provides the laughter when and when not needed.
Mom has always loved to laugh even long before she knew the Proverb, “laughter is good medicine, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones.” I still remember her laughing with her sister, Marie, when they would read Proverbs together. “Being kidnapped and held for ransom is not the fear of a poor man.” Oh, how they would laugh, and their laughter did not come from a poor, married situation or a poor upbringing. They both were rich with children, grandchildren, and faith. Mom said often that after she was raised, she realized that her parents were not poor; they just managed life like those who used money wisely, just like my mother and dad.
Yes, laughter was almost a goal of Mom’s. This is why she probably so much appreciated her 5th child and 3rd daughter, Patricia. Mom never heralded that she had favorites, but I know that her favorite thing at Christmas was what Patricia gave to the family. $125 wouldn’t buy this either; the productions coming from a daughter who loves you is nothing to be bought especially when they make you laugh.
Patricia had the unique skill of blending her talents and creativity for the pleasure of others. Although she was an excellent teacher, she really should be regarded for her intelligence to combine both words and captivating illustrations. Teacher as her cover, but a very talented and creative comic in disguise. Each Christmas this would portray itself in her own creation of a photo album or cartoon book. I’m not sure what to call it. We all just knew what it was, and it was going to make us laugh, and like Mom, we all loved to laugh.
Mom would look at this over and over, not just the night of Christmas, but on other occasions. She would point and laugh. She would have to look away not able to see because her eyes were clamped shut due to the full convulsions of laughter, so authentic, so embraced, so delightful to observe. She relished these creations from Patricia. Her abdominals got a true workout after all the work she had already exercised in the kitchen with the full turkey, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie Christmas dinners she faithfully prepared. I am sure the anticipation of each cartoon book from Patricia provided a lot of motivation.
Patricia helped to bring her full circle from laughing with her sister Marie to laughing with her daughters because of her daughter. Her debate partner, the Catholic nun (Sister K. Therese) enjoyed it with her, also. Such good medicine for such a good price. The $125 Johnny sure inflated value. Thanks, Patricia. Your depictions of Carol standing next to Johnny, Anna Marie laughing, Paul commanding athletics and myself mowing the gravel are Academy Award winners, but let’s Wait Until Dark before unveiling this trophy to you.
Colleen came along about 11 months after Patricia. How could this happen you ask? It’s called marriage and motherhood. These things happen, thank God. Don’t close your eyes because before you know it, another 11 months goes by. This is how speedy Colleen was. She sprinted bases fast; she ran hurdles fast; she even ate supper fast, left-handed. How could this be as she shot the basketball right-handed, played softball right-handed, and probably used that right hand for some other “feisty” actions?
By the way, you might notice that Colleen made the title of this blog. Feisty is Mom, and feisty is Colleen. Mom enjoyed Colleen like the rest of us. She was the counterpart of Paul. What he did in male athletics, she did in female sports. Dad said she had the prettiest jump shot ever. He never called any of his daughters pretty in my recollection, but Colleen had a pretty jump shot. This is true. I admired it, too.
Of course, Mom valued Colleen’s abilities and her feisty nature, but she valued the grandchildren Colleen gave to her much more. Just one little glitch here, however. Colleen lived 5 hours from home, not just within 20 minutes like the first three sets of grandchildren. Mom made sure to get up to Colleen’s when each baby was born, but she could not be a daily or weekly part of their lives, just a part of their lives from afar. Despite this, she valued them just as much, talked about them often, used their names, and loved having them come.
When Colleen would change a diaper at the farm during visits, she would say, “Kelly Rae, are you ready to go for it?” No answer from baby would be given except smile and laughter, but in the background at the farm, Mom was ready to “go for” that baby. It didn’t matter how feisty Colleen was, Mom could outdo anyone when it came to a baby…getting them to calm down…being patient…not exasperated. She was supporting the mother; she wasn’t the mother. Her value as mother became greater because she was Grandma.
