MY MOM (part one)

I can't remember one day of my childhood that I woke up not hearing my mother singing. If there was ever a person who had earned the right to be bitter with life and unhappy, it was Lucile Johnson. But she would never allow bitterness in. I really don't think she was ever unhappy. Her view of life was so positive, and she was so full of the joy of the Lord that she just couldn't be unhappy. And I believe she had learned very early in her life to be content with what she had.

Another thing I remember about my mother was that she laughed at everything. If something bad happened, she laughed. If she was sad, she found a reason to laugh. Sometimes her laughter would annoy me, and I would snap at her, "Mom! It's not funny!" To this she would say, "I have to laugh, Honey. If I didn't laugh I would have to cry, and I don't want to cry. There are already too many tears in this world." Of course, this just annoyed me more because I didn't understand yet. A child doesn't normally endure enough suffering in its life to really understand what she meant. As an adult, and as a mother, I learned, though my suffering was mostly self-inflicted. Hers wasn't.

So, singing and laughter were constant in my home as I grew up. My parents almost never fought, and if they did, it certainly wasn't in front of me. I do remember one morning when I was about five that I woke up to find my mom sitting at the breakfast table crying. When I asked her why she was crying she said there was no reason and that everything was fine. I knew that my dad had just left for work, so I believed it had something to do with him. Soon she was singing, and my world continued on tranquilly, though I never forgot that morning. I imagine that I remember it because it had never happened before. 

There is only one other time that I found my mom crying because of my dad. That was many years later when I was in my late teens, and I knew exactly why she was crying. Actually, my mom and dad got along very well. The reason for that is that my mother did everything to please him. She never argued; she never nagged; she never did anything contrary to what he wanted, so there was never any reason for them to not get along. I know that she didn't agree with him on all subjects, but no one ever knew it. I never knew until after my dad died, and she and I would talk for long hours about so many things. There is so much that a child can't understand, and shouldn't have to understand. The emotions that come with the truth is hard enough for an adult to deal with; it can destroy a child.

There are so many wonderful memories from my childhood of my mom and dad. One of the best ones is being in my bed at night. Just around the corner from my bed was the front door leading out onto a big front porch. There mom and dad would sit for hours at night talking and laughing. Sometimes he would sing to her, and sometimes they would sing together. Sometimes he would play his harmonica and she would sing, or she would just listen as he played. I remember feeling so happy. They made me feel so secure in my world.

Mom told me a story once about a time when she was in the hospital and daddy was there visiting her. They would spend the whole time together talking and laughing so much that a couple of the nurses came in. They asked mom and dad how long they had been married, and the answer was something like twenty years. The nurses were so surprised because they couldn't imagine what a couple that had been together for so long could have to talk about. But that was the way they both were. Daddy wasn't always in a happy mood, except when he was with mom. It was as if when he was with her everything was right. She was very good for a man with red hair and a hot temper to go with it. She could calm him with her gentleness. There was never a lot of touchy, huggy, kissy stuff going on between them. Just a deep devotion and love that anyone could see.

They did lots of social things when I was very young. There were card parties at the house or at some friends' homes. There were some kind of Lodge parties that we would go to. My dad was a Mason, so maybe these parties had something to do with that. I don't remember. I was never left behind when they socialized. I would either play with other children, or I would play by myself and eventually go to sleep. The next thing I would remember would be daddy lifting me out of the car and carrying me into the house. I love that memory. How can such a simple act be such a splendid memory? Mom's back was bad, so she could never lift me.

Mom spent most of the time in the kitchen. She baked a lot, and, of course, meals were always cooked from scratch. There was not much canned foods in our pantry unless she had grown it and canned it herself. I don't think she let me help her very much, but I always got to lick the bowls and the beaters. When she peeled potatoes I would beg for a slice of raw potato, and when she made the very best lemon meringue pie in the whole world, bar none, I would always get the lemon rinds with the insides sprinkled with a little sugar. She was a very good cook and was especially good at baking pies and cookies and cobblers. She baked cakes from scratch. No mixes. But she always had trouble with cakes falling in the oven or being heavy. I still liked them. But daddy would always tease her about her cakes. She would cut him a piece of cake, and he would say, "Be careful! Don't drop that! It'll put a hole in the floor."

