January Column Winner

A Bubble Off Plumb

By Connie Burcham, Watonga Republican

My mother would have been 100 years old today. I find it hard to believe she has been gone 15 years, and I catch myself every-day thinking I should call her and tell her about something. 

I think about the things she saw change in her life-time. There were politicians she disliked, and nations she never forgave. She’d lived through the second World War and those nations killed people she knew and loved. 

She was pretty tough on us, too. I grew up as part of a tribe of young’uns that she raised solo after my dad died far too young. We’d better stay on the straight and narrow or else. None of us ever found out what ‘or else’ meant. We were too scared. 

I don’t know how, but we grew up never knowing we were poor. I mean dirt had more money. I remember going for groceries and driving back as far as we could before we ran out of gasoline. All three of us girls went along so we could carry bags home. Overnight the older brothers found or appropriated gas and the car was home by morning. 

As Christmas approached each year, we picked pecans and gathered old newspapers to sell for holiday money. We learned the value of hard work and how to wait for what we wanted. We learned how to separate wants from needs.

Luckily, I had an older sister whose clothes could be cut down to fit me, and a grandmother who lived with us to do the handiwork. Looking at it now, I think Grandma was probably there not just to help with housework and child-care, but also with her own meager Social Security and tiny pension.

I learned not to put emphasis on clothes, looks and other things girls are prone to obsess about. If any of us were leaning toward vanity, the air got let out of us quick with a sharp, “What makes you think anyone is looking at you?” 

But the same lady found a way to purchase a deep green velvet dress for my first FFA banquet. That was so long ago no one knew what a girl FFA member should wear for the annual ‘Father and Son Banquet.’ That dress was so precious that I saved it and made Christmas dresses out of the fabric for my own daughters. 

My dearest hope is that I have passed far more along to them than deep green velvet. I pray they have the tenacity, perseverance and sheer guts it took to be a runner on Wall Street at 18, to be part of the crowd on the street in New York on VE Day and to raise a herd of children – her own as well as several that needed a safe place to be -- as a single parent. I hope they see that, although they’re all married, they don’t need a spouse to be complete. We girls learned that when our mother never dated as a widow. To her, it was not worth the risk that her daughters could fall victim to someone who would be known today as a child predator. We learned to put the needs of others ahead of ourselves. 

We learned all that and more from her. She left a tidy little estate because she spent a lot of time judiciously choosing the developers who bought our little farm. 

Mom stayed in her home until, literally, her dying day. She felt poorly, went to the urgent care, was admitted to the hospital and was dead by mid-night. No fuss, no bother. 

What a huge legacy to hand down. How to carry ourselves in adversity, in celebration, in poverty, in life and in death. How to deal with the realities of daily life, bills that are due and roofs that need replaced and strained bank accounts without letting it steal our joy or tainting our behavior.

Thanks, Mom. And happy birthday.