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Mothers in 1958

I am very busy correcting the grammar mistakes in my Berry Tale books...a very humbling job because there are many mistakes! I tend to post and publish without proofreading (not very smart) . Anyway, now and then I read somethingI would like to share. Here are a couple of paragraphs from a chapter in my first Berry Tales book... it was a Mother's Day post, but today is a good day to read it too...

In 1958, there was no cable or any computers for me; instead, there were stacks of Little Golden Books and long afternoons with my mom. I dimly remember Thibodaux, Louisiana in the early summer of 1958 and a small apartment tucked in at the end of a little street. It seemed the windows were always opened, and the breeze would flap homemade curtains that I am certain had been starched and ironed and were hung on aluminum rods that slid together.  There were hardly any sounds of technology in the little green duplex...

...There was not much to do “in those days”; she was expecting and away from her hometown and my dad used the car for work, so she and I stayed home all day, except for an occasional walk to a neighbor’s house for a short visit. Her days were about me and my days were whatever she would create for me. Sometimes she made mayonnaise and bologna sandwiches and Kool Aid, and we would have a picnic in a shady spot in the small yard and sometimes she would punch holes in the lid of a jar, and I would spend my afternoon catching dragonflies, but mostly I remember her reading to me. We would get comfortable in her bed near the open window, and she would read, and I was happy there in that place next to her, listening and imagining I was a princess, or a little girl lost in the woods. The afternoons would drift by as she created this special place in childhood and made a memory for me. 

The years continued and for forty-three years I had the most wonderful relationship with my mother. There were certainly times of turbulence and conflict, but never anything that lasted other than her love. 

On this day, I give honor to all the mothers that have spent much of their youth reading Little Golden Books over and over and rocking babies for miles into the lonely night and holding hands and letting go and being the last one to leave and the first to cry and who would, after all the trials and sacrifices, do it all over again.

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