Questing Parson

Happy Mother's Day

You And I Were Right, Mother

Well, Mother, Sunday is Mother's Day. That will be the twentieth anniversary of the day you, reclined on that bed at Emory Healthcare's Wesley Woods Geriatric Hospital said to me, “You think you're going to put me in a nursing home, but I'll show you.”

I remember being a little put off by that remark. I don't recall what I said in retort, but I do know this. Twenty minutes after I left you died. You know, Mother, it's a bit disconcerting that you always had to have the last word.

But that should not be surprising. Over the years I've discovered that much of what you said proved to be, if not prophetic, infused with an abundance of wisdom.

You once told me that my resentment of your constant interfering in my life would come back to haunt me. You told me that someday I'd be in the position of attempting to give my grown children advice and having that considered advice rejected, cast aside, relegated as out-of-date and of no consequence. You told me that when that happened I'd be remembering all the times I ignored your accumulated wisdom.

You were right, Mother.

You told me that someday I'd be waiting for a postcard, telephone call, some sign of recognition, or any affirmation that I mattered in the life of my children and that on that day I'd remember the infinite number of times I didn't call you, I didn't send you a letter, I didn't drop by your house because I was too occupied with the unimportant, and that on that day I'd be filled with guilt that I did not honor you and the price you paid to make me what I am today.

You were right, Mother.

You pointed out to me, in that delicate voice of yours that conveyed love and admonition in one breath, that the day would come when I would want some private time with my grandchildren, time to educate them to their linage, the contributions of their ancestors, the history of from where they came,and that one that day I'd regret I never brought them to sit at you feet and hear of the one room schoolhouse where their great-great-great-grandfather taught in the first public school in Gwinnett County.

You were right, Mother.

You told me that manners were important. You insisted that I'd do well in life if I learned to be a gentleman. You insisted I should hold the door open for ladies, I should stand when my elders entered the room, and that, no matter what the circumstance, being gracious would bring more rewards than being obnoxious. . (Actually, Mother, you didn't say “obnoxious”; you used another word for donkey, but I'm constrained here by the newspaper standards.)

You were right, Mother.

You were right in so many things I would not admit then. You were right and I was wrong because I had not obtained the advantage of your senior status. Now, hopefully, Mother, I am more wise. Now I see things from your perspective.

This being said, Mother, do you remember when I told you if you continued to coddle my younger brother, to protect him, to treat him like he was so darn special, to forgive him of all his indiscretions, to just smile when he fell from grace, to, frankly, spoil him, he would become an opinionated, obstinate, hard-headed old fart?

I was right, Mother.

You And I Were Right, Mother

Well, Mother, Sunday is Mother's Day. That will be the twentieth anniversary of the day you, reclined on that bed at Emory Healthcare's Wesley Woods Geriatric Hospital said to me, “You think you're going to put me in a nursing home, but I'll show you.”

I remember being a little put off by that remark. I don't recall what I said in retort, but I do know this. Twenty minutes after I left you died. You know, Mother, it's a bit disconcerting that you always had to have the last word.

But that should not be surprising. Over the years I've discovered that much of what you said proved to be, if not prophetic, infused with an abundance of wisdom.

You once told me that my resentment of your constant interfering in my life would come back to haunt me. You told me that someday I'd be in the position of attempting to give my grown children advice and having that considered advice rejected, cast aside, relegated as out-of-date and of no consequence. You told me that when that happened I'd be remembering all the times I ignored your accumulated wisdom.

You were right, Mother.

You told me that someday I'd be waiting for a postcard, telephone call, some sign of recognition, or any affirmation that I mattered in the life of my children and that on that day I'd remember the infinite number of times I didn't call you, I didn't send you a letter, I didn't drop by your house because I was too occupied with the unimportant, and that on that day I'd be filled with guilt that I did not honor you and the price you paid to make me what I am today.

You were right, Mother.

You pointed out to me, in that delicate voice of yours that conveyed love and admonition in one breath, that the day would come when I would want some private time with my grandchildren, time to educate them to their linage, the contributions of their ancestors, the history of from where they came,and that one that day I'd regret I never brought them to sit at you feet and hear of the one room schoolhouse where their great-great-great-grandfather taught in the first public school in Gwinnett County.

You were right, Mother.

You told me that manners were important. You insisted that I'd do well in life if I learned to be a gentleman. You insisted I should hold the door open for ladies, I should stand when my elders entered the room, and that, no matter what the circumstance, being gracious would bring more rewards than being obnoxious. . (Actually, Mother, you didn't say “obnoxious”; you used another word for donkey, but I'm constrained here by the newspaper standards.)

You were right, Mother.

You were right in so many things I would not admit then. You were right and I was wrong because I had not obtained the advantage of your senior status. Now, hopefully, Mother, I am more wise. Now I see things from your perspective.

This being said, Mother, do you remember when I told you if you continued to coddle my younger brother, to protect him, to treat him like he was so darn special, to forgive him of all his indiscretions, to just smile when he fell from grace, to, frankly, spoil him, he would become an opinionated, obstinate, hard-headed old fart?