Distance is sometimes unfortunate even when one “seldom steps foot in their neighbor’s house.” Although absence might make the heart grow fonder, it doesn’t overcome the speeding temptation on the interstate when it is time to see Grandma, especially if you are feisty like the woman of few words. All the miles did not keep Colleen away from Mom and the farm. In fact, her round-trip costs her more than what it costs us, more than $125 considering mileage costs now. Johnny is able to make several at that rate. Seems he is in all the good deals. Colleen has faithfully made this trip for years with her husband Bill, no easy task when you have three children and work full time.
After Colleen, but within another 11 months (yes, babies 5, 6, and 7 all within 22 months), came Marita. Both Colleen and Marita were born in the same year, 1962. Marita was never considered feisty in Mom’s view although the rest of us knew she was a tiger behind a kitten front. Mom always thought Marita was so gentle. She is the daughter who competed with Mom most over holding babies “gently” when the grandchildren came.
Mom always got a kick out of Marita when she was a youngster. She would recall how Marita was so dainty. Before or after she ate, she would wash her own little hands and face. I guess Mom thought this was remarkable because none of the other siblings washed up to this appearance. Maybe being the 7th child prompted Marita to fend quietly for herself. We know Mom would have been plenty busy at this point. 7 children in 7 years; not for the weary. All this done without pampers and microwaves or breast pumps.
Mom didn’t seem to say much about Marita, but she sure talked a lot about Marita’s two sons, Billy and Joey. I heard often about “what nice boys they were.” They are “such good boys.” Maybe Mom noticed that this daughter was blessed with the same blessing she had, two good sons. Truly, they are good sons. I think they will take good care of their mother like their Uncle Johnny and Uncle Paul take good care of Grandma. It’s easy to take care of someone who is tender hearted, like Mom and like Marita.
Mom felt so bad when Joey fell off her bed as a young boy and needed stitches. It certainly wasn’t Mom’s fault. After all, Joey was old enough to handle himself, just not cautious enough to navigate his ambition. Marita proved to be a good daughter, however. When the insurance company told her that she would have to sue her parents to get payment, she adamantly refused. Not sure who paid for the stitches, (probably Marita’s husband Bill and their father; he worked so hard for his money), but it wasn’t Mom. She paid for them with her care about the trauma. I am sure that bill cost more than $125. Maybe Johnny should have paid for it. After all, he still hasn’t made compensation for that first hospital stay in 1956.
As much as Marita was tender hearted, the next baby, born about a year later, was…well shall we say… ready to take the bull by the horns, in both bull pens. Yes, Mary Katherine was born the next year. Oh, but we don’t call her Mary Katherine. We call her Mary K. Let me tell you about Mary K. Mom certainly appreciated this daughter who was unabashedly herself. Yes, Mary K was authentically Mary K.
She was the youngest of those 4 sisters who shared such close ages and other experiences. They were in high school together; they played on the softball team together – all stationed in the infield; they were at Iowa State University together; they even slept together. Colleen with Patricia; Marita with Mary K. (Oh, I forgot to mention that some of the family did not have their own bed until they went to college – feisty Colleen pointed this out.) Believe me, although Mary K. could fall asleep anywhere, Marita probably missed minutes of sleep here and there due to her unabashed sister.
Although they were quite different, Mom could appreciate each of them as well as the rest of us for who we were. One unfortunate experience should be noted about Mary K. It was when her now husband of 33 years made his appearance at the farm on a certain Thanksgiving for the first time. For some reason, he and my dad became embarrassingly and loudly sick having trouble from “both ends.” How awful for this young bachelor to endure this sickness in a house of people he did not know, away from home and feeling absolutely horrible.
And how awful for my mom and her “debate partner” to find the humor in the situation but with only a little shame. For no apparent reason, the first-timer to the farm (future son-in-law) and my dad were the only two who got sick. Of course, the nun had to point this out. “Did you notice that only the men are sick?” She felt bad for this future son-in-law (whom she really enjoyed due to his love of history and general character), but she and my mom could not seem to get enough dose of medicine they called “laughter” as the poor men had no medication that would help them…just the wonderful adaptive immune system which debates viruses for us.
Yes, the laughter came about the men’s suffering, but it came with some shame, for they both cared about Mary K. They both cared about everyone. They certainly cared about these two men. They both cared about how all should be valued. Of all the sisters to handle this, Mary K. would be the best. She loved coaching and when you coach, you never give up, you keep a good attitude, and you plan to win no matter what. She could be authentically Mary K. even during a gutter ball of gut dysbiosis.
