My Mother, My Tenant, My Friend

About two years ago, my tenant moved out and I was seeking a new downstairs neighbor.
My Dad showed the unit for me to some prospective tenants when I was unavailable. Afterwards, I asked him if he liked any of them. He said, "Yes, I got it rented. Your mother and I are going to sell our condo and move in!"
We had talked previously about this idea but decided they were better off in their condo. Not sure why they were now interested, I met with them to discuss this.
I had to ensure they weren't thinking I was going to be home playing cards with them every night! I also wanted to be clear that while I was enjoying my 'singleness', that one day I wanted someone in my life.
My Mom said, "Oh Natalie, why do you want a new bedpartner?"
I said "because I'm 46 not 86!" So they moved in.
A few months later, Dad died. This has caused some more changes in all our lives. Now Mom counts on me for her "wheels" and we have a routine of me stopping in to see her every morning on my way out the door and every night when I come in.
We go out weekly to the Greshville Inn with an ever-growing group of friends and family. She calls us "the Greshville Gang".
We go grocery shopping together. I take her to the funerals and viewing of those that pass on. We've gone to Bermuda on a cruise! I even bring some dates in to meet her!!
So she is not only my mom, my tenant, she's my friend and I love each and every day that I am blessed by having her nearby.

-- Natalie Rogers

Mother's Day without mom

Sometimes on Sundays when the sun is shining and the outdoors beckons, I get weepy. It’s probably just another aspect of the grieving that is still with me over a year after my mother’s death.
That’s because on rare Sundays in these complicated times, our family would still manage to come together. It was never with the regularity with which families used to gather before the intrusion of so many of life’s distractions, from sports events to crazed work schedules. But always, on those special Sundays, my mother, the family matriarch, was there, delighted just by the sight of her clan all together.
There was always special ecstasy for Mom in being with her great grandchildren, and they knew it and milked it for all it was worth. Her “goody bags” became legendary, with the older cousins coaching the little ones on how to wheedle a little bit of extra chocolate out of Mom-Mom.
How I wish I had truly appreciated those simple gatherings that came not on holidays and not on anyone’s birthday, but rather just on spring days when somehow, Palm Pilots and relentless schedules were set aside.
How I wish I had told Mom how much her presence meant to all of us.
One of the best photographs of my mother was taken on one of those Sundays during the last months of her life. It was taken on our deck, and in it, Mom is surrounded by small angels with dirty faces. The goody bags had been distributed, the chocolate was smeared on cheeks and hands, and Mom was sitting and beaming at her army of “smalls,” as we call these urchins.
The sun was shining down on us, the mood was mellow, and we were simply hanging out. A family – a miracle of biology and destiny – at play.
I would give anything to recreate that ordinary/extraordinary afternoon. I would give anything to lean over and give my mother a peck on her cheek, with its skin like parchment. To hear her laugh again.
It’s not news that we seldom appreciate what we have when we have it. It’s entirely human.
But the lesson always takes when things change, and when loss steps in and offers its reckoning. Birthdays and holidays and milestones are difficult. But it’s the more routine times, the times when your guard is down, some of the sharpest pain can come.
And yes, it’s especially awful around Mother’s Day.
Our family, like so many, is now scattered in too many zip codes. Now it takes endless phone calls and e-mails just to get us in one place at one time. And when we finally make it – when we can hug one another with outstretched arms, not electronic messages - it’s by definition a celebration.
Without Mom, it’s less so.
Without her beaming face and loving embrace, so much is missing.
If long ago, I dreamed of milestone events complete with engraved invitations and sophisticated wardrobes, I have since realized that for me, the sheer pleasure of a cluttered deck populated by the people I love would be plenty.
Children and grandchildren cascading through the house and filling it with their noise and energy.
Siblings quarreling as siblings do.
Food more junky than virtuous.
But no Mom. And we all wanted more of her.
The hospice that treated my mother in her final days continues to send me monthly bulletins. Always, there is a short summary of what the passing of the months may bring.
I welcome those notes because they validate so many of the feelings that are still with me, sometimes ambushing me in unexpected moments.
So I go back, sometimes, and read those hospice bulletins. The last one was particularly helpful. It chronicled the passage of time, and moments and how loss knows no timetable.
I keep it near in this Mother’s Day season.
“I have seen your face in a burst of sunshine, in clouds, in rain,” it read. “Your music called to me.”
And the kernel that resonates most for me:
“More than 365 days I have lived with your death… But now, I am learning to live with your life inside of mine.”

