My
mother was born on a farm during the Great Depression, the eldest of
twelve children. She spent her early morning hours milking the family’s
cows before walking three miles to school. She and her siblings helped
with the housework and cooking for their family of fourteen. They
plowed their fields with the help of a team of mules and planted,
weeded, hoed, and harvested a large vegetable garden and occasional
cash crops. On Sundays they walked to church, a four-mile round trip.
Mom at 3 years of
age.
Despite a life most of us would consider hard, my mother and her family
recall those days fondly, and always speak of the fun they had during
those difficult years. Humor was a strong part of the loving and close
relationship they still enjoy to this day. They are an entertaining and
lively group, and I often refer to my mother's family as “The Waltons”
when describing them to friends, both as a tribute to their strong
family ties, and for the great respect and affection I have for them.
Mom in her prom
dress.
Mom used this same work ethic and sense of humor when raising her own
children. She entertained us with tales of how her parents gave her a
dime every Saturday for the movies, and how during World War II she
rode the “Victory Bus” and watched her mother sew blackout curtains.
Mom had a knack for making mundane chores fun, and even indulged me
when, for my fifth birthday, I requested not only a coconut cake, but a
green coconut cake. Without batting an eye, she tinted the boiled
frosting a lovely pastel green, and shook the coconut in a jar with
green food coloring so it would match.
She approached everything and everyone with an open heart, an open
mind, and a sense of joy. She still has a desire to live life to its
fullest, due in part to her capacity for finding great pleasure in even
the smallest gifts of nature, and to express her gratitude for them. It
took me quite a few years to comprehend how abysmally I had failed to
appreciate her “stop and smell the roses” philosophy when I was
younger.
I vividly recall a frigid morning in early March of 1968, all of us
caught up in our routine of the mad weekday-morning rush to get to work
and school on time. We grabbed books, bags, and pulled on our coats as
we ran frantically out the door and down the walk with our usual
two-minutes-to-spare brand of punctuality. Suddenly, my mother stopped
all of us in mid-sprint so quickly I almost rear-ended one of my
sisters.
We goggled at her in surprise as she pointed at the ground, an
expression of wonder and joy on her face. “Look, it’s the first
crocus!” she exclaimed, and we humored her for a moment by glancing
down at the lone yellow bloom before resuming our dash to the car. Poor
Mom, she cast those wonderful pearls before her young swine in vain. We
were too busy shoving and kicking each other out of the way so we could
slam the car doors and get on the road, to give a rat's hindquarters
about a crocus, of all things!
I need to point out that during this time, I had a typical
12-year-old’s attitude concerning my parents. Convinced they weren't
very bright, I usually found them to be a nuisance and a frequent
embarrassment, but grudgingly tolerating them except when they were
providing funds and/or transportation. It was with barely suppressed
exasperation that I reacted to her crocus announcement by rolling my
eyes and quietly sighing to myself. Why I had been cursed with a mother
who was clearly a kook?
In the many years since the notorious crocus incident, I have gleaned
that often the most valuable lessons our mothers bequeath are not so
much taught as experienced, and despite a rocky beginning, I absorbed
via a sort of osmosis some of my mother's joie de vivre. Nowadays I
will abruptly stop in the midst of a harried day to savor a warm,
magnolia-scented June breeze on my face. I think nothing of pausing
mid-stride in the middle of my yard to gaze down in awe at the sight of
a perfect fairy circle of ecru mushrooms, or even spend a few precious
minutes to watch the wind reshape a group of puffy white clouds into
prehistoric creatures. Thanks to my mother, I have learned that these
minutes are time truly well spent.
I don’t know if my mother realized that her sustained wonder and joy in
everyday miracles like the little crocus bloom would have such a
profound effect on her children, but her enthusiasm in sharing such
experiences has taught me to cherish them, and her, all the more. Words
are inadequate as thanks for this amazing legacy, but I’m glad she is
here to read this. I can only promise that I’ll continue to honor my
most valued inheritance, and think of her always with joy, love, and
boundless gratitude.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
After graduating with the CHS class of 1973, Judy Brooks attended Berry
College for a short while before beginning a career that encompassed a
number of diverse positions, from bartender and directory assistance
operator to assistant grant-writer and office manager. She lived in
Rome, Atlanta, and Paducah, KY before returning to Summerville in
September of 2010, and is quite content to be back among family and
friends.