Sora's Quest
13 years ago
Showing posts with label mothers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mothers. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
GREAT JOY WILL COME IN THE MORNING
GREAT JOY WILL COME IN THE MORNING
Great joy will come in the morning when we see His shining face.
Great joy will come in the morning when we reach that promised place.
No tears will there be dwelling, no more sadness, no heartbreak.
Great joy will come in the morning when our place by Him we take.
I was thinking of my mother, of her kisses, her soft face.
Great joy will come in the morning when we see His shining face.
I was thinking of my daddy and those hugs that made me shake.
Of the love and laws they taught me so one day I’d walk with God.
To wake up in His Heaven with my name there in His logs.
My mother had no concept of her beauty and her grace.
She didn’t know the light shown down from Heaven on her face.
She thought herself unworthy to meet God on Heaven’s shore.
I knew God dwelt within her and she was His forever more
My daddy was a man of God and always did his best.
He worked so hard to care for us and stand up to the test.
He sang us songs and taught us how to work and make our way.
I know he’s there in Heaven singing praises to this day.
Great joy will come in the morning when we see His shining face.
Great joy will come in the morning when we reach that promised place.
No tears will there be dwelling, no more sadness, no heartbreak.
Great joy will come in the morning when our place by Him we take.
http://momswhoblog.blogspot.com/2007/05/how-to-add-signature-to-your-posts-for.html
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
I REMEMBER
One of my earliest memories is peeling apples in my grandmother’s kitchen. This is also one of my happiest and warmest memories! No room in the house was short on love, but this was where she spent most of her time. She had some wonderful recipes, but nothing will ever taste as good as when she cooked it. Her whole house was spun with magic. I can remember every aspect of it with great clarity even though it’s been gone since around Thanksgiving of 1967. We lived on 82nd Street and Division Avenue in East Lake until the “Great Freeway” moved us out and tore everything down. It lives on in my memory and in the memories of all who loved it. My dreams transport me there regularly.
My mother and daddy, two brothers and I lived next door to my grandparents and Mother’s three sisters. All of us, along with some of the neighbors, moved between our houses like one big family. In the summer, we spent evenings under the big oak tree. We barbequed and made ice cream talking into the night when it would be a little cooler in the house. Two of my aunts married when I was young and moved to Georgia, but came back often. We had huge Christmas celebrations together and never seemed to get tired of each other. At least the children didn’t! My Aunt Lora didn’t marry until I was almost out of high school. She had an extra long time to spoil us!
We didn’t sit around the television except in the coldest part of the winter. We played games outside until they made us come in. It was such a simple, special time when parents didn’t have to worry about children being outside alone and the children never even thought of being scared. No computer games, remote controlled cars or dolls that talked, just a lot of imagination and energy. It is amazing that we had so much fun at so little expense.
I remember when I had my first pizza at the age of ten. It was from Carnaggio’s on 77th Street and 1st Avenue, North and it was wonderful. My baby brother’s face would be covered in pizza sauce. Our first fast food hamburgers came from McDonald’s in Roebuck. We couldn’t afford them very often and could choose between two hamburgers or one and an order of fries. My grandmother kept little bottles of Coca Cola for when her stomach was upset and would let us have one occasionally. My daughters look at me in wonder when I tell them these things. Could there be such a thing as a day without sodas and fast food?
Yes, the good times really were when we had less and did more. We were a close family and close neighborhood and I miss it, but I’ll always REMEMBER!
Laura Blanton
Copyright 1995
Thursday, September 10, 2009
MOTHER’S COOKING
This is a picture of my mother, (on the left), her three sisters and my grandparents. The picture was taken sometime in the mid 60's at my aunt's house where she was hosting a family reunion/Christmas party. We were dressed up and everything! Of course, since I wrote this everyone is gone except two of my aunts. Memories as so precious.
