Have you your garden cultivated yet? How is the well- watered lawn looking? If you are like me, you struggle to keep up with this, seemingly, losing battle.
My yard is saturated with so much water from the abundance of rainfall of recent days. It will be a while, still, before the plow can be used and that's OK, but, the grass is leaning toward must do now or bring in the cows.
Friday, I was pleasantly surprised when a delivery person from Mid-Town Florist of Cloverdale delivered a FTD bouquet of fresh-cut flowers. The beautiful arrangement of roses and stargazer lilies was presented in a pink cut glass vase.
My daughter, Starla Mc Hugh, the mother of two sons, and a daughter sent the early Mother's Day gift to me. She and her sister, Lori Ann Patrick, the mother of five daughters are the flowers of my world. It is a pleasure to be their mother and the grandmother to their wonderful children.
Paul Sartor Jr. (1960-1962) my only son lives on in my heart. This mother's love for him shall never wane.
Thursday, May 6, 2004, I wrote about another mother -- my own. I don't make a habit of repeating myself, but since that particular Mother's Day that I mentioned will be forever, indelibly etched, in my mind, a special day in the life of a beautiful mother, as seen through her child's eyes is revisited.
So it is, I look back!
She swept the front room rug, briskly, with her big old straw kitchen broom. Her mother once told her to sprinkle damp table salt onto the 9x12 floor cover. Grandma pointed out that the wet white stuff in the pie pan would collect the dirt, brighten-up and bring out the colors of the oriental designed pattern of the rug just like cornmeal cleaned Dad's dress hat.
She soon found that, Grandma knew her stuff. The rug smelled like the sea and the nap awoke from deep sleep.
The rough hewn floor planks surrounding her carpet shined like a pond on a moonlit night. The odor of freshly applied dark oak hi-gloss enamel still permeated the room. The leather surface of the mission-style couch was seasoned and supple and the tiger oak wood that framed it was treated with Rex Furniture Oil (I still have the dated half full bottle-a keepsake). The jacket that covered our Majestic heating stove sparkled. The smelly ash pan, I personally dumped the contents in the chicken pen.
The mix of smells would mask any mistakes.
The green floral draperies were new. The window coverings were made of some kind of heavy-duty paper that came in various patterns, and some plain. The unusual window dressings flew out the doors of G.C. Murphy Co., during World War II and the days that followed. She grabbed up two pair, 84 long. The happy housewife hooked them to the rod with the longest ends, after the window blinds got a wake-up call and the sheers stood at attention.
Her draperies were blooming at their best and emitting a strong, almost nauseating scent of geraniums- a bonus I theorized.
The lacy white panels beneath them had been laundered, stiffly starched, and stretched to the limits by Rosie McKeen's mother.
The ivory keys of her upright Hammond piano gleamed after I gave them a cleaning with Arm & Hammer baking soda and a damp cloth. On the ledge above them, --sheet music purchased at Damn's Music Store --songs like "Sentimental Journey etc., familiar names such as Jerome Kern, Cole Porter and George Beverly Shea overlapped in perfect alignment, waiting to be recognized and heard.
A tattered brown Methodist hymnal would likely get the most use.
The young mother was lovely that day--Mother's Day, of so long ago still lingers in my mind, vividly.
She washed her chestnut brown hair in Halo shampoo and rinsed it in White Rain. She damp dried her crowning glory with a stiff line-dried terry towel. Then, the, in house, beautician applied a few generous globs of wave set to her straight mane.
In her quest to achieve a tightly curled do, the queen of " make-do" rolled her hair with a No.2 lead pencil and secured the works with a fist full of "lost and found" bobby pins.
The gal with the million-dollar smile applied vivid red Hazel Bishop lipstick to her lips and etched her eyebrows with a moist spent kitchen match and a steady hand. Rouge from a small pot bearing the same name as the aforementioned cosmetic brand added color to her flawless ivory complexion. A pretty sky blue dress embellished with white trim wore well on her frail frame.
She inspected her little girl's, adjusted their satin hair bows, and hurried off to the window to watch for her guests. It was Mother's Day. Her mother and two sisters would be spending a couple of hours of the afternoon with us that would bring promise of good conversation, merriment, and pleasant sounding music.
After the family arrived and favorable remarks were made about the living room, she gave the top of the piano stool a quick turn around and the gifted musician's fingers moved across the keyboard like magic. The little songbird's melodious voice filled the room. Soon the Siner sister's were in concert. It was plain to see that a not-so-ordinary lazy Sunday afternoon would end as a perfect day and it did.
The strong lady and major influence of my life was my mother, Geneva Edith Siner Lynch--and I loved her with all of my heart, as did my sister, Sandra Lynch Gallardo and our brother, the late John Wayne Lynch. She was, no doubt, a wonderful mother to my siblings, the late Etta Ann Lynch and Larry Hugh Lynch as well. Her precious babies lost their young lives to a condition of the blood, -a hemorrhagic state called "purpura." They passed away at the ages of seven and five, respectively, ten days apart, at Riley Children's Hospital, in March of 1943.
Happy Mother's Day to all moms-from me! God Bless.
I can be reached at 446-4852 or by email at firstname.lastname@example.org.