Happiness is a Choice

My Mother Taught By Example

As each Mother's Day approaches, I find myself thinking about my own mom.  She was gone before I reached my thirteenth birthday, and over the years, people have said to me "It must have been difficult growing up without a mom."  So, why is it I have always felt like the luckiest person in the world?  It's because of the mom she was.

In a few, short years, she taught me how to live and how to die.  She taught me that hope trumps defeat every time.  She lived the life that proved smiling is better than crying no matter what the situation.  She never failed to see humor in the most desperate circumstance. 

I was not an easy child to rear.  I was a mama's baby, headstrong, reclusive and given to depression.  Mama took all of those things in stride and made me feel special because of them, rather than in spite of them.  I've written many times about how she helped me overcome my closet of sadness.  In fact, Bring Out the Big Chief Tablet is posted here on FanStory and illustrates some of her efforts.

My mother stood up for me when it would have been reasonable and easier to just let it go.  Oh, she was never rude or the kind of mom that a teacher or friend's parents might resent.  She just supported me in a non-intrusive way.  I knew she was in my corner no matter what. 

My second-grade teacher, Ms. Whitehead, had a rule that children must eat their entire meal at lunch.  Any child who did not was required to stand in front of the class, while their fellow students pointed out their failings as a result of not eating properly.  We had milk cows at home, and I did not drink pasteurized milk.  On the third day of attending my second grade class, I was required to stand while my classmates ridiculed me.

"Her hair looks brittle.  That's because she doesn't drink her milk."

"It looks like she has a cavity in her front tooth.  That's because she doesn't drink her milk."

"She's short.  That's because she doesn't drink her milk."

Although I stood stoically during the assassination, I arrived home in tears.  I could barely catch my breath to tell Mama how awful it was. 

"I never want to go to school again, Mama.  Ms. Whitehead is mean.  Everybody makes fun of me.  I hate it."

Mama hugged me close. 

"Tell you what, Olevia, I'll go with you tomorrow.  I'm sure Ms. Whitehead did not mean to hurt your feelings.  She's just worried about you."

The next morning, Mama rode to school with me on the yellow bus.  I was looking forward to Mama setting Ms. Whitehead straight.  I wanted a little vengeance, and I knew Mama could do it.  I expected Ms. Whitehead to grovel a bit, and I had every intention of gloating at her comeuppance.   

"Good morning, Ms. Yeager.  It's good to see you."

"Morning, Ms. Whitehead.  It's good to see you too.  I'm here because I wanted to thank you for taking care of Olevia."

Already, I didn't like the way this was going.

"Olevia is a well-behaved student.  I'm glad to have her in my class.  She's doing just fine."

"Thank you.  I appreciate your worrying about whether she eats the right foods too."

"Well, I do think that's important, Ms. Yeager.  I'm glad you agree with me.  A couple of parents have gotten upset when I've insisted their children eat their lunches."

"Eating lunch makes sense to me.  I'm glad you care.  I know Olevia doesn't drink pasteurized milk.  We have raw milk at home, and she drinks plenty of that.  She really likes buttermilk.  Anyway, I just wanted to let you know either I or her daddy will be here everyday at lunch.  We will bring her a glass of raw milk to go with her lunch."

"Oh, no, Ms. Yeager.  That's not necessary."

"Well, I don't want Olevia breaking any of your rules.  John or I can find time to come up every day to bring her milk.  What time exactly do you have lunch?"

"No, Ms. Yeager.  I don't think that's a good idea."  She pulled out her attendance log.  "I'm going to mark it down right here that Olevia gets plenty of milk at home."

"Thank you.  Still, the other kids might think Olevia's getting away with something.  You know how that is.  We'll just bring her milk."

"I'll tell you what else I can do, Ms. Yeager.  I'll make an announcement today that Olevia drinks a lot of milk at home so she doesn't need the lunchtime glass."

I was bored by this time.  There were no fireworks.  Everything was just a friendly conversation.  I left to go play with my friend, Carol Nalley.  I don't know what more was said in that conversation.  I only know that never again was I, or any classmate of mine, asked to stand in front of the class after lunch.  That night, Mama mentioned to me what a nice person Ms. Whitehead was, and how lucky I was to be in her class. 