My mother was the most wonderful cook. Not the gourmet type like my brother - the Southern type. She always made things so special, most of the time working with very little. I can remember racing through my first helping of my favorite food in order to beat my brother to the one remaining helping. We all had our favorites and she did her best to see that we got them as often as possible. Some nights it was cornbread and milk. We thought this a special treat, but really it was all she had. That’s how she worked her magic. She made us think we were eating like royalty. She always had supper ready when Daddy got home from work and the five of us sat down to the table and ate together. I know that sounds like a foreign concept, but we didn’t even think about sitting in front of the television. We talked about our days, our hopes and dreams and our problems. My brother told funny stories and made us laugh until we cried. They started out being real stories and escalated according to our response. If we thought it was funny, it got funnier. Mother encouraged this, even though Daddy thought we should be quiet and mannerly at the table. She knew these special times wouldn’t last and wanted to make the most of them. That’s my theory anyway.
She cooked a variety of meals through the week, and then on Friday we always came home to vegetable soup. It was very good, but came at a high price. She would clean out the refrigerator of the week’s leftovers. Food wasn’t the only thing left over – the sink would be running over with bowls and storage containers. I had to wash the dishes and my brother had to dry them. We alternated washing and drying a week at a time. We couldn’t be in the kitchen together because we fought like cats and dogs. The one washing would fill up the drainer with dishes and leave the kitchen so the other one could dry them. Mother tried to get Daddy to let her do them herself so she wouldn’t have to listen to the arguing, but he insisted we had to learn. I know he was right, but she wanted everything to be happy and quiet. Not necessarily in that order. On Sunday morning, we woke up to the smell of coffee, bacon, eggs, grits and homemade biscuits. She had a round, wooden bread bowl especially for making biscuits. She poured in flour, salt and baking powder and then made a hole in the center for the shortening and buttermilk. She stood there working the shortening and buttermilk together with one hand and then started to pull in the flour a little bit at a time, turning the bowl as she went. She never measured anything – she just “knew” when it was right. It amazes me to this day. She taught me how to do it and I can make pretty good biscuits. They will, however, never measure up to the ones she made. Lest I ever forget this, all I have to do is serve one to my dad and he will set me straight. “These are all right, but not like your mother’s.”
Holiday meals were spectacular. By the time she teamed up with my grandmother, who lived next door to us, there was a wondrous variety of delicious dishes. Meats, vegetables, casseroles, breads, and desserts of every variety were there to tempt us. It was impossible to sample everything, especially at Christmas. They would work for days baking cakes and pies and making several different candies. We ate until we could eat no more then put the cold dishes in the refrigerator and covered the rest with a clean table cloth so we could help ourselves when it was time for the next meal. Imagine, food left out from lunch to supper time and not one of us got food poisoning.
Mother’s cakes were always highly sought after – at home, school and church. There would always be coconut, chocolate, lemon cheese, fruit cake and spice cake with maple frosting and pecans all over the top and sides. This spice cake was probably the most popular at our bake sales at school. Everyone would be waiting for Mother to walk in the door to see what she had made. Sometimes they would set a price on the cake and it was always the first to go. Other times, they used it for a prize in the cake walk. That was probably the most profitable cake walk in history.
Around 25 years ago, Daddy had two mild heart attacks. Then along came diabetes for both of them. Daddy says they ruined a good cook. It is hard to change a life time of habits and recipes. She tried, but it just wasn’t the same. No salt, no fat, no anything that tasted good. We still had special holiday meals and just tried to be more sensible. Then we paid for it when we failed. Don’t let them fool you. It’s not just the turkey that makes you sleepy, it’s the volume of food consumed.
Mother has been unable to cook for a number of years now. Even from her wheelchair, she would pull up to the sink and make fig preserves, which none of us needed but could not refuse. She cooked like this as long as she could. It was probably the hardest thing she had to give up. The last thing she made in this kitchen was pear honey. I’m hording it and the last fig preserves for as long as they will last without going bad. I just can’t stand the thought of being without Mother’s cooking in my pantry. They have cooking classes at the nursing home periodically. At first, Mother refused to attend. With a lot of coaxing they have got her going occasionally, when Daddy is at dialysis. This, and other activities, is so important to the residents. Most of them, like Mother, have spent their lives caring for husbands and families. Even if the cooking consists of something very simple like assembling tacos after the meat has been cooked and the vegetables cut up, it is a vital activity that allows them a sense of accomplishment. Whether or not they manage to actually contribute to the cooking isn’t the most important thing. Each person reacts in their own way - they take what they need in their hearts and minds. It might be just a taco to eat, exercise for their crippled hands, social interaction, mental stimulation or the remembering of a sweeter time when they could provide for their loved ones and know the joy of making the best cakes in the county.
