Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Mother had courage, but even it was complex. As my brother Dwight has said, "Mother could leap on the back of a rattlesnake and beat it senseless with a teaspoon, but let a mouse tip toe out of its hole, and she would be hanging from the chandelier." We didn't have a chandelier, but the description applies.
Of course, knowing this psychotic reaction to mice and also having been brought up in a rather rough and tumble, teasing family, there were times I could not resist pushing that sensitive button.
On the farm, there was a building next to the windmill where the separating of milk was done. It had once been a 'smoke house' where people put their own hams to cure. We used it more as a storage unit. There were two gigantic packing crates where some of Daddy's old toys and other little treasures were stored. Rarely were the boxes opened for any reason, and when they were, my sister Myrna and I were on hand to handle the old toys or gape curiously at what was inside.
The boxes were of thin wood, bound with one by two framing, and they were getting pretty brittle. I had found a sliver about three feet long on the floor, and I had it in my hand. Mother and Daddy had taken off the lid and put it down. Mother was bent over the top of the box, her chubby little legs on tip toe as she reached in for items. I eyed those chubby little legs, and I fondled the wood sliver.
Daddy caught my eye. "Now, Margaret Lou," he said severely. He knew deviltry when he saw it. I looked at Daddy, and grinned. He made no move to take the sliver away. What is a poor girl to do? I took the sliver and lightly started it up from mother's ankle traveling up the back of her leg.
Mother became suspended in mid-air, miraculously balancing on the edge of the box, her legs kicking wildly. "Riley," she screamed. "Oh, Riley."
Riley was no help to her. Tears were streaming down his face as he watched in helpless laughter. Mother came off that box in a tornadic storm headed straight for me, but Daddy wouldn't let her touch me. Then she started laughing too, mostly from relief. It hadn't really been a mouse. She went back to the box.
I still had the sliver, and I was alive and pondering a second go. One look at Daddy's face suggested other activities. He wouldn't be able to protect me a second time. I was eleven then and only acquiring the wisdom necessary for survival, and after all, once was enough.
Of course, knowing this psychotic reaction to mice and also having been brought up in a rather rough and tumble, teasing family, there were times I could not resist pushing that sensitive button.
On the farm, there was a building next to the windmill where the separating of milk was done. It had once been a 'smoke house' where people put their own hams to cure. We used it more as a storage unit. There were two gigantic packing crates where some of Daddy's old toys and other little treasures were stored. Rarely were the boxes opened for any reason, and when they were, my sister Myrna and I were on hand to handle the old toys or gape curiously at what was inside.
The boxes were of thin wood, bound with one by two framing, and they were getting pretty brittle. I had found a sliver about three feet long on the floor, and I had it in my hand. Mother and Daddy had taken off the lid and put it down. Mother was bent over the top of the box, her chubby little legs on tip toe as she reached in for items. I eyed those chubby little legs, and I fondled the wood sliver.
Daddy caught my eye. "Now, Margaret Lou," he said severely. He knew deviltry when he saw it. I looked at Daddy, and grinned. He made no move to take the sliver away. What is a poor girl to do? I took the sliver and lightly started it up from mother's ankle traveling up the back of her leg.
Mother became suspended in mid-air, miraculously balancing on the edge of the box, her legs kicking wildly. "Riley," she screamed. "Oh, Riley."
Riley was no help to her. Tears were streaming down his face as he watched in helpless laughter. Mother came off that box in a tornadic storm headed straight for me, but Daddy wouldn't let her touch me. Then she started laughing too, mostly from relief. It hadn't really been a mouse. She went back to the box.
I still had the sliver, and I was alive and pondering a second go. One look at Daddy's face suggested other activities. He wouldn't be able to protect me a second time. I was eleven then and only acquiring the wisdom necessary for survival, and after all, once was enough.
Labels: Mother's Curious Courage
Friday, March 23, 2007
We all have memories, some razor sharp, some hazy,some solidly behind the walls we build, but they are inescapably ours. This blog will share them with you, and welcome your response. So let us begin.
Zora. Her name was Zora. She was my mother. In all my many years, I never knew of another Zora other than her godmother. That woman died long before I was born. That Mother had a godmother always struck me as incongruous. Granted her godmother was the wife of my grandfather’s employer, it was still puzzling. Granddad was far from politically astute so I ponder it still. Somehow it doesn’t fit with the fundamentalist Methodist doctrine that I observed. Catholics have godmothers and godfathers. My grandparents claimed to hate Catholicism and were suspicious of ‘papists’. Having godparents just doesn’t fit.
There are advantages and disadvantages of having a unique name. Anyone who ever knew mother knew immediately that ‘Zora’ referred particularly to her. Gossip, good, bad or indifferent referred specifically to her. She really didn’t need a last name in that sense. I suppose it made things easier since mother divorced the first husband and outlived two others. However, if you are thinking that her name was what made Mother unique, you would be missing the bet.