Mama taught by example. 

We often walked the half-mile to a little grocery store, McManemin's, more for the outing than the need of groceries.  I remember one such trip.  We were about half-way home when I noticed I had been given six suckers while Mama had only paid for five.

"Hey, look, Mama.  Mr. Ed gave me six suckers!"

"Six?  Are you sure?  I paid Ed ten cents, five for you and five for John.  How many do you have, Johnny?"

Johnny was only five years old, and I was nearing seven.  I had no faith in his ability to count.  I took his candy from him.

"Gimme those, Johnny!  Let me count the suckers."

Sure enough, we had eleven lollipops.  I was elated at our good fortune.

"Wow, Mom.  That's good, huh?  We got eleven suckers for only a dime."

"Well, I guess it would be good if you were a thief, Olevia."

"What?  I don't steal!"

"I certainly hope not.  But if you keep that extra sucker, then you are a thief."

"It's not my fault that Mr. Ed made a mistake.  It's his fault."

"It is Ed's fault that he gave you too many suckers, but it would be your fault if you kept the extra one.  What do you think we ought to do?"

"Take it back?"

That's the way Mom did things.  She rarely made decisions for me--even when I was only six years old.  She knew I was obstinate, and if she told me I had to do anything, a battle of wills ensued.  Neither of us won.  She simply led me down the path to the right decisions. 

Mama taught by example.

Mama was not a regular church-goer.  Her parents were Catholic, and she spent her teenage years in a Catholic orphans' home.  Her father had little choice but to place his eight children there upon his wife's death from diptheria.  Mama was twelve, second to the eldest.  She did not feel especially kindly toward the Sisters at the home.  In times of stress, I had heard her pray to a saint, but she was not what I would call a practicing Catholic. 

Mama was satisfied with her faith, but the closest church to our house was Kingsville Baptist.  Therefore, my fifteen-year-old sister, Hannah, John and I went to Kingsville Baptist.  Mr. Davis, one of the deacons, was our ride, and he pulled his car into our driveway at eight-thirty every Sunday morning.  The Davises did not have a telephone, so we were unable to change our minds about going.  It would have been rude not to be waiting on the porch when Mr. Davis drove up each Sunday.  When we were delivered back home, Mama had a fried chicken dinner on the table.

As I said, Mama was satisfied with her faith, but not fanatic about it.  At one Sunday morning service,  Hannah was convinced Mama must be baptized into the Southern Baptist Church.  As soon as we got home and sat down to eat, she began to talk to Mama about it.

"Mama, Ms. Brown said Catholics do not make professions of faith.  Are you Catholic?"

"Yes."

"When were you baptized?"

"I haven't been baptized in the way you mean, Hannah."

"That means you might go to hell."

Mama laughed at that.  "Hannah, I think I've already been there.  Don't worry about me."

Hannah started to cry.  "Mama, if you don't get baptized, you won't go to heaven.  I'm going to be baptized next Sunday night.  I was saved today.  Please get saved."

The upshot of that conversation was that Mama agreed to be baptized at Kingsville Baptist Church.  I remember that Sunday night like it was yesterday.  My dad was not home, so our neighbor, Mrs. Curry, drove Mama, John and me to church.  Hannah had gone earlier to Training Union, and we were to meet her there.  The conversation on the way to church taught me a lot.  John and I sat in the backseat listening to Mama and Ms. Curry.

"Mary, why are you doing this?  You rarely go to church."

"Novie, Hannah has her heart set on me being baptized with her.  She thinks I'll go to hell if I don't."

"Do you think that's a good reason to be baptized?"

"I have been a Christian as long as I can remember.  The only difference between the Catholics and the Baptists is the number of training aids."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Catholics need their Saints for praying.  Catholics like to talk about Purgatory as an interim place.  We like to have little statues around, and eat only fish on Friday to remind us of who's in charge.  We get sprinkled and dedicated and confirmed.  We confess and say Hail Marys.  We genuflect at the drop of a hat.  Trained."

"So?"

"Baptists go straight to Jesus, make a profession of faith and everything's okay.  I don't think they even have to worry about backsliding like the Pentecostal do.  Once saved, always saved.  At least, that's the way I heard it."

