Friday, May 8, 2015

Every generation needs to do it better...

"Every generation needs to do things better than the one before. Do it better than we did." - Thelma May Lund Starks (my mother).

Mother's Day is always a very difficult time for me...difficult to find the words around this time of year. I read about the events happening in the world - good and bad - and the words of my mother ring in my ears...because everyone in this world has a mother, whether good or bad. 

I had to grin from ear to ear when this YouTube video went viral:

Balitmore mom slaps and scolds rioting son in front of everyone

Why did I smile? Because what the mother did in this video would've been something my own mother would've done. My parents instilled a sense of right and wrong into me at an early age - granted, in some unorthodox ways, but the message got through. Believe me, I had my share of a "lickin' or two", but never questioned the reason, because I knew my parents loved me, and the truth was, in most cases, I probably deserved it.

Of course, these days, some of those "old school" methods of discipline would warrant a visit from CPS. In some ways, I think it unfortunate that today's young generation cannot feel the weight upon parents who do the best they can to raise them in an unforgiving, f***ed up world...yet I completely recognize that some children have parents who don't care enough to even give them the time of day. The mother in the video? She cared.

At the end of Summer 1999, I received a phone call from my mother, who tearfully apologized for those aforementioned "unorthodox" ways of discipline. I had forgiven her years previous (though the human brain does have a difficult time forgetting), but to hear her nearly beg for my forgiveness made me feel uncomfortable...because before that moment, I never really thought about my mother as a human being, a woman with dreams and ambitions of her own. She was, well...my mom! That day was a turning point in both of our lives, initiating a whole new level of respect for and acceptance of each other. All wounds had been healed. I let go of everything that stood in the way of her wish for us both to just "be happy". We both accepted each other for who we were in the present, warts and all. We both made mistakes, terrible decisions in our lives. But that day wasn't about regurgitating past wounds; it was about moving forward in love and forgiveness. This was even at a time when I had just left Mormonism, and the hurts and pains of leaving that religion were still pretty fresh. Yet, my mother accepted my decision to leave, I accepted her lifelong religion, because the bottom line was, all she ever wanted to know was that I was happy. She'd say:

"Are you happy? Then joy in it. If you are not, do something about it."

Every generation truly does need to do it better...and perhaps, it starts with forgiveness.

I wrote this tribute to my mother nearly five years ago...it contains the words that I cannot write today. It still brings tears to my eyes, because there is not a day that goes by that I don't miss her.

Happy Mother's Day!

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A Tribute to my Mother
Written July 27, 2010
I barely, if even, remember the beautiful, vibrant woman in old pictures, posing with a big smile, thick beautiful hair pinned up in a curly do. No, if I could go back into the furthest recesses of my mind, what I remember is a hospital visit and seeing a woman who was deathly ill, weak and fragile, who spent her time in bed for days, weeks, months. I remember wigs on the bathroom counter, funny-smelling balms and lotions, herbs and vitamins. I remember hearing occasional whimpers of pain coming from her bedroom, but did not, could not and never will fully understand the amount and kind of pain Mom had to endure.

I remember Mrs. Tuft coming in to clean the house on Thursdays, and remember [my sister] Kim doing a lot to take care of us, too. I remember sitting in the bay window, squealing with delight when I saw Kim walking home from school. I remember listening to her 45s and having her and her friends dress me up (I always loved when she put her apple seed necklace around my neck). I so love my brother—we often “fought and quarreled and ‘served the devil’”, as Mom often said. I remember Mike and I, dividing up my dolls and playing a make-believe baseball game. I remember when we got busted, we’d be sent to our rooms, but would still throw things at each other from across the hall…like our Baby Beans, bouncy balls…or spit wads (big ones, too). I remember floating down the canal on inner tubes, playing Cowboys and Indians (guess who was always an Indian, hmmm!). I remember watching Mike squirt Elmer’s glue into Travis Richard's butt crack and down into his pants during one of our neighborhood puppet shows, and Mom busting out laughing when she found out about it (via a phone call from Mrs. Richards).

I remember the smell of a fresh Big Chief notebook and new crayons, and the smile on Mom’s face when I’d jump up and down with joy in receiving them. I remember Mom creating the “school closet”, and would raid it often – reading, imagining, creating for hours on end. I remember dancing like a ballerina in the living room to classical music on the record player; when Mom came into the room, I stopped in my tracks, embarrassed. She said, “No, keep dancing!” And she signed me up for ballet lessons.

