The Mom of My Memory

She was only five feet tall but compensated by wearing high heels whenever she went out of the house. There was a constant battle between her and the bathroom scales. I must say, though, that she was her own worst enemy. From the cheapest cuts of meat, she could prepare a meal that would make a gourmet chef turn green with envy. We may not have had much money, but we certainly ate well.

My mother stands out in my memories because of the sacrifices I now realize she made. During the Depression, she worked sporadically in a knitting mill. In her particular task, the pay was 35 cents per hour. I remember when she would tally up her weekly earnings. If the total was more than $10, a smile would cross her lips.

She kept a small tin bank on a shelf over the kitchen table. The slot in its side only accepted dimes. With each coin pushed through, a lever inside would advance a dial outside. The closer the dial got to the maximum amount of $5, the more anxious she would be. Every spare dime was eagerly deposited on a weekly basis. When the total reached the magic number, she would push open the catch on the bottom of the bank and 50 dimes would fall into her hands.

The following Saturday morning, we went to the downtown-shopping district. Kresge's, Grant's and Newberry's were the original five-and-dime stores, and 50 dimes went a long way. One of the stores had a lunch counter. When our browsing and shopping was finished, my mother and I would sit at the counter to enjoy a five-cent birch-beer and ten-cent hot dog. They have never tasted better. After resting a bit, we were ready to go home. We would wait for the huge, noisy machine -- the trolley car -- to take us back to our humble abode. For me, at six or seven, it was a great adventure.

After the dinner dishes were done, my mother would sit in the tiny parlor of our small home. With the thread she had purchased at the five-and-dime, she would crochet doilies for the end tables and arm covers for the parlor chairs. She liked her home to be as inviting as possible. A shortage of money did not mean she had to live in an untidy manner.

On evenings such as these, she would invite her little boy to sit on a pillow and lean his back on her legs. "You keep them warm for me, Sonny," she would say. It was the closeness she really enjoyed; the house was not cold.

When I would get comfortable on my pillow and snuggle against her legs, she would occasionally ask if I would like to learn a new prayer. She would recite the prayer, and I would repeat it. Every new one became imbedded in my mind. She was proud of me. I, in turn, loved her dearly.

There are other memories. A day I will regret as long as I live was the day I caused her to cry. All mothers take pride in the thought that their child will never stray from the straight and narrow path. If they do, a mother's heart is broken. The memory of her flowing tears, as she sat at the kitchen table sobbing, is something I will never forget. It made me resolve to never cause such pain to anyone again.

Years later, when my mother passed on to her reward, I knelt and offered on her behalf the prayers that she taught me while I sat at her feet. This time though, they were said at the foot of her bier.

However, her love did not die. It is still available to me through instant recall of dimes and pillows and prayers.

(Editor's note: Mr. Jablonski is author of "A Journey to Contentment: The Seasons of Life." Visit www.empirehosting.net/bjohnj.)

(05-10-01) [[In-content Ad]]