They both laughed. 

"You know, Novie, Hannah may be the only person really affected by my baptism tonight.  If it helps her, then that's good enough."

My mama taught by example.

My mom loved to laugh, too.  Usually, the most laughs came when she sat at Mrs. Curry's kitchen table.  The two of them would tell stories, gossip, talk about their husbands and enjoy life over a cup of coffee.  I usually sat on the back porch, playing with the dog and listening to the conversation.  I remember hearing one story that puzzled me until I was an adult.

"Novie, I was talking to Ruby Wooley at Merrit's yesterday.  She said Tookie's husband is coming home on leave next weekend."

Tookie was Ms. Wooley's daughter.  She had 'run away' to get married the day before her boyfriend was to leave for the service.  The Wooleys were unhappy about it and trying to come up with a way to eliminate the problem.  They thought, if Tookie's husband was gone long enough, she would lose interest, and maybe that was happening.

"Yeah, how's Ruby feel about that?"

"She wants to get the marriage annulled, Tookie's not convinced yet.  Ruby thinks Tookie might end up PG while he's home."

"Well, how's she going to stop it?"

Mama started to laugh.  "She said Tookie is going to tell him Flo is in town the whole time he's home.  Two weeks.  How dumb does she think he is?"

They both roared with laughter, and I was adult before I understood what they had said.  Mama could talk about adult things without banishing me from the room or inhibiting her own behavior.

Life was good with Mama.  She smoothed the rough spots, and created a safe haven where I could be me.  She did not spank, and she never yelled at me.  Her most severe punishment was saying, "Olevia, I'm disappointed in you."  My heart was broken when I let her down because she did not fake her expectations for me.  She truly believed I was special.  Every child should be so lucky.

When John was born in 1945, my mother's blood pressure was a problem.  She had a congenital heart valve defect, and open-heart surgery was suggested.  Without it, her life expectancy was only until menopause when hypertension is exacerbated.  In 1945, the needed surgery had about a fifty-percent success rate.  She was thirty-five years old, menopause must have seemed far away.  Still, she was a realist, and she knew ten or so more almost-guaranteed years spent with her children outweighed a fifty-fifty chance of no more years.  She refused the surgery.

By the time I was ten years old, my mother was noticeably sick, and she began to prepare me for her death.  She never spoke of it as a sad thing or in any macabre fashion.  Death was part of life, and she intended to do her best to extend her influence on her children far beyond the day she crossed over. 

Nineteen fifty-six began just as every year in my life had begun.  Mama was a little sicker than before, but I did not believe her death was imminent, despite her efforts to prepare me.  Forty-five looked old from where I stood, and I imagined most old people talked about dying.  Mama was gray-haired and a shadow of her former self.  She began in earnest to get us ready for her departure.  My sister had married and moved to Missouri. 

Mama had not recuperated well from the last couple of hospital visits.  Some days, she was too tired to get out of bed.  On other days, she could not breathe lying down, so she sat on the front porch trying to get enough air to stay alive.  Daddy would take her for a ride in the car with the windows rolled down in a mis-placed hope that air would be forced into her lungs.  Many nights, she would lie down with me until I went to sleep, and then move to her bed with Daddy.  On bad nights, she would just move to the other bed in my room.  When I thought she was asleep, I would sneak over to feel her chest to be sure her heart was beating.  I prayed God would heal her.  Toward the end, I prayed for her healing or her death before her December birthday.  It hurt to watch her suffer, we were all changed by the pain.

In spite of her failing health, in June, Mama decided she would not die until she knew Hannah was okay.  She began to petition Daddy to get her a railroad pass for the train ride to Missouri.  Perhaps the thought of losing her caused Daddy to fight the trip.  Or, maybe he didn't believe she was well enough to go, or it could have been his need to control.  I don't know his motives, and they never argued about it.  She would ask him everyday when he came in from work if he had the pass yet. 

She was in bed a lot and would stay there until about an hour before Daddy was due to come home.  John and I would help her get into the bathroom to bathe, and put 'Nair' on her upper lip to remove any sign of a mustache.  Some days, it took all three of us to get her dressed and into a chair in the living room.  I would make coffee, and she would wait for Daddy to come home and kiss her as soon as he walked through the door. 