Yes, Mary K. could coach, and she did this with as much exuberance as Mom coached the process of who held the babies. Before Mary K. coached, however, she was a tough softball player. Actually, she was a tough softball catcher; she caught both Colleen and me when we were pitchers; we were a prettier battery than Jonny and Paul. I remember one time listening to Mom’s admiration of Mary K. after a really hot, humid day of a softball tournament. Mary K. brutally endured two games in that #2 spot of catcher. When you are a catcher, you must wear more “clothing” (catcher’s gear) than the other players so your perspiration will be even greater on such a hot day. Not only was it brutally hot, but it must have been a dry season as the dust was everywhere. Therefore, it “stuck” to Mary K. Boy, was she dirty.
Mom saw the beauty under the dirt, however. She saw the beauty of working hard and doing it well. She saw the beauty of persevering amidst hard circumstances. No complaining about life or the struggles that come – just accept and say little. Why complain about hot weather in July? After all, we live in Iowa.
It all worked out well, however. Mary K. got cleaned up; her now husband and my dad recovered from that dirty Thanksgiving virus and got cleaned up. The wedding day on August 4, 1990, was another hot day to enjoy, only this time with the other three sisters of the quartet being bridesmaids, the two brothers being ushers, myself at the piano and sister-in-law Rita singing “Love in Any Language.” You might wonder where Anna Marie was…well, she was probably handling her own boys who “loved” being at weddings acting like boys; also, she was probably “waiting until dark” so she could take a rest.
But we must note this, what comes around goes around. The poor aunt who was laughing at the previous Thanksgiving was not laughing on this day. Although she was thrilled for Mary K. and “John” (yes, another John in the family), she was in severe pain. For no apparent reason, she had a huge back injury or pulled something in the intricate, well-designed vertebral system God created in us. She could barely walk or dress herself. I remember helping her in the farmhouse where Mary K. and John live now. I’m not sure if Mary K. knew any of this the day of her wedding. I just knew that she was so happy and so was John. So was Mom, another one of her children getting married with the potential for more babies. This would add up to two little pilgrims who would make a lot of progress through life. (By the way, Mom made sure to be a kind and good woman to her debate partner when the two of them reunited at the farm…no debating that care was needed for the invalid…world controversies could wait.)
After Mary K. and after Mom’s only miscarriage, I was born. I followed everyone else’s lead. I took piano lessons but practiced a bit more. I pitched softball but not with the quartet. I even played basketball but without jumping. I tried to mimic my older siblings in everything because that just seemed like the right thing to do. After all, Mom already showed several children the way and so I should learn from them.
Yes, I learned a lot from them and still do. And like most of them, Mom knows things about me that others do not know. I remember the time I told her the worst thing I ever did. The confession lifted a huge burden off my shoulders. Or maybe it was her response to my confession that gave this relief. She simply displayed compassion and understanding. She was not a naïve individual. She knew what all of us are capable of, but receiving this reassurance from her was comforting.
More comforting, however, was her response to my biggest challenge in life, when my last child was born. With a 58-day stay in the NICU due to prematurity and other medical concerns, this cost a bit more than $125, and it cost me a lot of effort and acceptance to learn what God wanted to teach me. Here again, thankfully, my mother was able to use few words, a little said, the less said in fact, to bring both comfort and truth. It brought forth a lifetime principle to the forefront so that I can never be discouraged because this truth brings peace. Let me explain.
After the baby was born (my Mollie) at 1 pound 14 ounces, the huge concern of death via delivery dissipated, but on day 4 of her earthly life news came that devastated me. Mollie had Down syndrome. I did not laugh. I cried a lot. I said little. My sister Patricia was at my house showing a good time to my other five children during all of this. I returned home after the C-section, but the baby stayed in the NICU, the baby with Down syndrome, the baby that had an uncertain future…would she walk; would she be blind and deaf; would she have a mind that could relate to the world; would her heart give out? The fear and dread of the next 30 years came upon me. I did not have gratitude nor hope at this time.