Sally Friedman

A tribute to a great Mother

When I was eleven years old, my mother (Sandra Butts of Pottstown) almost died. She had just given birth to her ninth baby and there were complications. The doctors told us to prepare for her death. My father faced the difficult task of dividing the other eight children among relatives and friends so that he could be with our mom. Being the oldest son, I was much more aware of what we faced. I remember being scared and praying more than I had ever prayed. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing my mom and I was scared for our family. Gratefully, God spared my mom and restored her to us.

A friend who stayed in our home during my college years recently said, “I don’t know anyone like your mother. She has lived a standard almost never met by other mothers.” His words are true. My mother is an amazing person. The fact that she gave birth to eleven children would be enough evidence. Yet, as she’ll quickly tell you, having children wasn’t the challenge; it was raising them. She (along with my father) raised seven boys and four girls. I am the second oldest of the eleven and oldest of the seven boys. The age difference between the oldest and youngest is eighteen years. How many moms today could imagine having an eighteen year old and ten younger children?

By today’s standards, there was very little to envy in my mom’s role. Several words summarize her life. Service to others was her main focus. From morning until evening, her work was never finished. Imagine the laundry, sewing (look it up in the dictionary), meals, dishes, housework, and school work for eleven children. And think about all the shoes! In those days, there were no dish washers or micro- wave ovens and, in our case, there wasn’t much help from extended family. I remember my mom getting up early each morning to make school lunches. It seemed like she used an entire loaf of bread each day. Like a factory assembly line, she laid bread out and built sandwiches for the day.

Another word descriptive of Mom was hospitality. We moved at least nine times during my childhood years. Yet each time Mom turned our house into a comfortable home. Most of the time finances were tight. But I remember a mom who could make a little go a long way. She was also content with what we had. She and my father almost never spent money on themselves. They diligently taught us to distinguish needs from wants.

Although funds were limited, we always had extra people at the dinner table. From time to time, when we lived in larger houses, we even provided a home for others. Among those who lived with us, I remember an older lady, young college students, and a young couple. Each time these people were welcomed into the family. In the evenings, we gathered around the long dining room table for extended conversations. There was always story telling, memory sharing and laughter. I also remember a stream of people who stopped by for advice. Mom and Dad would offer “counseling sessions” over coffee to people from many different walks of life.

I considered the word sacrifice in relation to Mom’s life but I don’t think she viewed her role as a sacrifice. The emphasis on sacrifice in relation to motherhood is relatively recent. My mother never thought about the “career” or “life” she would miss by being a mother. She never thought of all she “could have done” apart from motherhood. Being a mother was her life and was considered an honorable calling.

Finally, faith comes to mind when I think of my Mom. Although for most of my childhood years we were not a religious family, things changed when I was a pre-teen. Through the loving concern of a neighbor, my parents heard the good news about God’s offer of salvation as a free gift to all who trust in Jesus Christ. Jesus became more than a man from history to my parents; he became their personal savior and Lord. My mother has been an example of faith and godliness to her eleven children and countless others. Her children “rise up and call her blessed” (Proverbs 31:28).