I remember Mom always signing me up for the library’s summer reading program and the children’s theater. I remember being driven to and from Mrs. Kelliher’s house for piano lessons, or to CWC and back. I remember Mom wheeling the ugly green chair over to the pink piano, sitting in the basement for an hour or more each day, whapping the music with a stick, making sure I practiced my lesson correctly.  I remember Mom dropping me off at Mike’s Little League games with a little money, and I’d eat gobstoppers or jolly rancher sticks until my tongue turned the color of the candy. I remember munching up my ankle in the spokes of one of the old bikes, and a myriad of other wounds that Mom would calmly take care of with the hydrogen peroxide, pink merthiolate and a band-aid. I remember riding my bike and playing outside until dusk, waiting to hear Dad’s distinct whistle for dinnertime.

I remember Mom’s chili, casseroles, clam chowder, beef stew, baked chicken, her elk/deer jerky, and “snowy dip”.  I remember her teaching me to clean, cook, bake, sew, iron, dry, can and freeze…planting, weeding and harvesting a huge garden. I remember our lunch tradition of fried egg sandwiches with mustard, or fish sandwiches from the Covered Wagon, hearing the noon siren and listening to Paul Harvey on the old black radio. I remember countless visits with Grandma and Grandpa, and was always excited to visit. I remember many “classic movie” dates. Mom would circle the show times in the TV guide (especially the musicals, Mom loved the musicals).

She  loved babies – sure, she loved her children, grandchildren, even others’ children and grandchildren - but babies especially put a big smile on her face! Mom and I loved to laugh together, find the humor in everything. She was often curious – I remember her asking me what my cappuccino or vanilla latte tasted like, or what wine tasted like with my dinner. She asked me what Mexico was like, what scuba diving was like. She was always interested in what I was doing – my jobs, my latest writing, my own trials and errors as a mother. It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized how very interested she was in so much of what life had to offer—yet she gave so much of her life and energy so that we could experience all that life had to offer.

She was never a “room mom” at school, never hung out with other moms, never a part of the PTA. She was as quiet as a church mouse at church, but had the mouth of a sailor at home, of which the entire neighborhood could often attest. She was mild-mannered and polite in public places (like the grocery or hardware store, post office or bank), but also spoke her mind with irrefutable solidity and clarity. I could only imagine what Mom was really feeling – the pains she had to bear, her constant fight to simply live life, her frustrations, the things she had to do and sacrifice just to survive another day. But I never, ever had to question what she was thinking.

What have I learned from the woman I call my mother? I have learned to find the strength, determination and will inside myself, even if it is against all odds (“where there’s a will, there’s a way, I always say”). Mom taught me that everything takes work to work. She taught me to invest in my talents and abilities—to grow, build and create, and to enjoy the fruits of those labors. She taught me not to stand around talking about doing something, but to actually do it.

But most of all, I will remember that all Mom ever wanted for me was to be happy. When I went through an unhappy marriage, a difficult divorce, went through court and custody battles, Mom was there for me, supported me, encouraged me, strengthened me, loved me. None of those things had to do with whether I was a child that came from her own womb…nor had it anything to do with whether I was a part of a church. In fact, when I left the church I had been raised in, she was the only one in the family I could talk to who did not unduly judge and disparage me. She loved me, no matter what, and that love had nothing to do with religion, differing beliefs, conditions or criteria of “worthiness”, or what others might think. Quite the opposite, in fact…Mom never did care about “what people think”. She was there for me, listened to me, and did not judge me when others did. She never questioned whether I was still a part of the family, whether the distance was physical or religious. She was giving, loving, and was truly Christ-like when others weren’t. In fact, she often came to my defense, solely with the knowledge she had by actually taking time to sit down and talk with me and understand—never in a spirit of criticism or debate. No, the only thing Mom ever wanted to know was whether I was happy…because if her children were happy, that’s all she needed to know. That’s all she ever wanted.

Now, as a mother and grandmother, I have felt the weight of the years upon me. I have gone through my own battles, struggles and sacrifices for my own children. I get so busy and absorbed in life’s struggles, stresses and worries that I often forget to ask myself if I am happy. There were so many times where I would reach for the phone to call Mom, wanting to hear her voice – talk with her, laugh with her, cry with her, talk about life, the kids, the latest – joke and tease Dad now and then. But all I really needed to hear her ask me was: “Are you happy?” If I wasn’t, we’d talk about it. If I was, we would joy in it.

Mom was truly a person who lived every single day as if it were her last. And one day, it was. And though the physical distance might still exist between us, there’s not a day goes by that is not in some way influenced by the woman I call my mother. She is alive in my heart and in my memories…a part of her is in everything I do. She is alive in the lessons and wisdom I’ve tried to impart to my own children.

Most of all, she is alive because I know she still loves me, no matter what. I feel that kind of love only a mother can give, and can only hope that I too can give of my own time and energy as Mom did – to be strong and determined, against all odds. To laugh, be curious, to travel, to watch, taste, smell and feel…to enjoy. To speak my mind with irrefutable solidity, and not care what others think.

To experience all that life has to offer, and live every day as if it were my last.


“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven…”
Ecclesiastes 3:1

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