"How are you feeling today, Mary."

"I'm feeling pretty good, John.  The coffee's made.  I'll get you some."

"I just want a half of a cup.  I'll get it myself."

"Did you get that pass for me today, John."

"No.  It's not the right time for you to be running off to Missouri.  Maybe we'll go together sometime."

During one of those preparing-for-Daddy-to-come-home ordeals, she gave me advice I've not forgotten: "Olevia, when you stop looking good enough for your husband to come home, he'll stop coming home."  Of course, she did not mean physical beauty, but rather that home must be a good place to be.  It felt good to come home to Mama.

One afternoon as I helped her bathe, I asked her why God didn't make her well.

"Olevia, God gave me the best of all jobs--you three kids."

"Mama, if He loved you, He would make you well.  I pray and ask for you to be well, and nothing happens.  It's not fair, and I don't think God cares at all."

I was angry and sad, but Mama never seemed to be either.

"Well, Olevia, when you get the best job, sometimes there are some bad things that go with it.  But the good things are so good that the bad don't seem so bad."

"I don't want you to die.  Sometimes, I don't even believe in God."

"Of course you do, Olevia.  You're just mad.  I don't want to die either, but I would rather be your mom for just a few years than live to be a hundred.  Now, hand me those shoes, so we can wipe them off before I put them on."

But every day was not a bad day, and every night was not a bad night.  On some days, she felt good enough to take a walk with us or go down to Ms. Curry's for coffee.    It was on one of Mama's good days that Daddy came home to a surprise.

"How are you feeling today, Mary."

"I feel good, John.  Coffee's in the kitchen.  Sit down.  I'll get you a cup so we can talk."

Daddy sat down and waited until she returned.

"John, I got a pass today for the kids and me to go to Missouri."

"You what?"

"I got a pass to ride the train to Missouri."

"I told you we could go later.  Who got that pass for you?"

"It doesn't matter, John, and we don't have 'later.'  I need to go now. Hannah's living on the second floor.  She's expecting a baby, and she's carrying heavy baskets of laundry up and down those stairs.  I have to know that she's okay.  Will you take us to the train?"

"When do you leave?"

"Sunday."

"This Sunday?  You don't have enough time to get ready.  I'll get ya'll a pass for a couple of weeks from now."

"No, John.  I have to go now.  Will you take us to the depot?"

Daddy looked defeated, as if he had lost a contest.

"I'll take you."

What a trip we had!  Mama called Hannah to let her know we were coming, and we packed our suitcases.  I remember exactly where we sat on the train, no Pullman car, just regular seats.  We sat in the back of the passenger car where there were four seats, two facing another two.  Mama brought snacks to eat, and we stared out the window, hypnotized by the passing landscape.  John lay down on the seat across from us, and he could see through a crack into the space below the commode.  He went to sleep counting toilet flushes onto the tracks.

Mama's first challenge came in Little Rock, Arkansas.  The eleven-hour layover meant we had to get off the train.  She could not breathe well enough to walk the length of the depot.  She lay to rest on various benches as we made our way to a cafe for hamburgers.  Eleven hours seemed like an eternity until we reached St. Louis with its layover.  The struggle there for Mama to reach the connecting train required six of those long twelve hours.  Her breathing was labored, the veins in her neck bulged, and I was afraid she would die before we got to the other train.  She not only did not die, she made jokes about her progress in crossing the depot.  Exhausted, we all lay down on benches to sleep until it was time to board. 

From Alexandria, Louisiana to St. Louis, Missouri, we shared our  passenger car only with other white people.  I was unaware of that until we boarded the train in St. Louis.

"Where are all of the black people going, Mama?"

"Well, I guess they might be going to visit a relative just like we are."

"Do only St Louis Negroes ride the train?"

"No."

"I didn't see any Louisiana or Arkansas Negroes on our train."

"They were there."

"Where?  I didn't see them, not even in the depot."

"They rode in separate cars, Olevia.  People are segregated in Louisiana and Arkansas, so Negroes do not ride in the cars where white people do."

"Oh."

By the time this conversation concluded, a red-haired, black lady carrying a tiny baby sat down beside Johnny.  I had never seen a red-haired Negro, and I stared.  Mama broke the ice.

