I wish you could have seen her, perched on the barnyard gate, cane pole in hand, making sure all the cows moved "dreckly along." She was something to behold when she joined my brother and me for a game of softball in the pasture. She could hit harder and throw farther than either of us. My mother.
She would be embarrassed to know that I now quote her more often than Shakespeare, more often, even, than Flannery O'Connor. She never thought much of herself. That's the way with mothers.
She died in 1980, a fact that belies the strength of her presence. Living 32 years without her has not diminished the 25 years in which she was a constant in my life, even after I moved away from Missouri. She loved to hear them announce over the loud speaker in her nursing home "Mrs. Steinshouer - your daughter from Washington is calling."
Some things cannot be said over the telephone. I had never had the luxury of slow, leisurely conversation with my mother until she was hospitalized, wired to a heart monitor, and I flew in from DC to spend a week with her. I spent every day there, feeding her special things and asking her questions about her life. I was finally old enough to know what questions to ask. I wanted to know what she had been told about the Trail of Tears, the route her mother's people had taken that ended with them in southwest Missouri instead of Tallequah, Oklahoma. I wanted to know about her sister, my Aunt Ruby, who died mysteriously in 1946, her four children left at the mercy of foster care and finally adoption. My Mom never got over the fact that she couldn't take and raise those kids. She already had too many children of her own.
Up until then, Mama had kept me at the kind of fond arm's length so typical of a reticent country woman. When she knew she was dying, something seemed to let go in her, and she could tell me the truth of Ruby's death from a back alley abortion. Even while we acknowledged that talking had never come easily to us, that our lives had never meshed very well, she spoke with ease and clarity, although her voice was weak with illness.
It was amazing to hear her say "I love you" for the first time, and to hold her hand, also for the first time. That was the last time I saw her.
I spent most of my high school years being ashamed of my mother because she had a very limited education, seldom wore shoes, and said "shore instead of "sure." Somewhere in college, I began to appreciate who she really was - tough as nails with a keen wit and a yen for a lively spat. She could also be gentle as summer rain, when she needed to, when my father or uncle went on a Bible rant and all she could do was look at her children, ordered to be seen and not heard.
I remember so well the smile in my mother's eyes, at those times when she was also forbidden to speak, but wanted to let us know that it would soon be over, and we would be alone again, offspring of an itinerant preacher who was often not at home. All the tools for survival I would have, I learned during those times when she could teach us medicine ways with nature (oh the bitter brews she concocted, digging up roots to boil for various ailments), and how to fancy-dance with the radio.
When I graduated in 1973, last of her seven daughters, the FHA Chapter of Pleasant Hope High School held a special evening in honor of the mother of all those future homemakers. By that time, she had to use a cane to get around. In a few more years, it was a walker, and finally she just sat on the edge of the bed most of the time, needing a wheel chair in order to go the bathroom. But she never lost the desire to get up and cook a pot of beans, and she never forgot how to milk a cow or throw a softball.
She never saw Paris or Philadelphia or Washington, D.C., but she was thrilled that I had. On this Mother's Day, I wish I could bring her an orchid. I wish I could give my mother a few more years and a little less corn to hoe.
(excerpted from Letters to Bolivar: Columns in the Bolivar Herald-Free Press, 1981-84, soon available as an e-book.)
She would be embarrassed to know that I now quote her more often than Shakespeare, more often, even, than Flannery O'Connor. She never thought much of herself. That's the way with mothers.
She died in 1980, a fact that belies the strength of her presence. Living 32 years without her has not diminished the 25 years in which she was a constant in my life, even after I moved away from Missouri. She loved to hear them announce over the loud speaker in her nursing home "Mrs. Steinshouer - your daughter from Washington is calling."
Some things cannot be said over the telephone. I had never had the luxury of slow, leisurely conversation with my mother until she was hospitalized, wired to a heart monitor, and I flew in from DC to spend a week with her. I spent every day there, feeding her special things and asking her questions about her life. I was finally old enough to know what questions to ask. I wanted to know what she had been told about the Trail of Tears, the route her mother's people had taken that ended with them in southwest Missouri instead of Tallequah, Oklahoma. I wanted to know about her sister, my Aunt Ruby, who died mysteriously in 1946, her four children left at the mercy of foster care and finally adoption. My Mom never got over the fact that she couldn't take and raise those kids. She already had too many children of her own.
Up until then, Mama had kept me at the kind of fond arm's length so typical of a reticent country woman. When she knew she was dying, something seemed to let go in her, and she could tell me the truth of Ruby's death from a back alley abortion. Even while we acknowledged that talking had never come easily to us, that our lives had never meshed very well, she spoke with ease and clarity, although her voice was weak with illness.
It was amazing to hear her say "I love you" for the first time, and to hold her hand, also for the first time. That was the last time I saw her.
I spent most of my high school years being ashamed of my mother because she had a very limited education, seldom wore shoes, and said "shore instead of "sure." Somewhere in college, I began to appreciate who she really was - tough as nails with a keen wit and a yen for a lively spat. She could also be gentle as summer rain, when she needed to, when my father or uncle went on a Bible rant and all she could do was look at her children, ordered to be seen and not heard.
I remember so well the smile in my mother's eyes, at those times when she was also forbidden to speak, but wanted to let us know that it would soon be over, and we would be alone again, offspring of an itinerant preacher who was often not at home. All the tools for survival I would have, I learned during those times when she could teach us medicine ways with nature (oh the bitter brews she concocted, digging up roots to boil for various ailments), and how to fancy-dance with the radio.
When I graduated in 1973, last of her seven daughters, the FHA Chapter of Pleasant Hope High School held a special evening in honor of the mother of all those future homemakers. By that time, she had to use a cane to get around. In a few more years, it was a walker, and finally she just sat on the edge of the bed most of the time, needing a wheel chair in order to go the bathroom. But she never lost the desire to get up and cook a pot of beans, and she never forgot how to milk a cow or throw a softball.
She never saw Paris or Philadelphia or Washington, D.C., but she was thrilled that I had. On this Mother's Day, I wish I could bring her an orchid. I wish I could give my mother a few more years and a little less corn to hoe.
(excerpted from Letters to Bolivar: Columns in the Bolivar Herald-Free Press, 1981-84, soon available as an e-book.)
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