TINY TUESDAY (m)
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TINY TUESDAY (m)
| Tue, 05-07-2002 - 10:15am |
TINY TUESDAY (m)
With Mother’s Day coming up, I thought it might be nice to tribute this week’s Tiny Tuesday exercise to motherhood. So please share with us a short story about a unique or unusual mom, a memoir about your own mother or how it feels to be a mom.
Happy writing,
Mac

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Well I hope this fits into what you wanted. (m)
To my Mother
As I sit here after I mailed your card to you, my thoughts linger. I think of all the years that have passed and wonder if I have told you enough times that I love you. I wonder how different my life would have been with different mom. Well lucky for me I try but can never manage to do it. You were and still are the best mother in the world.
You have given me life, hope, love and happiness. How many times did you have to sit up with me as a child while I had an attack, or was sick? I can see you reading this now and saying "too many time to remember." Am I right? You never had to do that, but you did because you loved me. You supported me in all I did, and you still do. Not only are you my mother but you are my friend. How many people can tell their mother all the problems and details of their life? Not many! You have been there for me since the day I was born.
You made me the lady that I am today. I hope you know how special you are to me. Mom, you are the Angel that some people only dream about. I am the lucky one I was blessed to get you as my mother. You have given me hope over the years. Your courage to make ends meet and your desire to provide for your kids, has shown me that no matter how bad things get that there is always a way to work it out. It may not be right then but in time you will.
There are many other things that you have taught, proved, done, and said to me, that I hold dear. Remember when I lost you Mother’s day reel on Father’s day? Or how about the time I dated “grandpa”? There was the time that you scared on Halloween when you dressed up as an old lady and followed me around. I remember when you had to go with dad and I when I wanted to go night calving with him because he didn’t know what to do if I had an attack. The same went with hunting. I remember you weaving your way down the hill looking for a Christmas tree as dad and I waited for you to get to the truck. The FFA judging that you helped with every year.
Well mom I had better end this before I get all teary eyed. In my parting thoughts, I just hope that I am at least half the mother that you are, when I have children. Also I want to thank you for being everything that you were and are to me. I don’t think I would have made it this far without your love, support, guidance, wisdom, and your trust in me. I love you Mom and hope that I will be able to tell you that for a long time.
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I wrote this for my Mom today and sent it to her. I hope that it works for the tt.
Jade
Have a mystical day,
Jade
Please Pray and Support O
Awww, how sweet!(m)
I'm sure this fits the exercise fine, but more important, I'll bet your mom feels like the most special mom in the world.
This was lovely.
Linda
cl-ozarker
"We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." - Ernest Heminway
Beautiful Jade....thanks for sharing n/t
TT on Thursday (m)
This is half fiction, half memoir about my mom. Sorry if it's too long! ~Heather
"I hate Mother’s Day," snapped my mom. She deftly rolled a piece of blonde hair around her curling iron with one hand, and adjusted the shoulder of her robe with the other. I sat on her bed, watching in her three-way mirror. My dad was already gone to priesthood meetings. I could hear my brothers hollering in their room.
I glanced down at her quilt, smoothed my hand over its log cabin motif. The next words in her annual tirade would be as familiar as the fabric beneath my fingers.
"They pass out those cheesy petunias to all the women," she scowled, glancing at me through her reflection, "And give all those sappy talks about how women are so special and valued in the church. But it's just lip service to make us feel good and keep us in line! I hate it! I don’t even want to go today." She flicked open the curling iron jaws and a ripple of hair fell softly to her shoulders. With another flash of iron, she clamped the next piece of hair and twisted it.
I didn’t want to go either; I hadn't for years. But I wasn't yet brave enough to do anything about it. At sixteen I had a fierce independent streak, held tightly in check by even fiercer need to belong. And I dreaded disappointing my father, whose love seemed tenuous at best.
"Do they give us any real power?" She stormed on, "Hell no! They tell us we're special once a year," she spat out "special" like an epithet, "And treat us like crap the other three hundred-sixty four days." She slapped the curling iron down with a clang, yanked the plug, and disappeared into her closet. I heard hangers squeak as she slid them apart, fishing for a dress.
A minute later she came out and took one last look in the mirror. I left to gather my brothers so we could join Dad at church. She’d be in a snit, as my grandmother called it, at least all day, maybe even into the week. The seedling petunia she’d receive would die in the kitchen window, a sacrifice to her outrage.
It was the 80's and she was a stay-home mom, as were most women I knew then in my Utah community. But I grew up caught in a lunar pull between two worlds: my neighborhood, which I thought hopelessly Victorian; and the more diverse and cosmopolitan world I saw in D.C. in the summers during visits with family. It was a sharp contrast, and though I often felt expected to follow my mother's path, usually the tide would quickly recede and I'd see myself as a journalist with a power suit and liberal agenda instead.
