Mothers for sainthood
My Mom was born a
southern girl who was wooed by a farmer from the frozen reaches of the Midwest.
I never realized her journey was an extraordinary story because she was just my
mom. I remember when she would put me and my brother in our bed for a nap, I
thought she sat outside the bedroom door and just waited for me to beckon her
to my side.
So in the early sixties
my Dad stayed to tend the farm and Mom booked a train to Los Angles to visit
her parents and she took the two young colts with her. I was four and my
brother five. We were 13 months apart and fought for dominance at all angles
and opportunities. Especially when out of sight of my domineering father. In
order to keep us safe and corralled mom had two harnesses with leashes
attached. More than once we found ourselves attached to a clothesline pole so
we were still alive when the chores were done.
Walking through the
train station full of new experiences and huge looming machines and travelers, we
were ready for adventure. My mom, all of 90 lbs. in her heels, dress and fashionable
hat was being hauled like a teamster. Every train whistle and every bell set us
off pulling like draft horses on our harnesses.
We would whinny and
snort and put every ounce to the work. Our handler would yell out, “Rick,
Spike, stop it!” We heard, ‘Yaw, get along there, pull you doggies!’ I remember
her heels skidding on the concrete. Then we would switch and pull in opposite
directions stretching her out like Christ on the cross. I do remember his name
being used.
Everyone would complement
her on how much spirit we had and what a hand full she had with her wonderful
little boys. Once on the train, we threw food at each other over the white
linin dining table and tore down the halls whenever we got off the leash. At
every stop, Mom would have to recruit some stranger to carry the luggage while
we bucked and kicked them in the shins with our hooves.
I don’t remember, but I
bet she stayed in bed for two days when she handed us off to my Grandparents
who spoiled us rotten. After two weeks of that we got another crack at train
robbin’ and ropin’ on the return trip with our new cap guns.
And still she loved us and adored us and didn’t
leave us under a bridge with a day’s ration of peanut butter and jelly. She,
like all moms, was the best thing in the world.
Love this glimpse of the past...two wild little boys and one brave mom. :-)
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