Every Monday morning I would awaken to the sound of my mom singing some hymn or singing along with the radio, the smell of bread being made, and the sound of the wringer washing machine churning away at our clothes. By the end of the day we would have wonderful loaves of bread, a couple dozen hamburger buns, and the very best cinnamon rolls you ever tasted. They were even better than her pies. In fact, there were people who would pay mom to make pans of cinnamon rolls for them. All the clothes would be washed, hung outside to dry, and folded into clothes baskets for ironing on Tuesday. The bread was made, the clothes were clean, the tubs all emptied of water, and mom was still singing. Maybe she wasn't singing as loud as she was in the morning, but she was still singing. In the midst of all this she made three meals and washed all the dishes by hand. Breakfast was always cooked cereal, bacon and eggs, pancakes, or waffles. Dad and I both came home for dinner (lunch), and it was always ready and hot when we walked in. Supper was the biggest meal. On Mondays mom's day was long, usually ending at about nine in the evening. At this point she could sit down. The television was on all day for company, but she never sat down to watch it.

To this day, I have found only one person who makes cinnamon rolls like my mom made them, nor as good. I never got her recipe, but one person did. Vicki Beckner was a good friend of mine who was also very close to my mom, and she was fortunate enough to get it and makes them to this day. I give Vicki a bad time about not sharing the recipe with me, and I think I've just about worn her down about letting me have it. But Vicki is the baker, not me. I actually would want it for my daughter who is an excellent baker just like her grandmother.

In the summer there was no air-conditioning to keep her cool, only a window fan. In winter she hung the clothes outside in the freezing cold and the clothes would "freeze-dry". Mom's fingers would freeze along with them. If it was raining, the clothes were hung on racks to dry in the dining room where the only heat in the house was. Nothing stood in the way of wash day. And there was never one word of complaining or moaning. She never asked for an automatic washer or dryer. She was happy to have what she had.

Tuesday morning started just like every other morning, at about 4:30. Again I would awaken to my mom's voice singing "He Lives" or "In the Garden" or maybe some Eddie Arnold song on the radio. Mom always called Eddie Arnold her boyfriend. She loved his music. Others that she liked were, Jim Reeves ("He'll Have To Go"), Bing Crosby, Doris Day, Patti Page and Perry Como. One of mom's favorite songs was "Tennessee Waltz" by Patti Page. After breakfast was finished and the dishes washed the ironing board went up, and most of the rest of the day was spent ironing all the clothes from the day before as she watched her soap operas and Art Linkletter and all the game shows. Oh, and I forgot to mention that before the clothes were ironed, each one was sprinkled with water and rolled up so they would be easier to iron. If they weren't wet enough when she ironed them she sprinkled them again. 

The sprinkler was an old Big Chief pop bottle with a sprinkler head on it that daddy had made for her. When I came home from school I was allowed to help her iron. I loved to iron. I got to iron all the handkerchiefs, there were 25-30 of them, all the pillow cases and some of the sheets. These were all ironed in those days, but I couldn't always handle the sheets. They were too big. By the time I grew enough to be able to handle them I didn't like to iron anymore. When I was ten or so I started learning to iron my blouses and skirts. They weren't too hard. But ironing dad's clothes were tough, and I didn't normally get in on that. All of his shirts were long sleeve, winter and summer, and they had to be ironed. Dad's work pants were dried with pants pressers in them. These were metal frames shaped like the pant leg and stretched inside the pant leg to make them dry without wrinkles and with a straight crease down the front and back. These were wonderful time savers for my mom so that she wouldn't have to iron them. Once in a while I see pants pressers hanging in antique stores. They bring back good memories. Oh, and dad's underwear? They were ironed too.

