TheBanyanTree: And now a Mother's Day Essay from NancyLee

[NancyIee at aol.com]

So many relate bad in their childhood, beatings, belittlement, abandonment, 
all sorts of horrid abuse. I worked with families with that knitted through 
the fabric of their existences and it saddened me and made me determined to 
change things. I worked many years with a variety of families.

Did I change anything?  Maybe, maybe not. I only hope I did no harm.

My parents, on the other hand, were high school sweethearts. They married too 
young and had a lot of kids. I was the oldest of six. If you thought Ozzie 
and Harriet were the Ideal, you're wrong. I grew up in the ideal home. I and 
my siblings were cherished. My Dad took us camping, taught us how to water 
ski, instilled in us a deep sense of pride and right, and we always knew were 
were loved.

My mother had the reddest hair I have ever seen, huge, wild tresses of flame 
standing out about her head like the mane of a lioness. She was a little 
bitty woman, with a quick wit and impulsive joy. She sat on a pillow to see 
over the steering wheel when she drove, adored her two mutts and could not 
bear to part with the pups they produced, and she managed to make ourr family 
a deeply cohesive group while at the same time, instilling in each of us the 
idea we were special. My mother, as I grew, became my best friend, and I 
cherished every moment we had together.

My parents loved each other through and through all their lives. My mother 
suffered years with cancer before giving it up, and we all feared for Dad 
without her. They had never been apart. Yet, he carried on, in  quiet 
strength; learning to cook  and becoming somewhat a gourmet chef, he 
gardened, and took pride in the tomato crop he produced every summer, he 
traveled, visiting friends he and Mom had loved throughout the years. He did 
well, appreciated the gifts of time he had, yet was glad enough to join her 
when his own time had come.

I still remember, in my childhood, my mother calling me to come in; I could 
hear her voice no matter where in the neighborhood I might be. She had a 
high, clear, soprano, and made my name a song that rang out to the tree I 
might be climbing or the woods where we played pirates.  Nancee---Leee-eeee. 
I can hear it yet.

Long after they were both gone, and I was many years married with children of 
my own, we bought a  farm.  There were chickens there. I recall shortly after 
we moved in, I was walking along the rail fence, taking in the glorious 
morning light and the rolling fields and creek beyond. It was dawn on a 
golden day, and as I stood at the fence, awed, I heard the rooster crow from 
stop the garage.

He sang, nanceee-lee-eeeee, and it made me cry.

I miss you so much, Mom.

NancyLee