Mother was unique in many ways. She was feisty, fierce and brave. She was a flirt, a Kansas version of the southern belle. She was wise; she was foolish and headstrong. She was loving but could turn and charge like an enraged bull. She was clever and smart but self-deprecating. It has occurred to me that Mother felt that she must hide her intelligence. I believe she considered it unfeminine to be intelligent. She also felt I should hide my intelligence. It genuinely alarmed her if I stated a strong opinion. She worried that I might be considered ‘aggressive’, and she would chide me about it. It was a man’s world, and I should understand my place in it as a female.
I’ve read that naming affects our lives in particular because other people have expectations based on our names. There have been educational studies done that indicate that teachers in particular often set expectations for a student based on the child’s name. I’ve often wondered how well Mother did in school, and how her teachers might have reacted, but back in the 1920s when Mother was attending country schools, the teachers probably had more to concern them than a child’s name. The one-room schools were remote, drafty and lacked electricity or any heating other than a pot-bellied iron stove. There was no janitor. The teacher did everything. Some of the students were as big or bigger than the teacher and nearly as old. It was a tough assignment.
I think Mother loved school. Her goal for her children was for us to have a high school education. Granddad did not believe in educating children other than to teach them the Bible. Kansas required education through the eighth grade. Granddad referred to the Kansas government as Caesar. He would render unto Caesar that which was Caesar’s. So my Mother and her older brother were limited to eight grades. Schooling was worldly, and high schooling was too worldly by far. Mother and her brother, Victor, then fought for the other four children to have more education.
Actually given their respective personalities, it would have been Mother that fought with Granddad. There was a special bond between them that I never understood. No matter how harsh he was, Mother forgave him. He could be so harsh that she would come away and cry, but face-to-face, she would defy him, fight with him, and forgive him. If adversity strengthens one, Zora had every reason to be strong, and she was. I learned never to underestimate her.
Zora. Her name was Zora. She was my mother. In all my many years, I never knew of another Zora other than her godmother. That woman died long before I was born. That Mother had a godmother always struck me as incongruous. Granted her godmother was the wife of my grandfather’s employer, it was still puzzling. Granddad was far from politically astute so I ponder it still. Somehow it doesn’t fit with the fundamentalist Methodist doctrine that I observed. Catholics have godmothers and godfathers. My grandparents claimed to hate Catholicism and were suspicious of ‘papists’. Having godparents just doesn’t fit.
There are advantages and disadvantages of having a unique name. Anyone who ever knew mother knew immediately that ‘Zora’ referred particularly to her. Gossip, good, bad or indifferent referred specifically to her. She really didn’t need a last name in that sense. I suppose it made things easier since mother divorced the first husband and outlived two others. However, if you are thinking that her name was what made Mother unique, you would be missing the bet.
Mother was unique in many ways. She was feisty, fierce and brave. She was a flirt, a Kansas version of the southern belle. She was wise; she was foolish and headstrong. She was loving but could turn and charge like an enraged bull. She was clever and smart but self-deprecating. It has occurred to me that Mother felt that she must hide her intelligence. I believe she considered it unfeminine to be intelligent. She also felt I should hide my intelligence. It genuinely alarmed her if I stated a strong opinion. She worried that I might be considered ‘aggressive’, and she would chide me about it. It was a man’s world, and I should understand my place in it as a female.
I’ve read that naming affects our lives in particular because other people have expectations based on our names. There have been educational studies done that indicate that teachers in particular often set expectations for a student based on the child’s name. I’ve often wondered how well Mother did in school, and how her teachers might have reacted, but back in the 1920s when Mother was attending country schools, the teachers probably had more to concern them than a child’s name. The one-room schools were remote, drafty and lacked electricity or any heating other than a pot-bellied iron stove. There was no janitor. The teacher did everything. Some of the students were as big or bigger than the teacher and nearly as old. It was a tough assignment.
I think Mother loved school. Her goal for her children was for us to have a high school education. Granddad did not believe in educating children other than to teach them the Bible. Kansas required education through the eighth grade. Granddad referred to the Kansas government as Caesar. He would render unto Caesar that which was Caesar’s. So my Mother and her older brother were limited to eight grades. Schooling was worldly, and high schooling was too worldly by far. Mother and her brother, Victor, then fought for the other four children to have more education.
Actually given their respective personalities, it would have been Mother that fought with Granddad. There was a special bond between them that I never understood. No matter how harsh he was, Mother forgave him. He could be so harsh that she would come away and cry, but face-to-face, she would defy him, fight with him, and forgive him. If adversity strengthens one, Zora had every reason to be strong, and she was. I learned never to underestimate her.
