Word Gifts

Today is my mother’s 76^th birthday. Gift shopping for Mom is always easy and fun. It’s easy because Mom is never one to buy things for herself. Born during the depression and raised in drought prone west Texas, she was taught to use what you have and never waste anything—especially water. A couple of Thanksgivings ago, I was basting the turkey and noticed the baster was melted on one side of the plastic tube just below the harvest gold bulb.

Lori- “Mom, why in the world don’t you buy another baster?”

Mom- slightly irritated “Well. It STILL works!”

She got a turkey baster that year for a bonus birthday gift. I now realize it would have been the perfect package topper adorned with a tulle bow—my signature. I’ll do that in 20 years when she’s ready for another one.

It’s really fun to shop for Mom because she loves and appreciates any gift she receives. She’s full tilt enthusiastic about whatever is in the recycled box or bag placed before her. She’s particularly pleased when the gift was a bargain.

Mom- While opening package—“Oh, this is a NEW Talbot’s box!” Smiling, she carefully lifts the box top. (I gave up taping the sides of the box years ago! Too risky with the new generation of box-ruiners) She carefully unfolds the tissue paper. Pausing to snatch a bit of air she’ll exclaim , “Lori! I LOVE THIS SWEATER! It’s my color!!”

Lori- “And I only paid THREE DOLLARS for it!!!”

Mom- with even MORE enthusiasm, “REALLY?? I LOVE IT MORE NOW!!”

Volume is one of Mom’s natural, inherited strengths of which I am heir.

I often buy things in advance for Mom because I’ll see something particularly great that I know she’ll love. In addition, she, without guile will mention things she’d “love to have”. I’ve learned to listen carefully. I, with an uncooperative mind, keep lists now. This year, I didn’t have anything specific in the Mom folder in my Awesome Notes app. And Talbots, curses upon them, closed their Lewisville outlet store.  Clothing wasn’t on the list.

Mom has also learned that it’s not only ok, but appropriate to ask for what she wants. She announced during Thanksgiving that from now on she doesn’t want purchased presents for her birthday or Christmas. “I have EVERYTHING I could ever need. I want letters from each of you! I want to hear your favorite memories of our family and things you’ve loved about being out here at the ranch---anything you love and remember!!”

This request was prompted in great part out of her mother’s death this past year. Her mother’s daughter, Mom cherishes family. Shortly after Mom and Dad married, two west Texas kids with a baby on the way and just enough money to pay bills moved to Pennsylvania. It might as well have been The North Pole as far as distance was concerned. Phones were for emergencies and brief holiday greetings where each person stood sentinel for their chance to say, “Merry Christmas” as quickly as possible.  Mom wrote weekly letters to her parents and to her in-laws. She continued that habit even when long distance calls were not a financial concern.

Memo saved every single one of those letters.

She saved cards and letters from all her 5 of her children and all 13 of her grandchildren. This past Spring all of these were divided and given back to the sender.

When long distance became a free perk of owning a cell phone and a way to keep landline companies relevant, Mom started calling her mother everyday around 3 in the afternoon. In the last years, macular degeneration had robbed Memo the joy of easily reading cards and letters. Stories were relayed primarily by phone.

My mind and heart can see Mom sitting on her side of the forest green leather sectional, her legs elevated on the footrest—a necessary habit after a fall and a total reconstruction of her ankle in 2008. Mom, waking from her power nap, sees the clock and thinks, “Oh! It’s 3. I better call Mother.” Fully aware of the reality, tears for the ready, she reaches instead for the letters. Although I haven’t seen the stack of letters, my best guess is that they are in reverse order of postmarked dates. They are in a shoe box from the 70’s with a recycled rubber band from Memo’s junk drawer. Only God knows how old the rubber band is! I see Mom choose the last letter while carefully reading the date stamped by some faithful postal worker. It’s June of 1960. Mom carefully unfolds, in thirds, thin pretty paper with her writing on both sides. It’s properly dated in the upper left hand corner. In lovely, practiced cursive the first line reads:

Dear Mother and Daddy,

And the stories begin—blue ink, each page carefully notated with a number in the right hand corner. Each ending with:

Love,

Vae

Mom is a story teller. Her mother and father were both story tellers. I love reading letters from Mom because I hear her voice—that West Texas drawl, dramatic pauses, her inevitable laughter as she writes. I love the punctuated, “Ha!” which gives her readers permission to laugh along with her.

Yearning to share her joy, she picks up the phone to call me.

M-“You busy? I’ve just GOT to read you this part of a letter!”

The stories, many long forgotten events come alive once again as I hear my Mom reading her words back to me on the phone. 

M-"I can remember that EXACT day and what I was wearing!"

I learn the details of places I never visited, the phrases used by toddlers Scott and Carol that I can never hear except in my soul.  Stories told by my mother to her mother about my daughter.

Technology, if I may say so quite redundantly, has changed the landscape of communication forever. My phone can do what required at least 10 pieces of enormous equipment to complete even a decade ago. I love that I can communicate instantly with no effort to my bi-coastal nephew and nieces. Facebook keeps me connected with people I’d lost years ago. ( I’m still not quite sure that I want to know that they were at Target at 10:48 am on Tuesday. But I do.) I know that Hayley, in North Carolina loves me because she uses five colors of hearts and an emoji blowing me a kiss as her salutation. I know it’s ok to laugh AT her because she typed LOL while instant messaging. I can pick up the phone as soon as I gain enough composure to stop howling with laughter to tell Carol about Annie Beth’s latest escapade. Yet, with no record, I'm dependent on my memory to remind me of such moments. 

My mother’s gift request is both a gift to her and a gift to me.

To Carol.

To Hayley.

To possibilities of future Annie Beths and Spencers.

Words reminds us of who we are. Who we were. How we’ve changed. How we have NOT changed. Stories weave us together and help define family. I am delighted with the wisdom and courage of Mom’s gift request.

My handwriting is wretched. Seriously wretched. I will occasionally write one or two things for Mom, so that future generations will know that I did know how to use a ballpoint pen. They will then fully appreciate my choice to type and hit print….or save—particularly when cheaters aren’t always within grasp. (That’s just stupid. Even reading glasses don’t help with deciphering hieroglyphics.) I’ll mostly use this blog format.

I’m quite sure that’s why I started this blog to begin with--for me and for my family. I never intended other eyes to see this. But in the story telling, some of us have been connected to the power of what happens when we live out of honest, verbal places.

So much technology.

So little real connection.

I happen to believe that connection matters.

I am honored to be the daughter of Vae Rena Smith Hudgins, story teller extraordinaire, keeper of memory--cherished glimpses of life. She’s always championed me and encouraged me to keep writing. This next year, I’ll be dedicating so many of my blogs to you, Mom. I’ll tell the stories that have long been told, morphed as they are over time depending on the storyteller. I will tell ones from my own particular corner of living in the world as your daughter, as Memo’s granddaughter, as Annie Beth’s mother. The goal is not to win accolades from strangers or Facebook friends, it’s to honor you both now and in the future when I only have words to remember some interaction we had in the past. We aren’t born with instructions or money back guarantees. We do, though, have words. Words form stories which are the foundation of relationships. Words give direction, comfort, peace.  And Mom, we have The Word—Hope everlasting.

Happy Birthday Mom! I love you more with each passing year.

(Next blog---Christmas Trees Revisited)