A Talk With Mom


On my most recent trip home I brought my mother a book of Mexican-American folklore to see. She loved it. Mom has had an interest in this subject since her childhood in the southwest. She was especially delighted with a children’s rhyme she had learned as a girl. Mom had never before seen it in print. She had wondered sometimes over the years whether she had remembered it correctly. It turned out that she had. The evening I brought the book she spent hours looking through it and reading out to me interesting tidbits, most of them having to do with particular sayings and figures of speech.

Language is one of Mom’s great loves. She has spent most of her career teaching Spanish language and Spanish and Hispanic culture and literature. Her studies have taken her to Mexico, Costa Rica, and Spain itself. Closer to home she has often worked with representatives of the local Hispanic community. She speaks Spanish to me now and then as well. While I can usually understand what she says, I have not kept it up well enough to reply very well in kind. Now and then when we are together at a restaurant we will discuss nearby diners in Spanish.

In addition to being comfortably bilingual, Mom remembers a surprising amount of her schoolgirl French. From what I have seen, she could probably get by in Italian if she really had to. She loves to work crossword puzzles and play Scrabble. And she is always interested in any little fact someone has for her about the origins of words and names.

In addition to her gifts as a linguist, Mom is an accomplished musician. She has always been one of the best piano players in town. Growing up I seldom heard her sing in church—she was usually playing the piano instead. She had become her church’s pianist by age thirteen. She had to play for her own baptismal service. Now and then when she recalls that she comments that she will probably end up having to play for her own funeral. In the meantime she has played for a lot of other people’s funerals, and lots of weddings as well.

Mom is one of the most gentle and caring people that anyone will ever meet. She hates to see any creature suffer. Since learning some time back that their dog has developed arthritis, Mom has dutifully put medicine into milk for him each day, warmed it in the microwave, and given it to him as a treat.

She took similar care over her children’s snacks when we were growing up. No matter how busy she might have been, when we needed a snack she did not just pop open a single-serving pack or throw a bag of junk at us. She took time from her paper grading or household chores and prepared us something. I remember best when she would peel, core, and quarter an apple for a healthy and tasty snack. It took some care to do that. That care is likely one reason why my brother and I enjoy such good health to this day.

When Mom and I have a chance to talk, she usually has a lot to say about her work. Her desire to be helpful and conscientious means that she tends to stay over-committed a lot, always grading, preparing lessons, testing, helping to administer her department, or preparing some kind of special attention for students who need it. She talks a lot about her students and her fellow teachers, not just about their work but also how their lives are going. She asks about my staff and my work as well. It’s only natural that she would take an interest, I guess; in my work I deal with words a lot as well.

Mom talks about family a lot, of course—about what she and Dad are doing, about her latest visit with my brother’s family, or her latest e-mail from him on his current overseas deployment, or anything she has learned about other relatives. Then there is the church family, in particular some mutual friends that we have known for many years now. She goes on spring and fall flower-hunting expeditions with them. On her most recent one just last week they journeyed deep into the Ouachita Mountains and had a nice chat with a park ranger on the banks of the Cossatot River.

Perhaps the thing I most like to hear Mom talk about is her own youth. Mom speaks much less about her childhood than Dad. She does not have the same knack for storytelling that he possesses. I still love her stories when she tells them. In particular she likes to reminisce about those early summers, when no matter what the state of the family finances her father would always see to it that she and her mother got to spend part of the summer visiting family in Arkansas.

On the latest visit home I heard about how she had spent much of her days climbing trees. She would sit in the tree and read from Heidi or Five Little Peppers and How They Grew. Sometimes she tried to swing on vines like Tarzan. It’s very hard to imagine someone as ladylike as Mom ever having been a tomboy. But she was, and she probably did some things I would not have had the courage to do at the same age.

People usually tell me that I take after Dad. That’s true enough, yet I’m clearly my mother’s child as well. Physically I’ve inherited a slim build and deep blue eyes. Mentally I’ve acquired something of her knack for vocabulary, even if I haven’t made nearly as much of it as she has. And I’ve inherited a helpful disposition. Librarians and teachers really aren’t that different in that respect.

Mom has given me a great deal besides that inheritance. She gave me plenty of love and care growing up. She still does, when she gets the chance. I’ve learned to be very thankful for everything she has given. Giving is the one thing that Mom has always done the best.