Then Mom called. Being the good sister she was, Patricia answered the phone to shield me from having to say more than a little. I did not feel like talking to anyone. Mom was no stranger to such things. She had two nieces with Down syndrome. Her sister Marie was the mother of her generation’s oldest grandchild, and this gal had Down syndrome. My mother’s brother had a child with Down syndrome. She had seen and heard of such things and took it in stride, not without thought, but with stride.
As I said, I couldn’t talk so Patricia shielded me. She simply said to Mom, “The baby has Down syndrome.” Mom was her classic self, her authentic self, like Mary K. She said little, but what she said is and always will be a blessing to me (and my husband Dana) and has stayed with me until this day. Her response was with some hesitation, but her words were good. She simply responded, “Well…God blesses.” Patricia said her voice cracked after these words, and she quickly got off the phone.
However, with finesse, agility and skill, she bounced back to her usual self. When given the first opportunity to hold this baby, she used her hands like a skilled catcher on a softball field. No wild pitches on the baby field could escape her. She could get anything, just like Mary K. and Therese (more about her later – another good catcher who knew how to persevere in the heat). Mom’s words and example did far more good for me than the biography I read about Annie Sullivan…the person I was preparing to imitate with similar mastery and success.
I really would have done well to just imitate my mother with her attitude and acceptance. She was right: God blesses. Mollie is the little “package of peace” that goes everywhere with me. She elicits peace and calm from most people who have contact with her. Her older siblings absolutely love her; if truth be told, the blessing is for them, and they are the blessing to her, and me. She is an amazing prime package for their lives, too, a priceless package that costs nothing but acceptance and now gratitude. Thanks, Mom.
Mom never saw Mollie while she was in the hospital. I knew Mom could not handle it. She hated machines, tubes, extra measures. I knew she would not enjoy observing the NG tube, the IV and the oxygen therapy that was given to support Mollie. When Mollie graduated from the hospital and had her first visit to the farm at about 3.5 pounds, Mom was eager to sweep her up into her grandma arms just like she had done for so many grandchildren before. My mom did not greet my new daughter any differently just because she had a disability, except possibly showed a bit more care due to her delicate nature. This made me grateful. He authentic behavior validated this new little life.
Yes, her life had and still does have as much value as anyone else’s including my mother’s at age 90. We care for the weak no matter what age. My strong mother who cared for all of us and all the grandchildren now needs the same care. How dare that we would hesitate to do this. Hopefully, it takes little said to keep us all inspired to remember all that she did for us…her life devoted to her family.
We are not done, however. I was only the 9th child of 10. The astute reader will realize that two children haven’t been described yet. The 10th child came a full four years after my arrival. Although these four years included no babies, they did include pain worse than labor. This concerns the sister who isn’t here anymore.
This sister was Michaela who was born about 14 months after Paul thus blessing Mom with 4 children under age 4. She was beautiful, looking like a perfect little Irish lass with fair skin, dark hair and dynamic blue eyes. Michaela had an intellectual disability and also endured seizures which were undoubtedly a source of trauma that Mom would say little about. At about age 2, Michaela endured so many convulsions in one day that she could only lay on the bed, totally exhausted. Thus, the doctor’s judgment that she was holding her breath was dismissed. This was one of few anecdotes Mom would tell about the hard part of Michael’s life.
Visits to the University of Iowa Hospitals and Clinics revealed that her brain was “like a storm,” as Mom quoted although the doctors said she appeared as the picture of health from the outside. Indeed, she had health. She had a good mother and father; she had siblings who cared for her. In fact, brother Paul kept the hogs away from her one time when she fell out of the barn and broke her arm. Thus, the acknowledgement from Mom so many times that it was a miracle we all survived childhood.
We all did survive childhood except for Michaela. One hot morning in August, Michaela did not wake up, and Mom was the one to discover this. I cannot imagine the absolute shock of such a dire and despairing situation…your 6-year-old daughter not breathing, lifeless. Mom called to Dad. He went upstairs to observe the same. My older siblings recall that Dad carried his little lass down the steps weeping like a baby, weeping like a baby that cannot be comforted no matter the skill of the grandma or mother. What more can be said about this? The picture of this requires more than a thousand words.
