Mothering
In May of 1949, Mom became pregnant with Kay. Then Jimmy was born. In April of 1953 Debby was born. In just under 48 months Mom carried three full-term pregnancies and gave birth to three healthy children. Holy smoke!
Now remember, for the first 11 years of her motherhood, Mom did not have indoor plumbing, except for a kitchen sink. Terry was born in 1958, meaning that for 3 of those 11 years, she had FOUR children to care for, the oldest being eight year old Kay. And then there was the broken ankle on top of all that! She broke her ankle in 1958 while she was pregnant with Terry, who was born in September.
In the meantime, Dad had the farm to run, plus helping, and being helped by his father and brother Larry, on their nearby farms. So he had little time in the house. I don’t know how Mom cared for us children, washed laundry, cooked and cleaned the home. Remember, there was also a garden to tend, chickens to feed, eggs to gather, broiler chickens to dress for eating and canning. And the ankle.
I remember some anger and impatience on Mom’s part. That’s understandable. The surprise is that she had the patience to allow any of us to survive! As Mom sometimes said, “I just about meet myself coming and going.” It was nice to see how she was able to be more patient and take more time with Tammy and Jill. She had help in the form of us older siblings, and she wasn’t so harried herself.
There were times of playfulness in those early days. Since I was so young then, there are certainly some I don’t remember, but there was playing dress up in the antenna room at the Trautman place. Jim and Kay and I put on old clothes that were stored there, and, after Mom conducted some sorting of what we could wear, and what we could not, she enjoyed our “outfits.” I seem to remember a fox collar. Real fox from the 1940s. The head was on it and everything! It was creepy and fascinating, all at once.
For a well-remembered example of Mom’s more fun side with her children, read the “Egg Shampoo” story that also appears in this collection.
Like everyone, and maybe more especially mothers, there are things she would have liked to change. Fewer children might have been at the top of her list, though she dearly loved every one of her children. Mom used to tell of her childhood hopes for her adult life. She repeated this to many people:
“Rita (older sister) wanted to marry a farmer and have lots of children. I wanted to marry a businessman, live in town, and have just a few children.”
Mom did not laugh as she spoke with a wry twist to her lips. While she married the farmer and bore six children, Rita married the businessman, lived in Des Moines, Iowa, and had two children. It did appear to be an unpleasant irony for Mom. Life seldom turns out the way we plan or expect, and instead, is full of surprises. Mom adjusted.
I wonder how much our poverty bore on Mom? Perhaps not so much, since her life had been marked by a consistent level of poverty. Perhaps one of the reasons she wanted to marry the businessman was for financial security? I’m quite sure money was not the motivating factor of Mom’s life, but struggling to make ends meet takes a toll on anyone. Poverty might have been one of the forces that fed her sense of insecurity.
Mom was not verbally or physically demonstrative. There was no hugging or kisses on the cheek, except between Mom and Dad. No one said, “I love you, you mean a lot to me,” etc. Mom showed her love as best she could in the effort she put into providing for the ones she loved. There was the garden and farm, cooking, cleaning, tending to our minor injuries, and sewing or mending our clothing.
Farm Work
As Mom grew older her temper improved, though her appetite for work remained as strong as ever. As the children demanded less of her time, Mom was able to work outside more. She liked that. She often mentioned being a tomboy as a child, and liking to be outdoors. Mom was a skilled field worker. She could operate any tractor and complete any field work, with the exception of some harvesting machines like the combine.
Especially in harvest times, Mom worked in the fields. She usually drove a truck hauling grain in from the field, or a tractor pulling a wagon. Mom complained endlessly about being short. She complained when she couldn’t reach cupboards in the kitchen. She complained about how hard it was to get on and off tractors, in and out of trucks, with her short legs. It was a legitimate complaint, and as us children got older, we joked about it, while we all helped her with the getting up and down as much as possible. We got her a stool for the kitchen. In the fields we tried to give her the job using the vehicle that was the easiest to ascend and descend. Even though Mom did complain about “these darn short legs”, she did not stop working.
Being that short was a handicap in many ways when it came to field work. Shorter limbs mean less leverage. Operating the tractors of those days required strength. Some tractors did not have power steering. It took strength to push mechanical brakes, shift clutches, operate loaders, unplug machinery. Hooking up and unhooking trailers, wagons, and other implements behind the tractor or truck was even more difficult. I am 5‘ 10“, Jim is 6‘ 3“, Terry is 6‘, Dad was 5‘ 11“. Mom had a tougher job due to her “darn short legs”, and she didn’t quit.
Corral Gates
One summer day in the early 1980s, Mom and I needed to collect portable corral gates. We were going to work cattle the next morning, and needed to get set up. Dad was struggling with depression at that time, Terry was doing some field work that could not wait, and Jim was living in Colorado by then, so the job fell to Mom and I.
