Cathy (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} huntersglenn) wrote,@ 2005-03-23 17:59:00 |
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My Mother
A long entry, and angsty, so it's behind the cut:
My mom and I were talking the other day about memories, and she stated that she had no happy memories from her childhood. After talking a bit more, with me reminding her of stories that she's told me over the years, she did backtrack a bit, realizing that she did have some happy memories. The problem is that she has no happy memories of her parents.
My mother is the second oldest of ten children. She was a preemie, and when she was born she was what they referred to then as a "blue baby", meaning that her lips were blue and her skin had a bluish tint to it because she wasn't getting enough oxygen. As a preemie, her lungs were a bit too small. Her father held her in his arms and walked and rocked with her all day and night, keeping her little body moving constantly to force air into her lungs. Obviously, this man had love for his little baby girl or else he wouldn't have bothered with her, he would have let someone else take on the task of keeping her alive.
Contrast that to the fact that the only physical touches that my mother remembers from her father were those from him hitting her. She had his blows, and his harsh words, never a word of love. It wasn't until the year before he died (which was 1980) that he ever mentioned loving her. That was also when he told my grandmother that he loved her, and they were wed back in 1910. A Hell of a long time to wait to hear words of love.
When my grandparents were married, they ended up moving in with my grandfather's parents. He was the baby of the family (youngest of 10 children), and I guess it was left to him to take care of his parents as they aged. From what I've heard from family members, both of his parents were hard people. Frances, my great-grandmother, had a child out of wedlock before she met my grandfather (various stories abound about that child and how he came about – the truth died when the parents died, I suppose). Caleb, my great-grandfather, hated the child and threatened to kill him. Frances finally sent her son to live with one of her brothers, and eventually, the boy ended up living with his father, although he would come to visit Frances. Caleb apparently was capable of flying into fits of rage, and during one such fit he grabbed Frances by her hair, dragged her out of the house and threw her to the ground so that her head was on the chopping block. He had an axe raised, ready to sever her head when others grabbed him, stopping him.
So this is the environment that my grandfather grew up in. No words of love, just rage and hatred. My mom remembers that as a child, whenever she and her siblings were acting up, Frances would hound my grandmother into punishing the kids (the punishment had to satisfy Frances, not my grandmother). If she didn't, then the first thing my grandfather heard when he came in the door was what the children had done and how my grandmother had let them get away with it. Punishment came soon after that, and came hard.
Alethia, my grandmother, came from a loving environment, although her mother was no shrinking violet. Sally was 14 when she got married, her husband Laban was 27, and a widower who had lost his wife and children years earlier. Laban would jokingly tell the story of how one day early in their marriage, he went to her while she was cooking, to tell her how to do something. Sally twirled around, hit him upside the hand with the skillet and told him to never again tell her how to cook, which he never did. My mom remembers that whenever they went to visit that set of grandparents, there were always hugs and cookies or other goodies for them. Alethia went from a world of warmth and love to one of hardness, and she faded from it.
When my mother was almost 18, she and my grandfather were outside. I don't know the details of what set him off, but he grabbed a branch from a tree and hit her with it. The skin of her arm was lightly shredded, and she vowed right then that he'd never hit her again, or her younger siblings. When it came time to go to school the next day, she refused to wear long sleeves to cover the cuts. When she turned 18, she left home, going to stay with some people in a nearby town before continuing on to the "big city." My grandfather wanted the sheriff to bring her back, which the sheriff refused to do since she was 18 and of legal age. The sheriff wanted to arrest him for what he'd done to mom and the other kids, but mom asked him not to. She was afraid that if her father went to jail, then her mother and the rest of the kids would suffer.
The rest of the kids were still hit by him, but never as badly as they had been prior to that incident, so Mom did get her wish that her leaving would help to make things better for them. So, she came up here, met my dad, and they were married within 4 months time. She told him three rules for their marriage – 1) if he ever wanted another woman more than he wanted her, then he should tell her and she'd let him go. 2) if he ever hit one of her children, she'd leave him. 3) if he ever hit her, she'd leave him. Those rules were never broken during their marriage, although I can't say that they had a totally happy marriage. There were rough spots, things that were tough to get past, but they endured until the day Daddy died, and that counts for something.
My memories of my grandparents are of totally different people. Yes, Grandma was quiet and reserved, but mostly when Granddaddy was around. Away from him, she was full of laughter and love. And Granddaddy was full of love. There was always a lap to sit on, a hug to be had, candy to be given. Looking back now, I wonder just how my Mom felt to see her parents, her father in particular, giving so much love and affection to the grandchildren when he'd never been able to show the same things to his own children (with one exception, which I think is the root of the friction between my mother and one of her sisters). To grow up aching to be held, aching to be hugged and to hear the words "I love you" and to never get them until you're middle-aged, while watching your children and your nieces and nephews getting all of that has to be painful, even when you're in your 70s and should be old enough to be "past that". Old hurts never really die, they just linger in your soul. Old aches also linger – the look in my mother's eyes when she talks about her parents, her father especially, equals the look that's in her eyes when she talks about my brother, who died back in 1967. Two hurts and aches that will only go away the moment she takes her last breath.