I love to cook and think my mother and grandmother taught me well. At the same time, I have no delusions that I’m as good as Mother was and would still be if her body hadn’t betrayed her. I am so thankful that I still have her to advise me. I remember for months after my grandmother died in 1976, Mother would start to call her to ask how to do something. She would sometimes get as far as dialing the number before she realized those days were gone. We would both have a good cry and then do the best we could to prepare the dish. Somehow, nothing ever tastes as good as your own mother’s cooking.
Laura Blanton
Copyright November 14, 2003
My mother was the most wonderful cook. Not the gourmet type like my brother - the Southern type. She always made things so special, most of the time working with very little. I can remember racing through my first helping of my favorite food in order to beat my brother to the one remaining helping. We all had our favorites and she did her best to see that we got them as often as possible. Some nights it was cornbread and milk. We thought this a special treat, but really it was all she had. That’s how she worked her magic. She made us think we were eating like royalty. She always had supper ready when Daddy got home from work and the five of us sat down to the table and ate together. I know that sounds like a foreign concept, but we didn’t even think about sitting in front of the television. We talked about our days, our hopes and dreams and our problems. My brother told funny stories and made us laugh until we cried. They started out being real stories and escalated according to our response. If we thought it was funny, it got funnier. Mother encouraged this, even though Daddy thought we should be quiet and mannerly at the table. She knew these special times wouldn’t last and wanted to make the most of them. That’s my theory anyway.
She cooked a variety of meals through the week, and then on Friday we always came home to vegetable soup. It was very good, but came at a high price. She would clean out the refrigerator of the week’s leftovers. Food wasn’t the only thing left over – the sink would be running over with bowls and storage containers. I had to wash the dishes and my brother had to dry them. We alternated washing and drying a week at a time. We couldn’t be in the kitchen together because we fought like cats and dogs. The one washing would fill up the drainer with dishes and leave the kitchen so the other one could dry them. Mother tried to get Daddy to let her do them herself so she wouldn’t have to listen to the arguing, but he insisted we had to learn. I know he was right, but she wanted everything to be happy and quiet. Not necessarily in that order. On Sunday morning, we woke up to the smell of coffee, bacon, eggs, grits and homemade biscuits. She had a round, wooden bread bowl especially for making biscuits. She poured in flour, salt and baking powder and then made a hole in the center for the shortening and buttermilk. She stood there working the shortening and buttermilk together with one hand and then started to pull in the flour a little bit at a time, turning the bowl as she went. She never measured anything – she just “knew” when it was right. It amazes me to this day. She taught me how to do it and I can make pretty good biscuits. They will, however, never measure up to the ones she made. Lest I ever forget this, all I have to do is serve one to my dad and he will set me straight. “These are all right, but not like your mother’s.”
Holiday meals were spectacular. By the time she teamed up with my grandmother, who lived next door to us, there was a wondrous variety of delicious dishes. Meats, vegetables, casseroles, breads, and desserts of every variety were there to tempt us. It was impossible to sample everything, especially at Christmas. They would work for days baking cakes and pies and making several different candies. We ate until we could eat no more then put the cold dishes in the refrigerator and covered the rest with a clean table cloth so we could help ourselves when it was time for the next meal. Imagine, food left out from lunch to supper time and not one of us got food poisoning.
Mother’s cakes were always highly sought after – at home, school and church. There would always be coconut, chocolate, lemon cheese, fruit cake and spice cake with maple frosting and pecans all over the top and sides. This spice cake was probably the most popular at our bake sales at school. Everyone would be waiting for Mother to walk in the door to see what she had made. Sometimes they would set a price on the cake and it was always the first to go. Other times, they used it for a prize in the cake walk. That was probably the most profitable cake walk in history.
