The very notion of Mother’s Day conjures up deep-seated, fond memories of my precious momma. A complex woman, she dearly and fiercely loved all of us and especially my father.
Meeting for the first time in a one-room schoolhouse as children, my mom and dad married on June 3, 1943. The angels came for Mom on Jan. 24, 2009. Never wanting to be apart, Dad followed Mom into their heavenly mansion a mere four months later, on April 24. In June of that year, they’d have celebrated 66 years of marriage.
Mom didn’t talk about her childhood. She always put us off saying it was so long ago she’d forgotten all about it. We have no clue if it was happy or sad. Based on my maternal grandmother, I can imagine it might have been, while not unloving, certainly sterner. My heartfelt regret has always been that I didn’t nudge her for more. We knew little other than she stopped going to school after the eighth grade.
A lack of formal education might have made her more determined than ever to accomplish as much as she did. When she set her mind to do something, she didn’t stop until it was done. She was creative and innovative, visualizing her plan mentally and then literally sketching measurements out in diagrams.
She always had the mindset of making things better, handier, less work. Her remodeling mantra was, “It’s gotta be bad to be good.” We lived through more remodeling than the average kids. Mom had the ideas; Dad and the rest of us were her laborers. Oh, she’d definitely pitch in and help, but she was the brains behind it.
Never allowing us to feel sorry for ourselves, she retorted to our whining with, “It’ll get better before you’re married.” You know what? It did. As long as nobody was bleeding, she’d dismiss our complaints. If she got quiet, then we understood we’d crossed the line. Mom usually let us know what’s what otherwise.
Growing up, Mom would be the housekeeping taskmaster. As well as farm work, we all had inside chores. One year, Dad broke his leg, and Mom had more farm responsibilities than usual. Dad was forced to stay in the house to recuperate. Darn near driving us four kids batty, he’d point his crutch to a corner and exclaim, “You missed a spot!” We couldn’t wait until Mom got back in charge.
One day Mom and I were shopping, and a clerk commented to her, “Oh, you have such a lovely tan.” Incredulous, I looked up at this woman. She had no clue what my mom did for a living. I so wanted to say, “Hey lady, she doesn’t sit around poolside all day.” Mom simply smiled; we gathered our parcels and left.
An accomplished seamstress, there wasn’t a piece of clothing she could not alter to fit her short-waisted, petite frame. She had a sewing room and many times we could hear the whir of her sewing machine and walk in to find her — head bent, pins in her mouth — intently sewing.
Family gatherings were spectacular events, bountiful food; the house warm with beautiful decorations. Each grandkid, youngest to oldest, felt special and deeply loved. She and Dad would go trout fishing and Mom, holding impromptu fish fries, would fry them up, complete with her homemade potato salad and fresh, made-from-scratch buns.
A member of St. John’s Ladies’ Aid, she’d make and serve food at funerals and was involved in all of their many endeavors. With their church handily through her back yard, she’d walk over to help.
Before moving off the farm in 1979, they had purchased a house in Marion and Mom, as usual, jumped in headfirst remodeling it. Adding a spiral staircase from the living room to the basement to take up less space, she had installed a one-sided mirrored wall, making the small house appear larger.
Adding an outside screened-in deck looking out to the woodsy back of the house made Dad feel like he was still home on the farm. He rather didn’t like the idea of “moving to town,” and Mom knew it. The view afforded my dad a privacy he craved after literally being born and raised on the farm.
She’d fuss over my dad, tending to his every need. As they watched Brewer games, they’d share a handful of dry-roasted peanuts and split a Mountain Dew. After they had moved to the house in town, she’d pack Dad’s lunch and send him on his way out to the farm to help my brother.
So many sweet memories of my momma. By her forthright, loving example, we learned how to care for our own families. I love and miss you, Mom.
“She watches over the ways of her household and meets every need they have. Her sons and daughters arise in one accord to extol her virtues, and her husband arises to speak of her in glowing terms. So go ahead and give her the credit that is due, for she has become a radiant woman, and all her loving works of righteousness deserve to be admired at the gateways of every city!” Proverbs 31:27-28, 31, The Passion Translation)
Kay Reminger was born and raised on a dairy farm, and she married her high school sweetheart, who happened to farm for a living in Leopolis. Writing for quite a few years, she remains focused on the blessings of living the ups and downs of rural life from a farm wife’s perspective.
FARM LIFE FROM A FARM WIFE: Mother was a complex, yet strong, woman