There was no debating the grief at the funeral…but Mom’s type of logic found a way. When her debating partner (K. Therese – Kathryn Therese) walked with our Aunt Phyllis Anne to the graveside, she said, “Oh, this is so sad.” Aunt Phyllis Anne gave the contrary, “Oh, I would give anything for this to happen for Michael.” Michael was her disabled child…suffered a brain bleed before we knew the benefits of giving Vitamin K to a newborn to help with clotting.
Mom had the same view. She said that she never wished Michaela back and fully believed she was with the Lord. She told me that the first thing that came to her mind when Michaela died was the beatitude, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” It is true that she was comforted. It was also true that the cause for the mourning was not taken away…just hope given and the grace to carry on. Mom said one day, she was walking in the field south of the house saying to herself, “If I could just hug her one more time.” As quickly as she thought this, the pithy statement, “You have 8 others to hug,” came to mind, again few words. Sounds harsh, but it was true. She did have 8 others to hug.
We know the rest of the story, however. Life went on. Acceptance, little said but love continued and surfaced again with another baby named after the debater herself…Therese. Yes, Therese Ann was born, and the feisty one, Colleen, was the solo of the other 8 who guessed that the baby was a girl.
I still remember being on the front porch when Dad came home from the hospital. How in the world did we all corner him in his own house not able to get in before telling us the good news? But like his usual Dad self, he required us to think a bit. Guess what the baby is. Colleen, to my recollection, is the only one who said it was a girl. She won again…so competitive.
It was a girl, and this girl baby came out with both guns loaded ready to catch strikes and manage real bulls because she was going to go after whatever she wanted and get it. Two things she wanted for sure…she wanted to be tall, and she wanted a horse. She got both, but another desire she had before the she could be a tall horse owner with a checkbook was a bit easier to get and something Mom could handle…just a cowboy outfit with boots. This gift was given on a certain Christmas during the elementary years.
Most of the family are probably able to recall a vivid memory of the little cowboy in her outfit because she wore it nonstop for the whole Christmas break (yes, a bit of hyperbole but not much). She wore it during the day; she wore it to bed; she wore it, she wore it, she wore it. She enjoyed sleeping in it with her 125 stuffed animals along with Mom’s debate partner. Patricia was able to capture this scene in one her photo cartoon books. The bed wasn’t exactly shared; it just had two people in it with all the other “stuffed” stuff.
The little cowboy also wanted to have an “arm” like a pistol, and she did. It did not just happen either. As with all success, quite a bit of labor and diligence is required. We just called it practice, but practicing with diligence helps one develop more expertise in the skill. She had expertise. From the catcher position, if the pitcher did not duck when a throw went down to second base on a steal, the pitcher would get it in the nose. Both Mom and Dad got to enjoy beautiful jump shots, beautiful pitches and beautiful throws on the softball field all starting from holding beautiful babies.
As Therese exited the baby and toddler stage and then moved on to early childhood, her life wasn’t as threatened by sibling survival like the rest of us experienced. Johnny, Anna Marie, and Paul graduated out of high school and went to college. By the time Therese was in junior high the quartet of 4 sisters were at Iowa State so this left just Therese and me at home, but I graduated in two years giving Therese a solitary high school experience. Her own bed; her own high school; her own university in time.
Although one could consider that Therese had “an only child” upbringing, it was at this time that more babies happened upon the scene. Paul and Rita had the honor of presenting the first grandchild, then Johnny and Carol had their oldest daughter, Kathryn, and finally Anna Marie and Bucky got started on their 9. Mom had pretty much raised all of us and now enjoyed her Grandma status. In essence, Therese had to share her upbringing with the grandchildren. At least she had her own bed and her own room and then her own car. She had it all…even got to marry her farmer-husband Bob later on, something else she wanted. And Mom got some more that she wanted, too, – three more strong grandsons, including another John.
One might wonder why so much is written to honor my mother when most of what is written is about other people. Remember, these other people are her children; they represent her; they honor her now; they are the ones who hold the memories of what Mom did and did not do. More importantly, they are the ones who probably possess the most gratitude for having a mother who was dedicated to their upbringing.
