She Is Different

Once, as a teenager, I paid a visit to relatives back home,Along with cousins and aunts; stopped by to visit one of Mom’s sisters. I grew bored with the porch swing and remember going into the house; sitting on a couch.

After a time, I grew tired of reading True Romance and detective magazines.
Walking back into the kitchen, I overheard the women talking on the back porch;
Their conversation was about Berneice Middleton; my Mom………
“I know what you mean”, I heard someone say; “she is kind of funny; she is different”.

Those words troubled me; leaving me with a feeling of sadness and concern.
Funny how the years have changed my perception and feelings about that day.
Yes, Mom was DIFFERENT! Mom was different in so many ways. Mom was a nervous, discontented sort of woman at times. But she compensated for those traits with a strong compliment of determination. Determination and hard work; all the while with a song or a poem on the tip of her tongue. Yes, she was different and so am I; proudly so. From her, I inherited a nervous discontent, along with a good deal of skepticism and call to action.

She was rarely content, often interested in the world around her; always eager for a change of scene. With Dad, she shared many quiet evenings reading and listening to music in their later years. But as a young mother, she was quite attentive and concerned about her family. She was always busy tending to the house, the garden, and the laundry. Life at home was very peaceful, secure, and predictable; every meal at the expected time. There was never any question about the daily routine; she saw to it.

Yet ever present in her emotion and demeanor one could see or sense it…. Yes, she was different. She was an impetuous dreamer and sometimes very demanding Mom. She expected a lot from her family but was always an enthusiastic participant as well.

Because she loved poetry, I have come to feel her spirit in some of my favorite poems and readings. Here are a few excerpts that for me will represent the essence of my Mom’s memory which I carry now and in years to come:

From “Song of the Open Road” by Walt Whitman

Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose.
Henceforth I ask not good-fortune---I myself am good fortune;
Henceforth I whimper no more; postpone no more, need nothing,
Strong and content, I travel the open road.

From Orion Mountain Dreamer “The Invitation”

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living,
I want to know what you ache for,
And if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are,
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love,
For your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

From James Kavanaugh “Men Too Gentle to Live Among Wolves”

Some people do not have to search,
They find their niche early in life and rest there,
seemingly contented and resigned.
They do not seem to ask much of life,
Sometimes they do not seem to take it seriously.
At times I envy them – but usually I do not understand them,
Seldom do they understand me.

I am one of the searchers.
There are, I believe, millions of us.
We are not unhappy, but neither are we really content.
We continue to explore life, hoping to uncover its ultimate secret.
We continue to explore ourselves, hoping to understand.

Our sadness is as much a part of our lives as is our laughter.
To share our sadness with ones we love is perhaps as great a joy as we can know,
Unless it be to share our laughter.

We searchers are ambitious only for life itself,
For everything beautiful it can provide.
Most of all we want to love and be loved.
We want to live in relationships that will not impede our wandering,
Nor prevent our search, nor lock us in prison walls.

We do not want to prove ourselves to another or compete for love.
We are wanderers, dreamers, and lovers,
Lonely souls who dare to ask of life everything good and beautiful.

One final thought about Mom

Recently, our daughter Jaci asked us to adopt one of her cats because it was sick and needed special attention. Judy took Rhoda in and nursed her back to health. It wasn’t easy, because Rhoda is DIFFERENT.

No, Rhoda is not like most cats, not mellow, cuddly, and purring; but rather wild and skittish.

For days, she hid in the laundry room behind the washer and dryer and then in the family room behind the entertainment center. Gradually, she began to trust us enough to let us watch her eat.

After weeks, she began to sneak into our bedroom and sleep under the bed. Next thing you know she had taken over my favorite rocking chair in our bedroom. That is now her chair and her bed. In the early morning hours while we are clinging to the last hour or so of precious sleep, Rhoda jumps up on our bed and stands on us as if demanding we get up and feed her.

In a different sort of way; in a way others may not understand, I have come to see Mom in Rhoda. Rhoda is nervous and slow to trust, but full of energy; sometimes bounding up the stairs and swatting one of her play toys.

Like Mom, Rhoda enjoys being outdoors, but keeps a careful eye on the back door; always worried we might close it and lock her out. She watches us closely and sometimes comes near, allowing a brief caress but afraid of getting too close. Somewhere in her past, she learned not to trust but to fear.

I will always treasure my Mom for the dedication she showed to our family in spite of her own upbringing in the midst of sadness and deprivation.