My First Surgery

When I was eleven years old I had my tonsils removed. This was a relatively simple procedure that was done a lot in the fifties, and many of my friends had had it done, so I was confident that I had nothing to fear. Over the span of about two years I had missed a lot of school because of tonsillitis and strep-throat, so finally my doctor advised my parents that removing my tonsils would be the only solution.

I remember some of the medications that I took for my throat problems. At the first sign of a sore throat my mother would drag out the Vicks Vaporub, a couple of old rags, lemon juice, honey, black tea, and the Bayer Aspirin, and she would set out to save money and cure me with her home remedies. I was ordered to bed with a cup of hot steaming concoction that was the most awful tasting drink I think I have ever tasted. It was hot tea, and this is where the honey and lemon juice went, into the tea. I think this was supposed to wash the ugly stuff from my throat, but all it really did was make me gag and throw up. Mom would enter my room periodically to make sure I was drinking, but what she found would be a full cup of tepid liquid. The longer I put off drinking it the colder the tea would become. And the colder the tea would become the nastier it tasted. My mother didn't give up easily, but neither did I. I was prepared to die before I would drink that stuff.

Next came the neck wrap. I was slathered up and down my chest and all around my neck with Vicks. Then she would wind the folded rag around my neck and tie it in the back, or she would use a large safety pin to secure it. The purpose of this was to keep the greasy stuff from getting everywhere; on my bed, on my clothes, and especially out of my hair. It didn't work. It just made me stink. The Vicks was also applied to the space between my mouth and nose so to inhale the menthol and clear my head. When I tried to sleep I would turn constantly trying to find a comfortable position, but each time I turned the rag on my neck would move until it would be so dislodged or so tight around my neck that I would scream out with the discomfort. Mom would come in to straighten the neck piece and order me to take a drink of the tea from hell. Actually, the thought of having surgery and someone cutting inside my throat with a sharp knife sounded like heaven compared with the suffering at my mother's hand. Bring it on!

When my mother's torture didn't work I would be taken to the doctor who would send me home with sulfur tablets or even better sulfur gum. These were little mint green pellets that I chewed, and they didn't taste too bad. Other times I would have to have a shot of penicillin. I didn't really mind shots then, and I still have no problem with nurses coming at me with long needles. But I always wanted the shot in my arm. I wasn't presenting my bare butt to the doctor or anybody else.

I need to tell you a little bit about my doctor who delivered me when I was born and attended me until I was at least sixteen. His name was Dr. Stappenback. I used to know his first name, but that has left my memory. He had been our family doctor since Marvin was small, and he and my parents were very good friends. I both loved and loathed visiting his office.

The waiting room was a large, square room with wainscoting surrounding, and with at least twenty straight backed chairs lining the walls. There was a desk as you entered the door, but seldom was there a nurse seated. Above the wainscoting were some pictures and plaques, but what I remember specifically was a US flag (with 48 stars) and a framed picture of President Dwight Eisenhauer and one of Vice President Richard Nixon. Windows were placed along the top of the wall on three sides of the room, and outside were large trees lining the street of Humboldt, Nebraska. This doctor's office originally was a large, beautiful, two-story home with a large porch wrapped along the front and side.

Doctor had a large office with a huge bay window covered with venetian blinds. His office was also his examining room, his storage room, with his file cabinets and best of all his gigantic fish aquarium. It was taller than I was. It was longer than I was tall. It was about 3 feet from the wall, and it held more fish than I could ever count. I know, because I tried many times. The colors of the fish and the contents of the aquarium were mesmerizing for me, and I could have stayed there forever to watch it all.

It all came to a crashing halt when tall, scruffy-looking, Dr. Stappenback walked into the room. He smelled of rubbing alcohol and all kinds of medicine smells, and he had cauliflower ears. I don't think my eyes ever left his ears when I visited him. They terrified me. I was sure he had some communicable disease or leprosy, or something quite hideous. He adored me, and I could never understand why, as I was terrified of him. I wouldn't talk to him. I wouldn't do anything he asked me to do. I was sullen and pouty beyond anything I would have tolerated in my own children. Dr. Stappenback always told me that I no doubt would drown in a rain storm because my nose was stuck so high in the air. Or he would say that a rooster was going to perch on my lower lip and peck off my nose. I must have secretly liked him, but it took me years to get over my fear of him.