Around 25 years ago, Daddy had two mild heart attacks. Then along came diabetes for both of them. Daddy says they ruined a good cook. It is hard to change a life time of habits and recipes. She tried, but it just wasn’t the same. No salt, no fat, no anything that tasted good. We still had special holiday meals and just tried to be more sensible. Then we paid for it when we failed. Don’t let them fool you. It’s not just the turkey that makes you sleepy, it’s the volume of food consumed.
Mother has been unable to cook for a number of years now. Even from her wheelchair, she would pull up to the sink and make fig preserves, which none of us needed but could not refuse. She cooked like this as long as she could. It was probably the hardest thing she had to give up. The last thing she made in this kitchen was pear honey. I’m hording it and the last fig preserves for as long as they will last without going bad. I just can’t stand the thought of being without Mother’s cooking in my pantry. They have cooking classes at the nursing home periodically. At first, Mother refused to attend. With a lot of coaxing they have got her going occasionally, when Daddy is at dialysis. This, and other activities, is so important to the residents. Most of them, like Mother, have spent their lives caring for husbands and families. Even if the cooking consists of something very simple like assembling tacos after the meat has been cooked and the vegetables cut up, it is a vital activity that allows them a sense of accomplishment. Whether or not they manage to actually contribute to the cooking isn’t the most important thing. Each person reacts in their own way - they take what they need in their hearts and minds. It might be just a taco to eat, exercise for their crippled hands, social interaction, mental stimulation or the remembering of a sweeter time when they could provide for their loved ones and know the joy of making the best cakes in the county.
I love to cook and think my mother and grandmother taught me well. At the same time, I have no delusions that I’m as good as Mother was and would still be if her body hadn’t betrayed her. I am so thankful that I still have her to advise me. I remember for months after my grandmother died in 1976, Mother would start to call her to ask how to do something. She would sometimes get as far as dialing the number before she realized those days were gone. We would both have a good cry and then do the best we could to prepare the dish. Somehow, nothing ever tastes as good as your own mother’s cooking.
Laura Blanton
Copyright November 14, 2003
Sunday, August 23, 2009
WITH THREE MOTHERS I WAS BLESSED
Here is the first story I will share with you. This was written just after my mother passed away, but less than a year before my dad passed. There are many earlier stories, but I will have to scan them into the computer before I can post them. I hope you enjoy this.
As a child, I knew nothing of divorce or “blended” families. Moms and Dads stayed married and collectively cared for their children, often with the help of grandparents, aunts, and uncles. This blissful ignorance probably caused me to take many things for granted. I’d always had it good, but didn’t realize just how good.
Until 1976 when my grandmother died, I always considered myself as having three mothers. That’s three and without the benefit of stepparents. This in no way takes away from the wonderful woman my mother was or the terrific job she did as a mother. She didn’t need help mothering us; we were just blessed to have my grandmother and my mother’s oldest sister to share in our lives. My Aunt Lora didn’t marry until she was in her 40’s and was always there for my brothers and me. She lived next door to us with my grandparents. It was such a perfect world – one that I wish everyone could have experienced. We moved freely between houses and knew we were always welcome and would be treated the same way in both places. None of this mushy, grandparent spoiling for my mother's children – we knew to behave no matter where we were.
I remember a friend walking home with me from school one day. My grandparent’s house was on the corner before my house. We stopped there first. We walked up on the front porch and I opened the door for us to go in. She couldn’t believe I would be bold enough to open the door without knocking. With disbelief and shock written all over her face, she stood there as I explained that it was my home too. Why shouldn’t I open the door and go in? Why would Mama and Granddaddy not want me to come in where I belonged? Of course, at that time I thought they were old and I was very innocent as to the ways of married people. I now know that they were younger then than I am now and I certainly don’t want to be considered old.