The gates were used in different places on the farm. They were steel tube gates, about 10 feet long and 5 feet high. They were very heavy and they had been padlocked in place by the local electric cooperative when they put electrical transmission lines on our land. (The coop put up the gates to give them access while they were in the process of building. Once they were done, the gates were ours.)
We took Old Red, a 1968 Ford F-100 pickup, to do the job. (More on Old Red in the Cars, Cars, Cars, portion.) I drove and we went to each location to get the gate. Here is what we had to do to accomplish that task:
We parked Old Red close to the gate, and began with a four pound hammer and big fence wire cutters. (The keys for the padlocks had disappeared.) Mom put the cutters on the padlocked lightweight chain, gritted her teeth, and held it in place on the link as hard as she could. I swung that hammer hard down on the cutter. Each blow shook Mom’s whole body. But she only reset, and I swung again. It usually took 3 - 4 blows to break the chain, and Mom’s teeth rattled each time.
Next I lifted the hinged end of the gate off the pins while Mom held onto the other end, keeping it upright. We dragged the gate to the tailgate of the pickup. I heaved the end of the gate up into the box, while Mom pushed from the end, until we both had the gate in Old Red as far as it would go. We picked up about 10 gates that way.
The sun was bright and the land was quiet, except for the blows of the hammer, the grunts of our efforts, and our hard breaths. We were wet with sweat, but kept our spirits up with chatter as we went from gate to gate. I don’t recall what we talked about, it probably wasn’t important, but it was a time I cherish because we were a team. We worked together, supported one another, and got a very difficult job accomplished through our own dogged efforts. I am still proud of us both, but maybe especially Mom. She loved that farm. It was hers at least as much as Dad’s, and she was willing to do whatever it took to be successful there.
I felt tired, and I was young and strong and healthy at that time. Mom was in her mid fifties. She was rightfully exhausted. Mom had insisted on participating in that big chore, not only because she was always willing to work, but because she was very protective of Dad. In the times that Dad was struggling with depression, Mom was vigilant for ways to ease his load.
Gardening
It was a blessing for the family that Mom and Dad knew how to squeeze a dollar until it screamed for mercy! We were kept fed, clothed and warm due to those efforts. It made sense to buy a pack of pea seeds in the spring, since one single pea planted resulted in dozens of fresh peas to eat.
We always had a garden. The first one I remember was at the Trautman place. There was a space on the backside of the house, between it and the trees, a shelter belt. I don’t remember what was planted there, other than tomatoes. We gave Mom plenty of grief over those tomatoes.
Kay, Jimmy and I loved tomatoes. In fact, we loved going out to the garden and snitching tomatoes. We took them into the shelterbelt of trees behind the garden, where we could eat our stolen booty secretly. We reveled in that, except for one problem: Salt.
We ate them like apples, but we had to have salt on them. Take a bite, sprinkle salt on tomato. Take a bite, shake a little more salt on. So we grabbed the salt shaker off the table and took it out with us.
That was our undoing. It wasn’t that mom was hostile to us snacking on tomatoes. But we left the salt shaker out there almost every time! Next thing mom knew, it was meal time - and no salt shaker. We had to go find it!
But many times we couldn’t find where we left it. Tomatoes might grow on vines, but salt shakers did not. Our joyful, but nefarious ways, were brought to an end.
After we moved to the Heinzerling place in 1961, we had a bigger garden. It was near the house at first too, until Dad had a water well drilled about a half mile away in the 1970s. The garden was moved there and it was big! As we children got older and able, we helped quite a bit with the gardening. I won’t say we did it with good temper. We could complain with the best of any children trying to evade work. There was planting, weeding and harvesting to be done.
We lived off that garden most of the winter, in addition to the fresh vegetables throughout the summer. Green beans, peas, carrots, radishes, lettuce, beets, and lots of tomatoes. There was sweet corn too; so much that Dad planted it in a corn field! The corn was delicious though.
Playing Games
Mom was quite competitive. She played every card game, every table game, every dice game - to win!! (See "The Heinzerling Family Game.) Sometimes Mom got quite grumpy over losses. She loved the card game, Nertz, and wanted to play frequently. Usually I won. It got to the point that I started to decline her invitation to play due to her sore loser ways.
On the other hand, Mom helped me practice for softball endlessly. It was usually after dinner at noon, after dishes were done, that I asked her to help me. I gave her a glove, picked up mine and a ball, and we went out in the yard next to the house on the south side.