Steven W. Cornell

Senior Pastor

Millersville Bible Church

When daughters become mothers

Of all the astonishments of motherhood, watching my own daughters become mothers tops the list.
Of all the rewards I could have asked in this life, this is the sweetest.
My daughters are better at motherhood than I ever was. And that’s not just false modesty, believe me. They were better prepared.
They were not just smarter; they were wiser, too. And they were surely more ready to accept all the colossal challenges than I was when I became a mother at 21.
These same daughters who once drove me crazy, who left their rooms in post-hurricane condition, who failed to send thank-you notes to their relatives for decades, have found their calling. They are superb at mothering.
I have watched Jill, Amy and Nancy swell with pregnancies and become the most responsible, conscientious mothers-to-be, reading voraciously and knowing what every single week of development meant.
I spent those same months flying blind, more child than woman and surely not ready for the enormous job ahead.
I’m ashamed to admit that I ate carelessly, didn’t exercise and never even considered breast feeding back in the 1960s when having babies, for most women, was an automatic pilot experience.
“Don’t ask/don’t tell” might have been our motto before a new generation began to question and learn and re-shape not just their bodies, but the entire pregnancy experience.
But I was still a bit stunned when the daughters who never took their vitamins, seldom ate right and got no sleep for years on end during college were suddenly unrelentingly vigilant about their health the moment they became pregnant. I almost couldn’t believe what I was seeing and hearing.
Natural childbirth? A given. Ditto for nursing.
Jill, Amy and Nancy were absolutely committed to doing everything right.
And then those babies came, and our daughters greeted them with the same awe, wonderment and surrender that women have for centuries. Determined as they were to do things perfectly, they were as overwhelmed as we all are when a tiny, helpless infant is placed in our arms – and in our perpetual care.
Jill, the oldest, became a mother first. The birth of Hannah turned our daughter, the same hard-bitten public defender who had visited the meanest and toughest in grim, dank prisons, into a marshmallow who wept when her baby daughter had her first bout with colic.
Her sisters were no less vulnerable.
“Hello, my daughter, hello my daughter,” Amy said through tears that wouldn’t stop coming when she greeted Emily one bitterly cold December day. Forget the corporate world, and high-powered meetings and visits to Manhattan art galleries. Amy’s new master was a tiny tyrant with an impressive set of lungs who led; Amy humbly followed – until her maternity leave was over.
Carly came next, and Amy continued that ultimate tightrope walk, the balancing of love and work/home and job.
And Nancy, the daughter who yearned so for a daughter of her own and instead has greeted three sons – Nancy has fallen madly, hopelessly in love with bruisers Sam, Jonah and Daniel.
In so many ways, each of our daughters has shown a new and unexpected side of herself in mothering. So in joyously welcoming our seven grandchildren, I have also re-met their mothers – our daughters.
Despite their predictable fears and anxieties, I have seen in them strength and courage that I never knew was there. I have seen stamina and commitment, self-sacrifice and incredible energy.
I never balanced motherhood and demanding careers as they are doing. I never lived so close to the edge that there seemed the ever-present danger of simply falling off into total and absolute exhaustion.
And I surely never juggled so many activities that it takes a master scheduler just to pull it off.
I’m not sure I tell my daughters often enough how enormously proud of them I am as mothers. I hope that my occasional, unsolicited advice doesn’t drown out the most important message: That they are wonderful, competent mothers.
Sometimes, when I see Jill calming her son or daughter’s latest tempest, or I watch Amy singing to Carly and Emily at bedtime, I think my heart will burst wide open.
When I watch Nancy hugging Sam, cheering Jonah on in the third-grade play or kissing little Danny’s freckled cheeks, I want to weep at the purity of it all.
My daughters are mothers – fine, loving, generous ones. Better ones than I could have imagined.
And what a sweet, sweet reward that is for any mother on this Mother’s Day.