I used to dream of gathering all the people I loved the most into the same house and keeping them there with me forever. At that time my daddy was a strict disciplinarian with high standards. This didn’t put him too high on the list of permanent residents in my dream world. For many years he was completely off the list. I only allowed my mother, grandparents, youngest brother Kevin, and my aunts into this fantasy. Of course, my dogs and cats were there. What would a world be without dogs and cats? My brother Steve wasn’t allowed. He had the most annoying habit – he loved to drive me crazy. The madder I got, the more he laughed. He would tell me “You are so cute when you are mad – your nose wiggles.”
Mother, my grandmother a.k.a. Mama, and I had so much fun when I wasn’t in school. Mama had never driven so Mother and I took her everywhere. We went to the Sears and Roebuck in East Lake to pay some of the bills. There was also a little department store on 77th Street that Mama liked to shop in sometimes. Most often, we went to Roebuck Shopping Center after it was built and shopped in Penney’s, Grant’s and Woolworth’s. Mama bought her embroidery thread at Penney’s. It was always DMC and was in little drawers that the sales lady pulled out for her. She got her crochet yarn at Woolworth’s. She used Red Heart brand and I got to help her pick it out. It didn’t matter if they bought me anything or not. I just wanted to be with them and look at all the pretty things. On special days, Mama would dress up in her black dress, a hat to match, gloves and Sunday shoes and we would go downtown. We walked from Yielding’s to Loveman’s then to Berger Phillips. (My feet and legs didn’t hurt so much then.) I still have two little charge plates that were Mama’s. They are about the size of dog tags and are in little black, leather cases. I was so pleased when I found these in her old jewelry box.
Having three mothers was great. It was very rare that at least one of them would not be available. My aunt always worked out of the home, but Mother and Mama didn’t and this made it very hard for me to go to school. The four of us had a most special and unusual bond that has outlasted any other relationship I’ve had, except the one I finally developed with my dad. It took me a long time to realize what his motives were and even longer to appreciate them. We are very close now and I wouldn’t take anything for the things he has taught me – by word and by example. I still don’t agree with all of his methods, but we all have to do what we think is best and hope we are right.
Now I find myself not with three mothers, but motherless. We lost Mother on her birthday, March 9th, 2004. Going from three mothers to none is hard, but they prepared me well. I owe it to them to survive and try to give back to others some of the blessings God gave me by placing me in their care.
I know they are rejoicing and singing around God’s piano now, like we used to do around my piano. I’m learning to be an individual with a life of my own. I’m enjoying my very patient and tolerant husband and my stepdaughters. I’m redecorating the house and might even learn Spanish. It is difficult to fill up all the empty spaces my three mothers have left, but I am making progress. Sometimes, I even put the cell phone, otherwise know as my umbilical cord, down and leave it for minutes at a time. I spend time with Daddy and try to bring him as much joy as possible, as Mother left an even bigger hole in his life. We had a family birthday party last weekend. The house was full again, as it was in my youth. It felt good. I actually felt like planning and cooking and managed to enjoy myself.
My house has new life and will hopefully be filled with the joy of little feet one day. I have a new life and I’m learning to enjoy it in spite of my loss. Instead of helping Mother with family dinners and celebrations, I will be the “Grandmother in charge.” My three mothers may have passed from this house to God’s, but they will forever have a place in my heart and in my home.
Laura Blanton
Copyright July 14, 2004
As a child, I knew nothing of divorce or “blended” families. Moms and Dads stayed married and collectively cared for their children, often with the help of grandparents, aunts, and uncles. This blissful ignorance probably caused me to take many things for granted. I’d always had it good, but didn’t realize just how good.
Until 1976 when my grandmother died, I always considered myself as having three mothers. That’s three and without the benefit of stepparents. This in no way takes away from the wonderful woman my mother was or the terrific job she did as a mother. She didn’t need help mothering us; we were just blessed to have my grandmother and my mother’s oldest sister to share in our lives. My Aunt Lora didn’t marry until she was in her 40’s and was always there for my brothers and me. She lived next door to us with my grandparents. It was such a perfect world – one that I wish everyone could have experienced. We moved freely between houses and knew we were always welcome and would be treated the same way in both places. None of this mushy, grandparent spoiling for my mother's children – we knew to behave no matter where we were.