I am not saying my mother was perfect; truly not. In fact, she would be the first to admit it, but at my age of 57 with my oldest brother at age 66 (the $125 “amazing” prime package), I think we all realize by now how hard it is to raise children; how hard it is to persevere through life; how hard it is to debate the troublesome issues presented to us without losing friends and alienating relatives. Mom was successful here. She strived to keep the peace and say little. If one apologized, she forgave quickly. If one confessed, she did not repeat. Sounds like a good friend who stickers closer than a brother, don’t you think? Sounds like a good way to live, don’t you think? Sounds like we all need to imitate my mother more often, don’t you think?
No, she wasn’t perfect, but she was faithful to do what she thought was right. She acted according to what she believed, and she believed that you look forward, not back; she believed that you accept what God gives you, tears and joys; she believed that you take care of your family and cherish the lives that God gives you, disability or not. She certainly believed that mothers were undervalued, and although she was educated, she spent her life as a farm wife married to a farmer; she took care of the kids, took them to church, cooked meals for hired men, said little and continued on. She encouraged all of us to get educated and to stand on our own two feet.
She had plenty of storms to endure or to observe; storms from weather, storms from emotions, storms from addiction and divorce, storms from siblings and other relatives, but she said little, but like Dad, her pithy and curt statements said a lot. I remember when a terrible storm hit my house two weeks after I was married. Everything but the house was laid flat; 5 buildings, several old and beautiful trees, and a sundry of other whirlwind blasts.
She told me, “It will take 5 years to clean this up.” I thought to myself, “5 years! Are you kidding me? No way.” Her estimation skills were as good as her baby radar. It did take 5 years to get things finally “done” (as if anything is ever done). She also told me one time, “Just don’t look out the window.” Oh what wise advice that was. If you don’t know what your husband’s labor, mistakes and risks consist of, you do not need to worry yourself with it. The woman’s baby labor and labor of love are plenty for a devoted wife and mother.
Again, plenty of words are here, but why. I guess I feel like the more I put in this blog about my mother the more I am honoring her. I don’t know how to put it into words. How to put into words that I am not so patient with her now that she is forgetful and needs help. How to put into words the gratitude that I really do have despite the mistakes I am quite aware of.
When a talented artist is honored, we would agree that his greatest works should be displayed. How else could we capture the dedication and mastery of the artist? How else could we honor an individual if we don’t point to their accomplishments or life of service? Truly, if we honor the architect behind the Empire State Building, we wouldn’t think of omitting a depiction or diagram of the structure. I guess this is why I focused on her 10 children. This was what she produced, and it is up to us to weather the storms of life and stand tall on the good foundation that she tried to give us. That would be the best honor. As she always said, “What was given to you, pass it forward, not back.”
So, as I close, we must bring closure to this life that started as a baby, herself. She was born the last of 6 children and her mother almost died when she was born. Her mother, my grandma, was faithful, too. She even made mom’s underwear; she butchered chickens; she endured hardships. My mother learned and grew and then she married a farmer, my dad. She was dedicated to him. Forgave much. Loved him much and still does.
Now at 90, her life becomes simple again like before they started spending money on $125 vacations at hospitals. Now, they are alone in the house like before babies arrived but with one small change. Each of those babies, my siblings and I, take turns to make sure they are cared for, that they are safe, that they have devotion showered upon them, the type that money can’t buy. It keeps Mom and Dad together in the house at the farm. Now that we all do not cry like babies anymore, there is no debating that it is quite a blessing to hear her pithy, curt statements as she goes to bed with Dad every night. Dad says to her, “Good night, Dollie, I love you.” And she replies, “I love you, too, John. Good night.”
Psalm 25:1-2: Unto thee, O Lord, do I lift up my soul; O my God, I trust in thee.
Let me not be ashamed; let not my enemies triumph over me.
MADONNA ROSE MCCLIMON (1933-…..) Age 90 and counting. Thanks, Mom!
By the way, dear old Mom recently told her health care provider that for her birthday she doesn’t want to live another 90 years. She always wanted what money can’t buy, not even $125. Happy Birthday, Mom!
Beautiful, full tribute to Mom and her loved ones, Maureen.