I was right, Mother.

Strong Women, God Bless 'Em

I love women. Okay, there it is, right out in the open. I love women. Who can say when this love affair started? I honestly don't know.

Maybe it was Francis. Francis was that drop dead gorgeous babysitter my parents hired for my brother. Somehow they didn't think I was capable of taking care of my brother when I was twelve. He was five then. So, they hired Francis to babysit my brother. And I would watch Francis babysit my brother. And after she put my brother to bed I would watch Francis watching television. Did I mention Francis was drop dead gorgeous?

We moved from the town where Francis babysat my brother. When we moved I'd grown beyond my childish ways. Maybe the reason I love women has something to do with Kay. Kay lived up the street from me in the new town to which we moved. Kay was something else. Kay taught me the joys of swapping spit.

I'm going to detour from this history of my progression through the various stages of learning to appreciate women now. This blog carries a PG-13 rating. I'll just give you a quick snapshot. That snapshot acknowledges the obvious fact that the men and women of my generation are much better lovers than the generations that followed us. We were more practiced, more attentive, never in a hurry. We certainly should be. We spent ten years in foreplay.

It was the Women In the World Summit 2012, just recently ended, that prompted my journey back in time remembering, as Willie, said, “all the girls I've loved before.” Things have really changed since those days when Kay and I were coming of age. Women have truly come a long way.

I was fortunate to grow up in the family I did. In an age when women were perceived as mere appendages of their husbands, the women in my family actually ran the show. I don't think I realized that until I was in my thirties. I'm sure my late realization was a direct result of those women's unique ability to let the men in the family think they were in charge.

Mama, my grandmother, had a fourth grade education. When my grandfather died she carried on for thirty plus years, teaching us lessons we never learned in the universities we attended. My great aunt, Mama's sister, when her husband died kept the auto garage he owned, the largest in Atlanta, running with even more success than he enjoyed. Looking back on it I can't help but wonder how many city blocks of downtown Atlanta my aunt owned.

And then there was my mother. Mother's birthday was last week. I have to admit I didn't realize what day it was until I read the acknowledgment on my brother's Facebook page. (But, then again, Mother always did love him best.) [:-), brother]

My mother was a child of the 1920s, and I have no doubt that she and my Aunt Virginia danced until the dawn at the dance clubs of Atlanta. She was a beauty. She was confident. And she had this view of life, far ahead of her day, that gender should be no impediment to whatever one wanted to accomplish. Mother should have had daughters to offset the troubles my brother and I caused. Mother was to be respected. No, let me rephrase that: Mother demanded respect. My mother had no hesitation of engaging in a wrestling match, a real wrestling match, with any adolescent male ignorant enough to think she wouldn't whip his ass in front of his onlooking peers.

The Women in the World Summit, as I said, got me thinking about those genteel Southern ladies who shaped me. The women who are their children have excelled, one was in the first class of ordained women in the Church of England, and one a successful businesswoman. As for my brother and me, we were feminist long before someone trotted out the word.

It was a joy to see that parade of twenty-first century women speaking and being interviewed at the summit. It gives hope for the world. I can attest from personal experience that we're all better when we're nurtured and inspired by strong, liberated women.

I got a hint that the strong woman will continue in the next generation of our family the other day. I asked my granddaughter if her boyfriend was going to be at a family function. “That won't happen,” she told me. I asked her why. “Look,” she said, “I'm a fourteen year-old woman; harmones are raging in my body; I have enough dealing with my moods. I don't have the energy to deal with some male's moodiness.”

So here's the end of this rambling remembrance of strong women and my affirmation that we'll be better still as humans when women are finally treated as equals in every aspect of life.

Thanks Mother; thanks Mama; thanks Aunt Virginia. And watch out world, my granddaughters are headed your way!

 

Watch live streaming video from womenintheworld at livestream.com

Watch live streaming video from womenintheworld at livestream.com

Watch live streaming video from womenintheworld at livestream.com

Watch live streaming video from womenintheworld at livestream.com

Reflection on Mothers

The parson relaxed on the sofa following Sunday’s service. In his faith it was The Festival of the Christian Home celebration. The church had been filled with children coming home to attend church with mother and mothers coming to attend church with their children. In deference to the commercialization of the day, Mother’s Day, appropriate gifts had been give the oldest mother, the mother with the most children present, and a flower given to ever woman to ensure political correctness.

Now, the day over, the parson reflected back on the week. He thought of the childless woman he visited who nurtured a score of teens through her free after school program; he thought of the grandmother, children now grown, who had assumed parental responsibility for a great niece. He thought of a mother who constantly chose a drug-induced stupor over parental responsibility and who cried and sobbed genuine remorse whenever she discussed it with the parson. He thought of the lesbian couple who’d adopted those precious children and two sets of foster parents who’d taken in children dangerously scarred by neglect and abuse.

The more he reflected on it the more he realized that motherhood, while needing to be traditionally honored, comes in ways that are not always genetic.

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Thanks Mom!

Mothers Day from Frances Smith on Vimeo.