I remember a friend walking home with me from school one day. My grandparent’s house was on the corner before my house. We stopped there first. We walked up on the front porch and I opened the door for us to go in. She couldn’t believe I would be bold enough to open the door without knocking. With disbelief and shock written all over her face, she stood there as I explained that it was my home too. Why shouldn’t I open the door and go in? Why would Mama and Granddaddy not want me to come in where I belonged? Of course, at that time I thought they were old and I was very innocent as to the ways of married people. I now know that they were younger then than I am now and I certainly don’t want to be considered old.
I used to dream of gathering all the people I loved the most into the same house and keeping them there with me forever. At that time my daddy was a strict disciplinarian with high standards. This didn’t put him too high on the list of permanent residents in my dream world. For many years he was completely off the list. I only allowed my mother, grandparents, youngest brother Kevin, and my aunts into this fantasy. Of course, my dogs and cats were there. What would a world be without dogs and cats? My brother Steve wasn’t allowed. He had the most annoying habit – he loved to drive me crazy. The madder I got, the more he laughed. He would tell me “You are so cute when you are mad – your nose wiggles.”
Mother, my grandmother a.k.a. Mama, and I had so much fun when I wasn’t in school. Mama had never driven so Mother and I took her everywhere. We went to the Sears and Roebuck in East Lake to pay some of the bills. There was also a little department store on 77th Street that Mama liked to shop in sometimes. Most often, we went to Roebuck Shopping Center after it was built and shopped in Penney’s, Grant’s and Woolworth’s. Mama bought her embroidery thread at Penney’s. It was always DMC and was in little drawers that the sales lady pulled out for her. She got her crochet yarn at Woolworth’s. She used Red Heart brand and I got to help her pick it out. It didn’t matter if they bought me anything or not. I just wanted to be with them and look at all the pretty things. On special days, Mama would dress up in her black dress, a hat to match, gloves and Sunday shoes and we would go downtown. We walked from Yielding’s to Loveman’s then to Berger Phillips. (My feet and legs didn’t hurt so much then.) I still have two little charge plates that were Mama’s. They are about the size of dog tags and are in little black, leather cases. I was so pleased when I found these in her old jewelry box.
Having three mothers was great. It was very rare that at least one of them would not be available. My aunt always worked out of the home, but Mother and Mama didn’t and this made it very hard for me to go to school. The four of us had a most special and unusual bond that has outlasted any other relationship I’ve had, except the one I finally developed with my dad. It took me a long time to realize what his motives were and even longer to appreciate them. We are very close now and I wouldn’t take anything for the things he has taught me – by word and by example. I still don’t agree with all of his methods, but we all have to do what we think is best and hope we are right.
Now I find myself not with three mothers, but motherless. We lost Mother on her birthday, March 9th, 2004. Going from three mothers to none is hard, but they prepared me well. I owe it to them to survive and try to give back to others some of the blessings God gave me by placing me in their care.
I know they are rejoicing and singing around God’s piano now, like we used to do around my piano. I’m learning to be an individual with a life of my own. I’m enjoying my very patient and tolerant husband and my stepdaughters. I’m redecorating the house and might even learn Spanish. It is difficult to fill up all the empty spaces my three mothers have left, but I am making progress. Sometimes, I even put the cell phone, otherwise know as my umbilical cord, down and leave it for minutes at a time. I spend time with Daddy and try to bring him as much joy as possible, as Mother left an even bigger hole in his life. We had a family birthday party last weekend. The house was full again, as it was in my youth. It felt good. I actually felt like planning and cooking and managed to enjoy myself.
My house has new life and will hopefully be filled with the joy of little feet one day. I have a new life and I’m learning to enjoy it in spite of my loss. Instead of helping Mother with family dinners and celebrations, I will be the “Grandmother in charge.” My three mothers may have passed from this house to God’s, but they will forever have a place in my heart and in my home.
Laura Blanton
Copyright July 14, 2004
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