Mother’s Day brings back memories sad but loving | Opinion

Mother’s Day is a holiday that can conjure up a kaleidoscope of colorful and beautiful memories, or it can bring back memories of almost unbearable sadness.

Had she lived, my mom would be 106. She died in 2002, just slept away as her only two children — myself and my brother Adam — and her daughter-in-law Val, sat by her bedside. I was honored to have been her caregiver for nearly seven years before she died.

Although this sounds like the beginning of a sad story, it is not. Mom had lived a full life, although not always an easy one.

Somehow, with her limited amount of book learning (she only had a ninth-grade education), she always managed to find decent work, refused to be on welfare and reared two children, as a single mom, who never gave her an ounce of trouble. She did it during some of the harshest times for Blacks in America – the Jim Crow era. I am still amazed at how she did it.

Mom seemed to be always working. So, at an early age, she taught me how to take care of the home and my brother, who is three years younger.

I was in the seventh grade when I started taking home economic classes at Booker T. Washington Jr/Sr High school in Overtown. Mom took advantage of what I’d learned in my cooking class and at age 12, I was tagged to be the cook for our family of three. I didn’t mind. I always had a love of cooking. The hardest part about cooking was learning how to cook a good pot of rice.

Looking back, there were many times I yearned to be carefree, with seemingly no chores to do, like some of my friends. Yet, Mom had instilled in me such a tremendous sense of responsibility as the “second lady of the house,” that I simply wanted to the biggest help to her that I could be.

I wanted her to be pleased with me, and the way I had followed the instructions she hurriedly doled out to me as she ran out the door to catch the 6 a.m. bus for work.

Mom was strict. But she was kind and, at times, very sweet and funny. To me, she embodied the soul of every Negro mother, single or otherwise, who against all odds, found a way to make a decent home to bring up her children.

We were poor, but guess what? Mom found a way to keep that a secret from us. She did this by making sure we always had a decent meal on the table and nice clothes to wear.

Even when she had to be at work, serving dinner to other families, her instruction to me was simple: “When dinner is ready, you set the table and you and your brother sit down and eat together like two human beings.”

While I didn’t always understand what she was trying to teach me, those impromptu lessons as she ran out the door for her bus sure have come in handy over the years.

Still, it wasn’t always all-work-and-no-play with Mom. She was a natural comedian. The stories she told about her growing up days in Plant City in central Florida kept us in stitches.

She could mimic anyone. If she told us a story about the old neighbor who lived near them in Plant City, Mom became that person, so much so that if we closed our eyes, we could almost see him in our living room, walking cane and all.

Mom loved to sing and some of my fondest memories are of the three of us singing from the old, red-backed hymn book as we sat around the table in front of the window of our tiny living room in the Liberty Square Housing project. Mom sang lead and I would chime in with my alto. We sang a cappella, songs like, “Precious Lord,” “Amazing Grace,” and “In the Garden.”

The three of us singing together was such a special and sweet time that even my brother, who would much rather have been outside playing cowboys with his friends, joined in with his toneless voice, singing as loud as he could. Sometimes the sound of our voices would float out the screen-covered window and passersby would stop for a while to listen.

No amount of money could be enough to pay for those sweet moments with our mom.

As I mentioned before, Mom was strict. Especially with me. I remember the first time I was allowed to “take company” (that’s what we Blacks called dating back in the 1950s when a girl was allowed to court).

Once when my young beau came a’ courting, he asked Mom if he could take me to the movie. The Liberty Theater (dubbed The Shack back then) was within walking distance from where I lived. My date had orders to have me home at a certain time, and off we went, hand in hand to the movie theater.

The movie was out early. On the way home, there was a teenage dance at the Community Center about two blocks from home.

I encouraged my date to stop by for a couple of dances before going home. We were having so much fun dancing, the time slipped away. That is, until I felt a hand on my arm, pulling me away from the dance floor. It was my mom. I’d missed my curfew.

That was the night that I just wanted the earth to open for me to jump in and pulled the cover on top. I could hear the laughter from a few of the kids who had witnessed my shame. Mom walked me home chastising me about not keeping my word to be home at a certain time. All I wanted to do was die.

But I lived. And when I became a mother, I fully understood Mom’s action. I’d brought that shame upon myself by being disobedient. Trust me — it never happened again. And to my date’s credit, he never teased me about the incident.

Today is bittersweet for me. As I share these happy times with you, a ton of other memories flood my mind as I celebrate another Mother’s Day without my beautiful mom.

Happy Mother’s Day!