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My Heroes have always been Mothers

May 14, 2017

I don't enjoy writing every story that I write.  Some of the story lines are quite painful.  I try to keep the stories as truthful as can be.  Oh, I might on occasion, downplay my involvement in a story just to let someone else be the hero every once in a while.

 

This Sunday is Mother's Day and that is always a painful day for me.  My Mom passed  thirty years ago this June.  I can't say passed away because she is not away.  She spends everyday in my heart watching every step I take in this "crazy life".  (She's watching the rest of the family also, but I'm not letting anyone else be the hero in this story.)

 

I'm not sure my Mom would fit in today's world.  I can't  see Mom texting while driving her Buick to get her hair done.  I mention the Buick because Mom would be not be driving a small SUV like the Moms of today.  I can picture Mom commenting on someone texting while they are driving their SUV.  Mom didn't know any construction language.  Well, she knew some but, she didn't use it.  Well, that's not right either.  She used German construction language, but it was wasted on us kids.  We didn't understand any of it.

 

I am the middle child of five boys.  My mom did not learn to drive a car until I was a toddler.  Just getting to the grocery store was an ordeal for Mom.  She would need to call her younger brother to pick her up, throw three, stair step aged kids in the back of her brother's car and go to town.

 

My mom worked in the house.  She raised five boys and never had a "paying" job outside the home.  But man, did she work.  Some of my first memories are of my mother and grandmother, butchering chickens in my grandparent's yard.  (Yes, I mean killing the chickens and pulling out the  feathers.) I can't be sure, but I think she might have preferred clerking at the local grocery store.

 

Mom was a tough disciplinarian.  When Mom asked me to do something as a child, I did it.  I would always remember her with those chickens.  I didn't want to be headless and naked.  (OK, I'm kidding, you guys need to calm down.  I don't think she would have ever pulled my clothes off.)

 

There is a reason for me choosing to tell this story.  I'm not sure I told her how much I appreciated her.  This is the woman that walked in the snow delivering newspapers on one side of the street while I was delivering on the other side.  She was the woman that bought special birthday cakes because she though were prettier than the ones she could make herself.  "Hey Mom, I just wanted to eat the cake, not look at it!"

 

Not every decision Mom made was sound.  My mom patched holes in mine and my brothers blue jeans because she was embarrassed to see her kids in torn jeans.  "Mom, those ripped jeans are worth a fortune now.  People pay for torn jeans.  Five kids and all those jeans, we could have been rich."

 

"Mom, I think about you with every decision I make.  I hope I've made you proud."

 

I won't make the same mistake and not tell the other mother in my life how much I appreciate her.  That mother is Elaine.  The mother of not one, but two batches of my kids.  (OK, one batch are really our grandkids, but the (construction language) kids live with us.)  (Calm down, we love them like they are our own, only younger.)

 

Just like my own mother, Elaine has walked in the snow with me, patched my pants, (She used iron-on tape) bought cakes and helped me make life's tough decisions.  I don't recall Elaine doing the killing chicken thing, (She doesn't even own a hatchet.) but that isn't a requirement of being a great Mom by today's standards.

 

"Elaine, we've been on the highest mountains and in the deepest valleys together.  Its been fantastic!  You are a terrific mother. (again)"

 

**********

The above story has nothing to do with yarn, Your Daily Fiber and the fiber arts.  It was about my heroes.  If you want to be a hero, buy your mother some Dyed by Darrell yarn from Your Daily Fiber.  Ivy made me write this part.  Just another example of why these stories can be painful for me.

 

Our crazy lives!

 

Monner

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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