Mom used to play quite a bit of softball when she was younger, and she had learned to played without a glove. She did starting using a glove because I threw pretty hard. She stood in the shade of the elm in the southwest corner of the yard, while I stood in the sun east of her. Mom insisted on being in the shade and I didn't care, as long as I got to play.
Mom threw the ball underhand on the ground toward me so I could practice fielding. (I played 3rd base.) The grass was clumpy crabgrass, an acceptable lawn at the time, so the ball took plenty of odd bounces. Mom put lots of spin on it too, which added to the difficulty.
I fielded each one, and threw it back to her as if she was a 1st baseman. I didn't throw as hard as I could or did in a game, but there was still plenty of power behind that ball. Mom caught just about every one of them. And she flinched just about every time. I always appreciated the time she gave me.
I loved every minute of it. I loved playing softball, or any kind of ball. I'm pretty sure that's why Mom agreed to my plea, "Throw me some grounders Mom. Please?" I would have kept it up for hours, but after perhaps 20 - 30 minutes, Mom was done. Her left hand, the one that caught my throws, got sore. Still, she spent time on many hot summer days standing under that elm tree throwing me tricky grounders.
The Ranch Cafe
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| Mom and granddaughter Cody, 1983. |
Mom wasn't the only family farmer who had to find work off the farm so that the bills could be paid and the family could eat. It was a very difficult time for Mom and Dad. (See "Dad" for more on this topic.)
Mom became a short-order cook, or fry cook. I'm not sure exactly what her title was. She worked from 2:00pm to closing at 10:00, Tuesday through Saturday. The Ranch was a small cafe. I think there were perhaps 10 tables. Food was typical burgers, fries, salads, steaks. Mom learned quickly, and became a popular team with the waitress. (That's what servers were called at that time in Miller.)
I don't remember the names of the owners, a married heterosexual couple, but the wife was in charge of the cafe and worked the morning shift. She wasn't all that pleasant and friendly. Mom was. Mom was a nice person. She was warm and friendly with the customers, and business picked up considerably on her shift. Mom worked hard, she was fast, her food was good, her attitude was too. People liked coming in to see her.
At the end of the day, when Mom came home, she was exhausted. She had that bad ankle that she broke in 1958. It troubled her the rest of her life. It swelled and was painful after being on her feet for so long. Mom gave all she had in defense of the farm. In the end, it wasn't enough. (See "Farm Sale" for more about that.)
Baby Whisperer
Mom was magical with babies, including infants who had never seen her before. Mom was able to work the same magical effect on babies who were known to be fussy, whose mother's were completely surprised by their baby's response.
She held the baby with both hands, the baby lying on her forearms, tilted up, looking directly into Mom's face. Mom had a wonderful, gentle, loving smile on her face; an expression of complete pleasure with the baby. She talked to the baby in a special voice. There was a certain quality, timber, tone, that immediately got the baby's attention. Mom made some movements with her head as she spoke.
Babies were mesmerized by her. It was startling to see. Wide-eyed mothers said things like: "I've never seen him behave like that before. . . .I can't believe she quit crying. . . How do you do that?!"
I discovered accidently, that sometimes I can do that too. I give all credit for that to Mom. It must be a genetic thing. It is definitely a magical thing.
Mother
Mom was not verbally or physically demonstrative. There was no hugging or kisses on the cheek, except between Mom and Dad. No one said, “I love you, you mean a lot to me, etc.” Mom showed her love and caring in the effort she put into providing for the ones she loved. There was the garden and farm, cooking, cleaning, tending to our minor injuries, and sewing or mending our clothing.
Personal conversations weren't something that Mom tended to indulge in, especially as she entered her 40s, until she got much older. She was well taught about personal reticence by her mother. Such behavior has its pluses and minuses.She and Dad had some strong disagreements, but never aired them. I wondered about that as I got older, and asked Mom about why they didn't discuss things. I got one of the most personal answers I heard from her. "We are afraid we'd say something that would hurt the other one. So we just separate, go for walks. When we get back it's okay." It seemed to work for them.
Dealing with Dad's depression was very stressful for Mom. She worked very hard to make things easier for him whenever possible, and held some deep resentments toward Dad's father. (Read more about him in "Dad".)
As Mom's stress levels rose, her eating struggles escalated. Mom never cared for the taste of alcohol and so was not tempted, so she learned to use food to bring about some peace. Mom had issues with weight most of her life, sliding up and down the weight scale. Before her life ended, she had made peace with her body.
Mom was a complex and interesting person. She could be confounding, frustrating, thoughtful and courageous. She was all those things and many more. I am certain she would be the first to say, "Don't saint-ify me. There are some things I'd love to take back, and others I wish I'd done more of. I made some big mistakes and I did some things really well."
"I made some big mistakes and I did some things really well." I think that's an excellent epitaph. Thanks, Mom.
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