The Real Steel Magnolias

In the spring of 2012, in eighteen days, my husband and I both lost our mothers.  One was 89 the other 91 years of age.  They died of the rigors and complications of old age.  No on lives forever, and if we do it right, our children bury us, never the other way around.  While I deeply needed and appreciate the good wishes of all of our friends, the fact is that our mothers lived lives that were celebrated more than they were mourned.

            These women were made of steel.  Part of the, “Best Generation,” our mothers had lived through it all: the Great Depression, the dust bowl, wars, the Civil Rights movement, economic and social upheaval.  They sent their husbands to battle in World War II and their sons to the jungles of Viet Nam.  They saw their grandsons—and granddaughters—put on the uniform of their nation and ship out to Iraq and Afghanistan.  When we were attacked on September 11th my mother was my first call and I was steadied by her calm.  She had seen this before.  Having lived through Pearl Harbor she knew and assured me of two things: the world kept turning and justice would be done. 

            Both women came from farm families and knew humble living and the struggle to make ends meet.  One was a nurse, the other a bookkeeper.   Tom’s mother stayed home once her family arrived; my mother always had a paying job outside the home.  They were strong believers in schooling, books and learning.  They both saw education and hard-work as the way up and out for their children.  These women were also thrifty to a fault.   You could knit an electric blanket out of the orphaned electric cords in my mother’s bottom kitchen drawer.   

            Our mothers were religious on a deeply personal level, but were neither bothered nor bedeviled by other people’s beliefs or lack thereof.  I remember, as a young child, going to the Buddhist wedding of one of my mother’s Japanese co-workers.  Mom sat us girls down before we went and admonished us to be quiet, be respectful, and do whatever the people around us were doing.  “God is in their church, just like in ours.  Things will just look different.”

            Mom didn’t recon on every person, young and old, at the reception being given a small paper cup of a clear liquid to toast the bride and groom.  But she had told me to do what everyone else did, so when the old gentleman next to me stood, raised his cup and downed it in one gulp I did the same.  That was my first and last experience with Saki.   

Sometimes, the lessons they taught us were uncomfortably straight forward.  I got my mouth washed out with soap once for bad language.  Other times right and wrong were shown in subtler ways.  When my family first moved to Denver, Colorado, in the 1950’s, a large, popular amusement park near us was segregated.  Mother stubbornly refused to let us go there until they integrated.  In her words, “If they aren’t good enough for everybody, they aren’t good enough for us.”  That is a powerful message for a young mind.

            Did they have flaws?  Yes!  They were mothers not saints, but lives are judged on a balance.  These women and millions like them made this country great.  They worked unceasingly.  They asked for nothing.   They gave more than they took.  They accepted disappointment as a challenge, never gave up, never gave in, and died in a state of grace.  I will never live up to them, but they make me want to try.

            Thanks Mom, for helping me keep the faith.