On this Memorial Day my thoughts have turned to my mother.

All mothers are special. However mine was most special to me

Mama was born into a farm family. I do not really know much about her family. I know she lost her mother when she was 2. I know she spent two years in an orphanage until her oldest sister turned twelve and was deemed old enough to raise the family. Out of seven children (five girls and two boys) only three girls made it adulthood.

Mama did not have the opportunity for much schooling. I have been told by my older brother who knew her longer than I did that she only went to school until grade three, then left to go to work. She did, he said, complete up to grade six, the last three grades by correspondence course.

Mama was a part time single mom, married twice that I know of, once to my older brother and sister’s father and then to mine.

When mama was turning forty-one, she had me. At nine months and ten days I came in to the world weighing two pounds and fifteen ounces. Not the smallest baby in the world by any means. It was though enough for the doctors to tell mama not to expect me to live past two months. Needless to say, I did!

Most of my memories of mama were when I was in third grade I think. I was about nine or so. Mama I suppose was not much of a reader. She did however push me in reading. I do not remember her pushing me in anything else, but reading and writing. I remember I loved pads of paper and pencils! I began a list to document all the nouns I knew… last time I saw the list it was 6 pages long, and both sides of the paper. I remember my school had a policy of selling off old books from the library just before summer break. Mama saved her change and I would go with a baggie bulging. I would have difficulty getting the books home. After much struggle I would get there, and set them on the living room table. For a long time after that, mama and I would sit on the sofa and I would read to her. Oh how I loved that time! The things I learned were so exciting. I remember most reading about George Washington Carver and all he was able to do with the peanut, and sweet potato! Mama and I loved how he took old trash and made tools for his university students to use. He taught me to look for a use for everything before I get rid of it. Something my depression era mama held dear as well.

When I was ten, mama had a stroke. It was a massive one and nearly killed her. She never recovered and went to live in a nursing facility, while I went to my older sister’s.  Though her mind was intact her ability to care for herself, and her ability to speak were not. She died the year I turned fifteen. To this day there is an empty place in my heart where she used to be.

For years after mama’s stroke, at age fifty, I was convinced it was all a night mare. Finally I accepted the truth, and was able to move on with my life. Some nights I still dream that mama is here and I hate waking up. Mama was my best friend, my hero, the one person I could tell all and be loved anyway. Even when my ideas were silly or stupid. She encouraged me to find out who I was, and not to change for anyone.

All this and so much more was my mama.