Now I live in a different part of Utah, like a frog living on dry land but never far from water. I think I'll always be between those worlds somehow, never belonging fully to either one.
I'm told they still hand out flowers at church, though my mom doesn't rage about the patriarchal conspiracy of Mother's Day anymore. She tells me stories about sneaking feminism into her lessons with the young women at church instead, and I grin imagining what she tells those girls. It's like she's found the subversive groove she was always looking for, and some inner peace. I think in some strange way that we've grown up together and I'm proud of us both.
This Mother's Day I'll stay with her and my Dad. We’ll most likely take my daughter down to the coffee shop while my dad goes off by himself on Sunday morning.
"Girl time, honey, see you later," my mom will cheerfully inform him. He'll roll his eyes and chuckle indulgently, but we all know the truth. Authentic power has to be claimed and defended; it's not some gift bestowed like an honorary degree or a seedling petunia.
My daughter will scribble stick folks on her paper placemat while we talk between sips of Diet Coke and coffee. We’ll chat about Oprah and the women's conference I attended, and she'll catch me up on local gossip. Then we’ll spend a couple hours browsing the bargain tables at Barnes & Noble.
She'll comment, as my daughter disappears out of earshot in the children’s books, that she thinks I’m courageous and admirable for leaving my husband. I’ll reply that if she wants to admire someone, she should look in the mirror, because only part of my courage comes from myself.
Wonderful Jade! She's going to love it. Nice writing. nt
Cows and deceit
Sometimes it was so cold they would pee on their feet to warm them up. The cows didn't seem to care and neither did they.
They were young; they were old. But they were still children. They lived at a time when children did the work of adults and the adults needed them to work. Life was hard on the farm. There was no time for excuses. There had been a war.
My mother and her two brothers lived on a small acreage in Eastern Europe; one of those places that shifting borders now declare no longer exist. But they didn't know that then. All they knew was that they were responsible for taking care of the animals, spring, summer, autumn, winter. They would milk the cows, collect the eggs and feed the horses, ducks and dogs. Day after day, year after year, the routine was the same. Time out for school of course.
Summertime was the best. They'd laugh and joke with each other. Jerzy was the joker. He would pick up the cow pats and throw them around like custard pies. Then he'd pretend to eat them, rolling his eyes, patting his stomach. Jadwiga and Marek would roll around in fits. It was warm, it was fun.
Winter though was a different story. When the snows came, the cardboard in their shoes did not protect their feet, so when Grandmama wasn't looking, they would abandon their shoes altogether. What was the point? It was Jerzy's idea to use "alternative" methods of heating. Naturally, he was the oldest, the leader. The boys fell about laughing but Jadwiga thought it was very undignified. Typical of boys though, she thought.
One day,a Tuesday, a woman appeared in the dirt road above the top field, just as they were bringing the cows in. She didn't look like she was from the village. She had short hair and her clothes were old, but tailored. Spotting Jerzy, she called him over. He ran over, all legs and arms and brown jersy.
My mother saw the woman show Jerzy a paper and heard her ask "Is this the farm of Pavel Kowalski?"
Without blinking Jerzy replied; "No, Madame, but I can show you the way to Pan Kowalski's farm."
And, with a quick backward glance at Jadwiga and Marek, he led the woman off towards the south, towards his grand-uncles' home.
Young as she was, my mother knew when it was best to keep quiet. Secrecy was as much a part of life as the farm and the animals. She watched as they walked away; two boyish figures, one tall, one small.
The cows fussed and mooed, begging to be milked. She and her smallest brother cush-cushed them towards home, she, all the time, keeping an eye on the disappearing figures of Jerzy and the woman with the short hair. When he was out of sight, she ran home as fast as she could, tears drying in her eyes, words drying up in her mouth.
One month later the family changed countries.
One decade later they crossed oceans.
Another few years after that, I was born.
Thank you Mother. Thank you Jerzy.
Oh that was wonderful!! I have Missed you Heather!!!!! :) *nt*
Have a mystical day,
Jade
Please Pray and Support O
Oh what a touching story !! nice job!! *nt*
Have a mystical day,
Jade
Please Pray and Support O
Very touching, Jade (m)
I love to read things like this and I'm so HAPPY you have such a great mom. I can tell how much you admire and love her and she feels the same about you I'm sure.
Thanks for sharing with us!!!
Mac
I second that!!! (m)
This was terrific, Heather. Some of the lines I enjoyed were “The next words in her annual tirade would be as familiar as the fabric beneath my fingers” and “like a frog living on dry land but never far from water.”
And, of course, I love the ending when the mom tells her she’s courageous to leave her husband and such. I had the feeling the mom wished she’d done the same but it was too late for her.
Loved it!!!
Mac
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