Dr. Stappenback came into my hospital room before my tonsillectomy to assure my mom and I that everything was ready to go, and that I was going to be just fine. I wasn't taking any chances. Tucked into the palm of my hand I tightly squeezed my furry, red rabbit's foot. They would never get me in that room without it.

The hospital was a large three story brick building, and I think the first floor was just for the crazy people; you know, the psych ward. The operating room was just another room on my floor and situated just a few feet away from my room. I walked in, climbed up on the hard table, and after talking for a few minutes with the doctor and his one nurse, they began to put me to sleep with ether while I counted backward from 100. I don't remember 97.

I'm told by my mother that Dr. Stappenback knew all along that I had my rabbit's foot in my hand, but he waited until after I was asleep to pry it out. They would never allow that today.

I awoke in my room with a very sore throat and my mother sitting at my side singing softly. The nurses were in and out constantly and I was allowed as much ice cream as I wanted. I don't remember seeing the doctor until a few weeks later when we had to visit for a follow-up of the surgery. But that was a blissful time of recuperation when I wasn't allowed to go to school for two weeks and ate ice cream day and night. I remember my teacher coming to the house with my homework and missed assignments, and I would lay on the sofa and watch soap operas and do arithmetic and spelling words.

I didn't get sick much after that, and my school attendance was regular again. I loved school, and I hated to miss because of the make-up work that you had to do. I was a good student, and I loved being in the classroom.

There is something that you will never find in my house today. It is Vicks Vaporub, though I do use, and like the smell of, Mentholatum. I used the Vicks on my children when they were sick with colds, and I think John still uses it frequently for a cold. I seldom have a cold, and when I do, there is no tea, no Vicks, and no neck rags to twist around my throat. If orange juice and vitamins won't cure it, I'm off to the doctor; the one without cauliflower ears.

A GIRL'S BEST FRIEND

Christmastime when you're five years old can be one of the most exciting times of the year. I lived in a home of limited finances, so my expectations were limited to a doll or a tea set. I really don't remember having a wish list at all. Christmas excitement in our house consisted of learning the songs for the children's Christmas program at the Methodist church we attended, and my mom coaching me in all the things I must not do when I stood on the stage with my friends. First, and most important, was to make sure that I didn't pick up my dress skirt to hide my face from all the people. Mom knew that being on display in front of a congregation of people would terrify me, and not having my mother to hide behind, the first thing I would reach for would be my dress. But all the coaching in the world never stopped my actions, and I'm not sure which was stronger for my mother, the embarrassment or the disgust in her failure.

But Christmases in my early years will always have special memories because of my brother, Marvin, who made sure that I received some of the wonderful gifts that a child should have but had parents that couldn't afford them. He was my Santa Claus.

Marvin was eighteen and a senior at Stella High School in Stella, Nebraska, when I was born. He was tall, athletic, smart, and handsome, and he was very popular with his classmates. My guess is that he was the nicest person in his class, but I say that only because Marvin was one of the nicest people I've ever known, and he was considered thus all of his life by all who knew him. After graduation he left for Peru States Teachers College, and then did a stint as a medic in the Korean War. He decided, then, to settle in Wichita, Kansas, where he began to build his life, and from where he never felt a reason to leave until his death.

Marvin worked at a service station and also joined a fire department, so he was equipped monetarily to give his little sister some of the things he knew she would love. I remember a huge Red Rider wagon with removable sides. I remember a talking doll that also walked. I think the same year she came with a boy doll. Both were almost half as tall as I was, and I enjoyed them for many years. But the Christmas I was five was the year I received from my brother the item that would be my constant companion for many years. That was the year I received my 26-inch sky blue Schwinn bicycle.