A long entry, and angsty, so it's behind the cut:
My mom and I were talking the other day about memories, and she stated that she had no happy memories from her childhood. After talking a bit more, with me reminding her of stories that she's told me over the years, she did backtrack a bit, realizing that she did have some happy memories. The problem is that she has no happy memories of her parents.
My mother is the second oldest of ten children. She was a preemie, and when she was born she was what they referred to then as a "blue baby", meaning that her lips were blue and her skin had a bluish tint to it because she wasn't getting enough oxygen. As a preemie, her lungs were a bit too small. Her father held her in his arms and walked and rocked with her all day and night, keeping her little body moving constantly to force air into her lungs. Obviously, this man had love for his little baby girl or else he wouldn't have bothered with her, he would have let someone else take on the task of keeping her alive.
Contrast that to the fact that the only physical touches that my mother remembers from her father were those from him hitting her. She had his blows, and his harsh words, never a word of love. It wasn't until the year before he died (which was 1980) that he ever mentioned loving her. That was also when he told my grandmother that he loved her, and they were wed back in 1910. A Hell of a long time to wait to hear words of love.
When my grandparents were married, they ended up moving in with my grandfather's parents. He was the baby of the family (youngest of 10 children), and I guess it was left to him to take care of his parents as they aged. From what I've heard from family members, both of his parents were hard people. Frances, my great-grandmother, had a child out of wedlock before she met my grandfather (various stories abound about that child and how he came about – the truth died when the parents died, I suppose). Caleb, my great-grandfather, hated the child and threatened to kill him. Frances finally sent her son to live with one of her brothers, and eventually, the boy ended up living with his father, although he would come to visit Frances. Caleb apparently was capable of flying into fits of rage, and during one such fit he grabbed Frances by her hair, dragged her out of the house and threw her to the ground so that her head was on the chopping block. He had an axe raised, ready to sever her head when others grabbed him, stopping him.
So this is the environment that my grandfather grew up in. No words of love, just rage and hatred. My mom remembers that as a child, whenever she and her siblings were acting up, Frances would hound my grandmother into punishing the kids (the punishment had to satisfy Frances, not my grandmother). If she didn't, then the first thing my grandfather heard when he came in the door was what the children had done and how my grandmother had let them get away with it. Punishment came soon after that, and came hard.
Alethia, my grandmother, came from a loving environment, although her mother was no shrinking violet. Sally was 14 when she got married, her husband Laban was 27, and a widower who had lost his wife and children years earlier. Laban would jokingly tell the story of how one day early in their marriage, he went to her while she was cooking, to tell her how to do something. Sally twirled around, hit him upside the hand with the skillet and told him to never again tell her how to cook, which he never did. My mom remembers that whenever they went to visit that set of grandparents, there were always hugs and cookies or other goodies for them. Alethia went from a world of warmth and love to one of hardness, and she faded from it.
When my mother was almost 18, she and my grandfather were outside. I don't know the details of what set him off, but he grabbed a branch from a tree and hit her with it. The skin of her arm was lightly shredded, and she vowed right then that he'd never hit her again, or her younger siblings. When it came time to go to school the next day, she refused to wear long sleeves to cover the cuts. When she turned 18, she left home, going to stay with some people in a nearby town before continuing on to the "big city." My grandfather wanted the sheriff to bring her back, which the sheriff refused to do since she was 18 and of legal age. The sheriff wanted to arrest him for what he'd done to mom and the other kids, but mom asked him not to. She was afraid that if her father went to jail, then her mother and the rest of the kids would suffer.
The rest of the kids were still hit by him, but never as badly as they had been prior to that incident, so Mom did get her wish that her leaving would help to make things better for them. So, she came up here, met my dad, and they were married within 4 months time. She told him three rules for their marriage – 1) if he ever wanted another woman more than he wanted her, then he should tell her and she'd let him go. 2) if he ever hit one of her children, she'd leave him. 3) if he ever hit her, she'd leave him. Those rules were never broken during their marriage, although I can't say that they had a totally happy marriage. There were rough spots, things that were tough to get past, but they endured until the day Daddy died, and that counts for something.
My memories of my grandparents are of totally different people. Yes, Grandma was quiet and reserved, but mostly when Granddaddy was around. Away from him, she was full of laughter and love. And Granddaddy was full of love. There was always a lap to sit on, a hug to be had, candy to be given. Looking back now, I wonder just how my Mom felt to see her parents, her father in particular, giving so much love and affection to the grandchildren when he'd never been able to show the same things to his own children (with one exception, which I think is the root of the friction between my mother and one of her sisters). To grow up aching to be held, aching to be hugged and to hear the words "I love you" and to never get them until you're middle-aged, while watching your children and your nieces and nephews getting all of that has to be painful, even when you're in your 70s and should be old enough to be "past that". Old hurts never really die, they just linger in your soul. Old aches also linger – the look in my mother's eyes when she talks about her parents, her father especially, equals the look that's in her eyes when she talks about my brother, who died back in 1967. Two hurts and aches that will only go away the moment she takes her last breath.
