Times were different when I was a boy. There were giants on the Earth in those days, and my parents were the biggest of all.
Mom was tall and leggy. Of course, everyone was leggy to me; I knew people by their kneecaps and calves. Being leggy, Mom could cross the room in three strides and “snatch you bald-headed!” if you were doing something you shouldn’t, like, say, poking in the silver-bubbled centers of Dad’s loudspeakers. She could also, in those same three strides, scoop you up and kiss your elbow or skinned knee and in a moment soothe the worst problem in the world.
We used to go to the park and walk around the big pond together, she with her long legs and me with my short ones.
It was tragic, really. Mom would dress me in shorts, but my legs were so short that no one could tell. She’d mince her giant’s stride for me and reach down with her hand. I’d reach up with mine, and together we’d circle the pond, counting and walking: “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight! Eeek! Eeek! My knees feel weak!” In this way Mom taught her small boy to count and to love walking.
One day Mom made an offer to my elder brother and me: If we were willing to eat wieners and baked beans for dinner for a week, she could use some of the grocery money to buy us each a little battery-powered boat to run on the pond.
Hot dogs every night and an electric boat? This seemed like a win-win proposition.
Not only did Mom keep her word and buy us the tiny boats, but she took the time to bring us to the pond. Oh, I worried. The cheap little one-battery boats were not radio controlled. You’d set the rudder as best you could and send the boat on its way. Would the weak little battery poop out and the boat sink, a victim of raucous ducks? I could only stand helplessly on the bank and watch the tiny boat as it made its brave but feeble way.
At last my little boat made it to the opposite shore, helped, I’m sure, by my furrowed brow and calls of “C’mon, c’mon!” muttered through clenched teeth. Mom would tilt her head and laugh and hug us and say: “See? Nothing to worry about.”
Bundle of perfection
One day Mom and Dad brought home the second-
best gift she could have given me. Mom’s face was flushed and beautiful; Mom was always beautiful. She sat me down and tenderly entrusted me and my 5-year-old lap with a very tiny baby. I gazed at the sleeping bundle of perfection, and then up at Mom in wide-eyed love and awe at the wonders that life continued to show me, and the trust she showed in letting me cradle my newborn sister.
Mom’s beauty wasn’t just the static “pretty as a picture” sort. She had grace and power, though I didn’t know the words for such things then. We’d go to the corner store on her old dark-green English bicycle. There were no child bike seats in those days. I’d sit on the rack and hold onto the back of the leather saddle. “Mind your feet,” she’d say. “Keep them out of the spokes!” The pulses of her strength carried us both several miles and up a steep hill home.
Mom always expected the best from her children. She lent me her esteem until I could earn some for myself. Who but Mom could possibly have taught me to appreciate the nuances of a well-made peanut butter and jelly sandwich? Oh, and on my baby sister being the second-best gift? The best gift Mom gave us kids, bar none, was her time.
Love like air
All of my best memories are not of objects or structured events but of time spent together learning and laughing, breathing in and surrounded by love like it was air.
Mom took up smoking more than 40 years ago, when smoking was considered cool. No dangers were spoken of way back then.
Oxygen tanks and clear plastic tubes up your nose aren’t cool, but such pictures of decline aren’t shown in the ads.
And how many of us live with an eye toward the future?
A nonsmoker finally, with her hoses and tanks, she died.
I didn’t see Mom and Dad this past Thanksgiving. Family and job obligations kept me home. But I do remember the last time I saw Mom. I told her how much I loved her and had to bend down to kiss her forehead, for my legs had grown much longer than hers.
Mothers are so very important to their children and to the world. The world just lost a good one. Mom, you hid it well. I know now that you stood on the bank of the pond and worried. I’m glad you lived long – long enough to see that you’d set our rudders straight and long enough to see all your tiny little boats bob through the waves and make it safely to the other shore.
Tom Preble writes from his home near Peyton. His mother died in January in Florida. He can be reached at lvranch@att.net.