"How old is your baby?  She is so cute."

"Four months."

"Where are you going?"

"To Massachusetts to see my mama."

The baby whimpered, and the mom retrieved a bottle from her bag.  She asked the conductor to have it filled with warm milk.

"Does she drink regular milk already?"  Mama asked.

"Yes, ma'am."

The conductor handed the lady a bottle of cold milk, and she began to feed the baby.

"You shouldn't give her cold milk."  Mama suggested.  "She'll get a stomachache."

"Well, I usually warm it at home, but this is okay for now."

"No, it isn't."  Mama motioned for the conductor to return.

The lady seemed concerned.  "I don't want to make trouble."

The conductor brought back the warmed bottle without a word.  He didn't look happy, but he said nothing.  I was proud of my mom. 

That was just one more time my mom taught by example.  I could write volumes about that trip, about my life with mom, but it's time to get down to those last few days.  Mama had not really felt well since we returned from those two July weeks in Missouri.

We were back in school, and as September melted into October, Mama went back into the hospital.  On October 23, my older half-brother, James, walked into my classroom.  He was career Navy and had on his dress whites.  He had not been home in a long time, and when I saw him, my mind went everywhere.  Gosh, he's so good-looking.  I'm glad my friends get to see him.  Why is he here?  What could be so bad that James is home?  I wonder if Johnny knows he's here?  Before long, I knew that Mama had sent for John and me.  James came to take us to the hospital.

Before we entered Mama's room, Daddy cautioned us not to argue no matter what Mama said.  Aunt Grace walked in with us, and a nurse stood next to her bed.  Tubes sprawled in every direction, and an oxygen tent covered the top half of the bed.  Mama seemed alert when she asked the nurse what her name was.

"Annette Parker."

"Oh, you live behind us, don't you?  You are so sweet to come down here."

"No, I'm your nurse."

Mama went on as if the nurse had not spoken.

"Come, give me a hug.  Grace, this is our neighbor, Annette Parker."

"Mary, she is not your neighbor. She's your nurse."

I was upset that Aunt Grace and the nurse were arguing with her.  We did have a neighbor named 'Parker,' and it angered me that the nurse said Mama was hallucinating.  Mama looked over at John and me.

"Hello, Mama."

"Hello, Olevia, John.  Come here.  Give me a hug."

Tears were running down our faces.

"I don't want ya'll crying, you hear?  I'm going to heaven, and I'll never hurt again.  I'll never be sick again.  You should not cry because I'm dying.  Those tears would be for yourselves, not for me.  I'm going to be okay."

"I don't want you to die, Mama."

"Well, I don't want to either, but I have to go.  I don't know why God gave me a job to do and not enough time to finish it.  But, I've seen the seven candles.  I have to go."

"I don't want you to go, Mama."

"Listen to me, both of you.  I don't want you two to cry at my funeral.  When your daddy comes to tell you I'm gone, don't cry.  Watch TV, walk in 'The Pines,' do all of the stuff you do every day.  I'll be watching you even though you can't see me.  John, I know you'll be okay.  Olevia, I'm worried about you because I've had dreams."

"I'll be good, Mama.  I promise."

"I know you will, Olevia.  Sometimes you might get lonely, or you might just want to talk to me.  Look up at the sky and know I'm listening.  Grace, do you have a piece of paper and a pencil?"

"Just this matchbook, Mary."

On the matchbook cover, Mama wrote, "Be good" and she made three dots under the words. 

"I'm getting tired, Olevia.  Those dots mean 'Love, Mama.'  Carry this note with you to remind you I'm listening.  Now, both of you need to go home.  Don't come back here anymore.  No need to see me like this.  Just remember, do not cry because I won't be.  I love you."

We hugged her, said good-bye and never saw her alive again.  Three days later, Daddy woke me up at three in the morning to say "Your mama's gone." 

Together, we woke Johnny.  Johnny's first words were, "Don't cry, Daddy."

Later that morning, John and I walked in 'The Pines' to talk about Mama.  We discussed how she wanted us to behave at her funeral, about how she would be watching us forever, and how we would not cry no matter what.

We didn't  -- that day!