Sometime in the early morning hours of 8 July 2018,
our dear mother passed away peacefully in her sleep.
One of the best days she had in a long
time came the day before when she felt alert, awake, and happy to be alive. It
was a Saturday, and she and Joan had spent time together fawning over Joan’s
new car. She was looking forward to taking a ride in it the next day.
“She was having such a good day,”
Joan told me. “Better than she’d had for years.”
As I sat in an early meeting at
Church the next morning, I got a frantic call from Joan.
“Get over here quick!” she cried in
a panicked voice. “Mom is gone!”
HER LIFE
Mom was born on 17 March 1939 in St.
Joseph, Illinois. She came from a family of eight children – five girls and
three boys. Her family moved around a lot but always stayed in a nearly 60-mile
radius: St. Joseph, Rantoul, Fisher, Paxton.
As the second oldest daughter, Mom
helped take care of the younger children while Grandma worked until they were
older and could fend for themselves. Likewise, the girls were responsible for
some of the household chores. Her sister, Caroline, recalled when Mom and the
oldest sister, Eula, were in charge of cleaning the dishes one evening. Eula
had a date and wanted to go before the chore was done. The girls decided to
hide the dirty dishes under the sink so Eula could leave for her date.
Unfortunately for them both, Grandma
found the dishes before Eula could get out of the house. She not only canceled
Eula’s plans, but she also pulled EVERY DISH out of the cabinets and made both
of them wash them all!
Mom seemed to get along with her
siblings pretty well, according to Carolyn, except for her brother, Melvin (his
nicknames were “Butch” and “Red”). He tortured her every chance he got. Here
are two examples I remember Mom telling us about.
One: Uncle Butch had a BB gun and
threatened Mom with it all the time. Once, he told her she’d better run, or he
was going to shoot her. I don’t know what she had done to make him mad, but as
she was running away, he shot her in the behind. She said she still had the
scar from it. I took her word for it.
Two: Once, when Grandma was out of
the house, Mom was watching the youngest of the siblings. Her name was Evelyn
and at the time was only a few months old. Again, Mom and Butch were fighting,
and he pushed her out of the door, baby in tow. It was the middle of winter;
there was snow everywhere and the temperature was in the single digits. He then
locked the door and wouldn’t let her back in. She knew the baby couldn’t be out
in that weather, so she laid Evelyn on top of the bushes and ran her arms
through the window on the door so she could get back in. She still had the scars
from that one as well.
Side note: Uncle Butch changed a lot
when he was older. Before he passed away from cancer, he had become a faithful
Christian and was Master of Ceremonies at the Sunday evening Cowboy Church in
Hoopeston for many years. He and Mom became very close during that time.
Mom and Dad were married on 7
September 1954. Within eight years, they had six children. Dad wanted to have a
dozen; I'm not sure why. Maybe so we could all help him on the farm? Or because
he just wanted a big family. Anyway, after Joan (her youngest) was born, the
doctor told Dad, that unless he wanted to raise them by himself, Mom was done
having babies. So, they stopped at six.
We lived next door to the family
that Dad had lived with for many years: our Great Uncle and Aunt, Manual and
Lizzie Oyer, and their three daughters, Elsie, Bessie, and Mary. We called
Manual “Uncle Man” for short. People sometimes looked at us funny when we
called him that, but we never thought anything about it. We were all very close
to them as we were growing up, but when Mom first met them, she was very shy.
She was completely shocked and embarrassed when Dad lifted Bessie up in the air
and sat her on top of the refrigerator; he kind of folded her in half and stuck
her up there. Bessie was a small woman; her growth was stunted when she
contracted Anthrax as a child so she fit up there pretty well. Mom thought Dad
had truly lost his mind, especially when he went outside and left Bessie
sitting on the refrigerator with no way down. But apparently, this was a
favorite game of theirs, and he always came back eventually to lift her down to
the floor. She was probably fifty years old at the time.
Mom grew very close to Uncle Man,
Aunt Lizzie, and their daughters, and they depended on her in their later years
when my aunt and uncle grew ill and needed help. After they passed away, Mom
would look after the three daughters who had never married and were growing
older themselves. Mom and Joan took two of the sisters, Elsie and Mary, into
their home after Bessie passed away. To them, Mom was like a daughter, and I
know they appreciated her even when they forgot to say thank you.
Mom was close to her mother
throughout her life, and we spent a lot of time at Grandma’s house when we were
growing up. That began to change when we reached our teenage years, and Mom
started working full-time; there just wasn’t enough time to visit much anymore.
But they talked on the phone a lot, and that made Mom happy.
Toward the end of her life, Grandma
spent more time with Mom in Florida after Mom and Dad moved there. Mom was
always very happy when Grandma could travel there for a visit. It broke Mom’s
heart when Grandma passed away.