-- Sally Friedman

My Mother’s Mother

I’m alive because my mother lived in spite of my grandfather making an understandable choice for the doctor to save his wife instead of the baby that was struggling to be born.
The flu was ravaging the country. My grandparent’s small Chester County town saw so many people dying that there were not enough coffins to accommodate bodies.
My grandmother was pregnant and deathly sick. There was a little son in the picture and the uncertainty that my grandmother would survive the flu that was taking its victims without discrimination, and her labor began.
The doctor said that he could save only one. Did my grandfather want him to save his wife or the expected child? My grandfather had experienced the loss of his first child, a little girl. Now, he had a small son who needed a mother, and he so loved his wife.
With sadness over the need to choose, and realizing if she made it through the birth, the flu could still take her, he heartrendingly selected his wife.
Miraculously, mother and child survived the birth, and my grandmother recovered from the flu. The baby, my mother, was healthy, beautiful and strong, a preview of her entire life.
Later, my grandparents welcomed three more fine children into their family. My grandmother was a lady who was worth preserving. It seems that someone higher than all of us agreed.
When I was a child, it seemed that my grandmother had always been old. Now, of course, I realize that she wasn’t all that old. I was her oldest living daughter’s oldest daughter, so she couldn’t have been much more than 40 at the time.
I never saw her that she didn’t look spiffy clean, and smell wonderful.
Speaking of smells, most of her fragrances were Avon, but I once discovered her long hidden Evening in Paris secret.
My grandmother and grandfather had been dating for a while when he gave her a bottle of Evening in Paris perfume for her birthday. My grandmother didn’t care for it, but she never discouraged anyone, and she loved him, so she praised his gift.
Every birthday thereafter, he aimed at giving her equal or bigger sets of Evening in Paris that added to the perfume, lotion and powder in the same fragrance. He never knew anything other than the satisfying pleasure that he was giving the love of his life something she really liked. Because of that, she remained consistently delighted with his birthday gifts. Every year, she knew what to expect, but she never knew what size her gift would be.
If she had not been given a bright blue box of Evening in Paris, I suspect she would not have felt as loved. She knew how caringly he selected this special gift for her.
My grandmother, happily using my grandfather’s gift, setting an example for me that emboldened me to go to church on many Mother’s Days wearing tissue paper flowers and macaroni jewelry. She taught me the joy of wearing such badges of honor.
It was all about love.
You know how the Bible says that the two will become one in marriage? Well, my grandparents were like two parts of one. Their thoughts and goals and efforts just blended.
The only time I ever heard a stern word from one to the other, my grandfather was in the basement working on their monstrous old heater. The house had gravity heat with big square metal grates in the floors to let the heat rise. Out of frustration, my grandfather’s voice burst from beneath the grate, exclaiming, “Oh, shoot!”
Yes, it most definitely was clearly “shoot.”
My grandmother hurried to the grate where I was trying to see what Grandpa was doing, and aiming her voice through the openings of the decorative ironwork, she firmly scolded, “Charlie! Now you stop that cussing.” She didn’t want me to hear bad language, but I always remembered the forbidden word.
I can even remember thinking that it really wasn’t a bad word. They had such pure hearts, and they both were the kindest, most loving people I ever knew. I’m glad my grandmother can’t hear the language in public today.
They had six children, but the oldest died as an infant. My grandmother said that for a while she blamed herself because she had taken the baby out visiting on a cold day. Of course, that wasn’t the cause of death, and my grandmother did get over her guilt because she knew the comfort of the Lord and His word.
They raised five children and endured The Great Depression in an era of hard work. It was a time when conscientious housekeepers ironed far more than I would ever consider ironing.
My grandmother was an exceptionally careful housekeeper.
Also, worth remembering is the fact that there were no electric irons. Clothing was starched with a powdered product mixed in water, dried stiff, sparsely sprinkled with water to make it manageable, and heavy irons were heated on the stove.
Families usually had two irons with clip-on wooden handles so that the task could proceed while the cooled iron reheated. A whole day was set aside for ironing in addition to the many other daily chores. There were no such things as takeout food or boxes of easy meals in a freezer.
Life was hard work, but there was a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. In the midst of all the regular work, my grandmother took a job in the local sewing factory because my grandfather was out of work due to the bad economy. That didn’t prevent her from performing her continuous home duties.
One of her frequent sayings that often carried me was, “You can always do what you have to do.”
Like most families in rural communities, they had a garden, and during the lean years, my grandfather supplemented their food supply by hunting.
Grandma gratefully cooked my grandfather’s small game after he skinned and gutted the little critters. I remember watching her prepare long lanky rabbits and skinny little squirrels for the stew pot.
Everything tasted good from my grandmother’s kitchen .. even squirrel stew.
She taught me to meet the challenges of difficult circumstances. I think I’ve passed on a bit of that to some of my grandmother’s great-grandchildren. This achievement was all about thankfulness whenever it wasn’t simply about pride in good old-fashioned American pioneer spirit.
My grandmother worked exhaustingly hard, but never outwardly complained. Her home was open to others, and whatever they had, they shared.
Perhaps her most inspirational characteristic was that she was never known to say an unkind thing about another person. In fact, I heard her say kind things about people who made me want to be anything but kind.
She wasn’t perfect, of course, but her character and attitudes put to shame most people I know including myself. No one ever met discouragement or failure because of my grandmother’s words, and some people became better because of her example.
She left behind a whole family that remains glad to have had her if they knew her or unknowingly benefited from her influence if they lived after her time. She definitely was a lady worth preserving.

Tell us how you feel about your mom

Now through Mother's Day, pottsmerc.com is hosting this special page where you, our viewers, can post your sweet memories of your mom. You can even add photos! Just send them to fausteileen0.mothersday@blogger.com. If you don't see your image or comments posted, then send them to efaust@pottsmerc.com and we'll be sure to get them up for you.
Don't forget Mom this May.