My new bicycle had a metal basket attached to the handlebars so I could carry my books to school. It had a long, flat, blue seat attached to the back fender to give a friend a ride with footrests so they wouldn't get their feet caught in the spokes. It had long, blue and white plastic streamers coming out from the handlebars that waved in the wind. There were training wheels to break in the new rider. The chain guard on the side had great big proud letters that read SCHWINN. This was no ordinary "Ford" model. This was the "Cadillac" of bicycles. And it was mine.

It took a few skinned knees, some scraped elbows and hands, but soon I was wobbling up and down the sidewalk without training wheels and without anyone holding on to the back of my black bicycle seat. I rode from corner to corner on that block, and sometimes I was allowed to turn the corner and ride up to the corner grocery in our neighborhood to buy a pack of cigarettes for my dad, or some eggs for my mom (remember, I had a basket to carry them in), or even a 5-cent popsicle that I would break in half and share with a friend.

After we moved to Falls City and I was a couple of years older, I was allowed to ride in the streets, and best of all, I was allowed the freedom of riding as far away as I liked, as long as I was home at a certain time. Just over the hill from our house the town stopped and a country road began, and sometimes my friend Harriett and I would ride out for ten or fifteen minutes. We would park our bikes along the side of the road, and we would lay on our backs in the grass and watch the clouds form and re-form into dozens of recognizable shapes. Those were wonderful times.

My dad owned a service station for a few years and in the summertime mom would make his lunch and I would take it to him on my bike. The station was at least twelve blocks away from the house, which was by the way, half-way across the town, and I would spend a hour or two hanging out with him, eating sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and drinking Big Chief orange pop or Dr. Pepper from the pop machine. I watched as he fixed flat tires and changed the oil on cars. I walked out with him when he pumped gas for his buddies that drove in, and he would always introduce me to them. He would always say, "This is my daughter, Tootsie." I really don't remember him ever calling me by my real name.

My grade school was on the opposite end of town, yet I didn't live far enough to qualify for riding the school bus, so it wasn't long before I was allowed to ride my bike to school. The trip to school included a lot of gentle uphill rides, but coming home was fast and glorious. Coasting along a five or six block stretch on a bicycle is just pure heaven. Of course, much of that I rode with no hands on the handlebars, which is almost the closest thing there is to flying. And even in the summertime I would ride over to the school to play on the playground with friends, or to visit some of my friends that lived close to the school.

By the time I was ten to twelve years old I was allowed the freedom to ride for as far and as long as I wished. I was expected home for lunch and dinner, but meanwhile I explored the town, with or without a friend at my side. I visited the city park and the ball games that were being played. I would stop in at the car parts store where my dad worked just to say "hi" and hope he was feeling generous enough to throw a dime or a quarter my way. One dime would buy a bottle of pop, and I would turn in the bottle for 2 cents. There were many days that I rode just for the sake of riding and feeling free. If I had nowhere to go, that was fine. I enjoyed seeing my town from the comfort of my bicycle seat.

My heart aches for children in today's world. They have been robbed of the freedoms that I enjoyed as a child. Today's biker must wear a helmet, knee pads, and is rarely allowed to ride more than a block away from home. Many people today leave the small towns behind to search for wonderful opportunities in the big city, but when they do they leave behind many of simple freedoms that make life so exciting and comfortable and peaceful in a small community where there is friendliness and trust.

I am so grateful to my big brother for all the wonderful memories he gave me, but I believe the material gift that I am most grateful for is my sky blue Schwinn bicycle that he gave me for my fifth Christmas. It was joy, freedom, and a young girl's transportation all wrapped up in blue metal.

At the age of fourteen I was asked to pass on my bicycle to my brother's daughter, Jana, who would soon be ready to have a bicycle of her own. I had taken extreme care to keep my bike in good shape, and I am very proud to announce to you that even though I had ridden it for years, it was almost like new when I gave it to her. Of course, I had taken some falls, but none that damaged my bike; only damaged my ego, or my knees. I'm not sure, but I wonder if this fact reflects the love and respect that I had for my brother. I only know that I will be eternally grateful for his generosity.