Mother's Day brings many memories of joy, celebration

Sunday was Mother's Day — my second without the constant concern of a mother. She died over a year ago, but Mother's Day still brings cause for great joy and celebration of her life, as is the case with untold millions of other children.

It was once a custom in the South for children to wear a rose on Mother's Day. A red rose was worn honoring a living mother and a white one in memory of a mother who had "passed on." I always wore a red rose with pride and felt sympathy for those whose moms were no longer with them. It was a touching tradition, and I'm sorry that it is no longer generally observed.

"The hand that rocks the cradle" is appropriately honored once a year in special recognition of what they have meant to us. I'm glad to say that mine certainly influenced me. Her life offered much to celebrate. Yes, indeed, Mother's Day brings a flood of memories — some of which I have shared with you before.

My mother was a child bride in a time when marriage at 17 years of age was not unusual — at least in the South. I came along a year later and she matured rapidly to provide a solid home for my father, my sister and me.

She was a beautiful woman both inside and out. I really believe she would have been a beauty queen in another world, but, instead, she remained forever my dad's "Queen." He loved her dearly, and it always showed.

My mother remained to the end an extremely generous person, sometimes to a fault. In her later years, my sister and I had to watch her or she would give more than she had. She was always active in the Baptist Church and it bothered her in her final years that she was no longer able to give significant gifts to her church from her meager funds.

When I was growing up, we spent many Saturdays in our automobile transporting "help" to needy families as the Great Depression-ravaged American society.

We lived near an orphanage, and I can remember my mother's compassion for those motherless children. Many summer weekends and around holidays found three or four of these orphans invited into our home for a few days.

After World War II, our church sponsored a group of refugees from the war-torn country of Latvia. My mother "adopted" several families and cleared our home of every stick of furniture, appliances, bedding and clothing that our family could possibly survive without.

During World War II, Mother opened our home to servicemen who were in town for the weekend. On Saturday nights, we would go down to the USO and pick up a half-dozen young warriors to enjoy a couple of home-cooked meals and to spend the night in a real bed. We slept in two old double beds in the attic so these war-weary young men could take over our family's bedrooms.

Mother was a feminist in her own manner. She worked outside the home: first, as a librarian for the medical library in our city, next as an assistant in a doctor's office and finally as a longtime member of the staff at a regional medical center. She always maintained that women were equal to men and deserved the opportunity to prove it. She often did!

As my sister stated, "She was indeed a feminist, but her feminism never resulted in the burning of any underwear." Nor did it interfere with her duties as a mom and wife. In order for my sister and me to go to kindergarten in a day when it was not a free public institution, she would arise in the morning, cook the day's meals, drive a car pool of other youngsters to preschool, go to work, pick us all up and take us home on her lunch hour, pick up the baby sitter and go back downtown to work until dark. All of this just to get reduced tuition for my sister and me.

Mother believed in lifelong learning. She was an intellectual but without much formal education. I remember her going to bed almost every night with a volume of the encyclopedia or other book in hand. A weekly trip to the public library for each of us to bring home a stack of books was as certain as attendance in Sunday school. She loved to travel, but my Dad would not fly, so after we kids were grown, she went to Europe and other places on numerous occasions alone.

During her final time on this Earth, I was able to spend many of those days with her. Her mind could no longer comprehend my presence, but I discovered another means of communication. I started to sing old hymns to her.

Almost every day, I would sing, and I'm not noted for my singing voice. Her spirits would rise — we were communicating. A broad smile would creep across her face during the first notes of "Lily of the Valley," and broke even wider as we segued into other hymns from her childhood. Her hand, held closely in mine, grasped tighter each time I came to one of her favorites.

I can never fully appreciate the profound effects that my mom had on my life, but I know enough to realize that she was the foundation of my existence in more ways than one. And, I know another thing for certain:

When the heavenly hosts break out into song with "When the Roll is Called up Yonder," Mom is there and joins right in!

John Brock is a retired professor, newspaper publisher and film producer who lives in Georgetown County. He can be reached by mail at this newspaper or via e-mail at brock@johnbrock.com.