Life was so different while we were growing up.

We had a party line for our phone, when we had a phone; party lines are a great way to keep up on the neighborhood doings.   I remember many lovely conversations, overheard as a child.  My hand covered the mouthpiece, muting my giggles.  Children, (and nosy neighbors) learned how to quietly pick up the phone, and quietly replace the receiver in its cradle.   If I did not know what time it was, I would simply pick up the phone, dial O and ask the nice operator.

I remember a old gray washtub, that  Mom would bring  into the kitchen and fill with hot water for our baths. a privacy blanket over the door, (as the youngest, I was able to bathe first) and going out to the milk house in the cold of a winter night to stand under the cold hose there for a shower, with  a little blue kerosene heater to keep us warm, or in the summer, a hose thrown over the clothesline, and showering with our swim suits on.

Mom worked hard to keep our home comfortable.   Aluminum foil placed over the windows on sunny summer days to reflect the hot sun away, and the bowls of ice  placed in front of the fans for our air conditioning.  In the winter Mom would fill mason jars with hot water,  wrap them in towels, then we would place them at our feet in bed at night to warm us into sleep.

Flashing back to a time I can only imagine, Mom, 16. just a child herself, newly married, and spending her first wedded year living with a mother in law who scared the beejeez out of her, and then, when dad came home from the service, moving out to a lonely farm in the back 40 acres of Iowa.  No running water, no indoor utilities, only a wood stove for heat, pregnant, and working the farm.  Mom persevered, as she always did.

She spent her years out there, working hard, bearing children, bringing more children home to us, and raising us all in a tumble up fashion.

In the summers she raised a garden, canned, worked the fields, put up hay, picked corn, had babies (well she had us in the summer, fall winter, and spring really)

Remember, she was still a child herself through much of this; she raised herself while raising us, and she lived, she persevered…

Flashing to another memories, this one I own.  Sitting outside of a church under a shady tree, our bible school teacher is telling us about Jesus, showing us a picture of him, tiny, standing atop a green leaf, explaining that he is everywhere, even in a blade of grass.

I have had this view of God and Heaven since that time, everywhere all at once, in us, outside of us.

And that is the vision I have of our Mother, everywhere, inside of us, our hearts, and outside of us as well, a bigger view: Mother as part of Heaven, as part of the universe, on a greater adventure than even her life here, Mother now with Linda, her sisters and brother, her Mother, her soul spirit, all together,

Mom is planning her garden now, carnations, lilies, gladioli, and tomatoes.  I am pretty sure a fluffy white kitten has found her way to that garden spot, and sits on Mom’s lap, while she herself sits under a tree, in a comfortable wooden rocker, at her ease, in her glory.  Still living, still persevering.

She left us much, her joy of flowers, her affinity for sunshine, fresh air, natural living.  We will, all of her eight children, numerous grand children and even more countless great grandchildren remember her daily.

Countless gestures; we find our hand placed over our forehead, shading our eyes with exasperation.  hear ourselves with small phrases, “For goodness sakes.”  “Good Grief”.  sound like her, we hear her with our own words.

We enjoy chickens, well, some of us.  Fresh eggs, apples, bananas.  I never could get the hang of Rocky Mountain Oysters and frog legs but I think some of us have.

We have countless house plants, knick knacks, and candles scattered about our homes.  Just like our mother.

We have a a stubborn determination to live and survive, our Mother taught that to us as well.  She lived greatly.

We will miss her, and we will celebrate her always.

When I visit her I  sorrow.  Her tiny body is weak, her face still beautiful.  Half of her body does not move.  But her eyes…her eyes sometimes still burn with that flame of life that has carried her through so much.  At those times I feel a surge of hope, unwarranted hope, that perhaps she will pull back from this determination of death.

Each time I visit, she looks at me, and her eyes are tender, telling me so much with a look or a small smile.  As I sit and talk, she watches, nods, responds for a bit.

Sunday we talked of the past, growing up on her farm.

Our Mom had chickens, many chickens that lived in a good-sized chicken house,  surrounded by a tall dog – proof fence that was partly roofed by the large branches of overgrown apple trees.  Watching them was a wonder, they scratched about the dirt, heads bobbing, sometimes pecking at each other, other times mindlessly flapping their wings, chasing one another about the yard.  Autumn days, the apples hanging above their yard dropped down, some would ferment before the chickens devoured them, and then, I swear, the little creatures would eat the fermented apples, and chatter drunkenly about.

In the spring time Mom bought baby chicks, and nestled them in our basement, in a wire enclosure, with straw spread over the concrete floor.  Above she hung a warm light to keep them warm.  We could hear soft chirps and scratching coming up the stairs.  I was forbidden to touch them, but of course I did, cuddling their tiny bodies close to my face, smelling the freshness of their new beginning

At times it was my job to gather the eggs.   The chicken house was magical to me.  I entered it and the warm earthy smells of life rushed to greet me.  Hens laying in their boxes would let out soft, sleepy sounds. Reaching under them, my hands enjoyed the  cozy feathers of the creatures, and quietly as I could I pulled out warm eggs for the basket.

Always since, when I have been able, I have had chickens, and enjoyed again the beauty of new eggs, and mother hens.  One more of many parts of me left to me by our Mother,

Leaving home was the only thought in my mind when I turned 17, but now, nearing 60, I have learned that home has never left me.

Judgement not only extends to others, but also to ourselves, sometimes, often times, we find within our soul a need to be other people’s normal, for whatever reason, in response to whatever cultural beliefs.  In being other’s normal, we stop being ourselves, we hinder our own up- dance to imagination, and belief.

So, for today….let’s redfine normal, let’s be ourselves.  Give it a try.

 

 

“If you need to feel normal, you could look at it this way; You’re a normal what-ever-you-are. I’d say you’re the best what-ever-you-are, but then there’s always room for improvement, right?

(Charles De Lint…  The Painted Boy)

Who are you?  What is your definition of yourself?  Hmmm. are you possible to define?

So often, others views define us..  Looking in the mirror we find that the eyes looking back out at us are not the eyes we expect, the face looking at us, though familiar may have shadows of other people’s reality blurring its image

So today, look into the mirror, and see yourself!