My mother had a variety of jobs as
we were growing up. She worked at the broom factory in Paxton for a time. She
also worked as a nurse’s aide at the Gibson City Hospital and as a cashier in a
grocery store in the same town. She spent a lot of time helping Dad on the
farm. Later, she started taking care of the elderly in their homes as a private
care nurse; that was the job she carried for the rest of her working life until
she was in her late sixties.
Throughout her life, Mom was always
doing for others. She often spent her days cooking and taking food to friends
and neighbors who were ill or hurt and needed help. She would feed them, do up
the dishes, and help in whatever way she could before she left their home. This
is what led to the work she did and loved. She was good at it, her patients and
their families loved her, and often all of us would become like family to them
as well. She was such a good example of this caring and loving spirit for us; three
of her four daughters have followed in her footsteps for many years.
Family and friends have told me
recently how much they admired my mother. My Aunt Karen, Dad’s sister, told me how
she knew Mom loved and admired my Dad, even saying that Mom “put him on a
pedestal.” She remembered that at family get-togethers, Dad would say to Mom,
“Fix me a plate of food.”
“And she’d do it,” Aunt Karen said
in amazement. “She would actually get him his food and drink and serve it to
him while he sat. I thought, ‘Get up and get it yourself, Brother.’ But Wilma
didn’t seem to mind. She worshiped that man.”
When I mentioned this to my sisters,
we all had to have a little chuckle. That’s how Mom was when we were with
family. She didn’t want anyone to think there were any problems between them,
so she kept her feelings to herself until we were in the car.
I don’t know if it was worship
exactly. But she did love him a lot.
Carolyn also said Mom always fixed Dad’s
plate at our family dinner with that side of the family. She took care of him
and his needs, the needs of all of us children, and helped anyone else who
needed it BEFORE she ate her meal, often cold and sparse by the time she sat to
eat.
Yes, Mom loved Dad a lot. And she
loved him to her final breath. But that didn’t stop her from reading the riot
act when we were far enough from family events and well on our way home.
Afterward, it got really cold and quiet in the car until we got home. No one
dared to speak before then and take the chance of her wrath turning on them. I
don’t know that it was so much about fixing his plate; that was a given by
then. But Daddy’s easy-going, sometimes off-hand comments (“you’ll get glad in
the same clothes you got mad in”) had a way of digging into her side like a
thorn, and watch out if he did! (Funny thing – she used the same comments on us
kids!)
Like the egg incident. I don’t know
what my father said to make Mom so angry, but as he walked out the door and
past the kitchen window, she threw an entire dozen eggs at him. Of course, they
hit the window instead of Dad. I made the mistake of sticking around to watch
and ended up being the one to clean it up.
Dad wasn’t the only person that
could incur the wrath of Mom. Shall I make a list? We’ll start with us
children. Of course, we deserved everything we got. For instance, we had a bad
habit of waiting until Mom was sleeping (she was working nights then) and then
asking her if we could go down to the creek. We knew what the answer would be
if she was awake and alert, but a sleeping mother will give you whatever answer
you want. We asked rather than just going because then we could say, “You told
us we could go” before getting the switch. Which always came anyway. And if not
a switch, a wooden spoon would suffice. We went through a lot of wooden spoons
when we were kids.
Husband, kids, and even parents
could get Mom riled. I think the one that got her the most steamed up was her
father. Grandpa just had a way of getting under Mom’s skin until she was
boiling.
Once, Grandpa was up to his usual
hazing; we could see her face turning red and the steam coming from her nostrils.
She was holding a frozen whole chicken she had planned to cook for dinner;
something about food and Mom’s temper – not a good combination. Anyway, he said
the wrong thing about the time she was holding that still-frozen chicken by the
leg, when she suddenly swung around and hit Grandpa upside the head with that
rock-hard bird and knocked him right off the chair he was sitting in. She was
going after him again when her brother walked in and got Grandpa up and out of
the way. But as he ran out the door and down the road, Mom was close behind,
still wielding that poor chicken. I’m not sure how far she chased him before
she gave up and came home, still carrying the now half-thawed and badly beaten
hen. I think she was still planning to cook it for dinner, but someone
intervened.
Honestly, Mom put up with a lot from
Dad, her kids, and other members of the family. But, despite how we stirred her
pot, she still loved us and showed it in so many ways.
Grocery store trips were fun when it
was just one of us and Mom. We always got something special on those occasions.
I knew she couldn’t afford much, so I tried not to ask for anything, but Mom
never neglected to find something extra.
My mother was the best cook and
baker in the world. It’s kind of amazing when you learn that the first meal she
cooked for Dad was fried eggs…fried in vinegar instead of oil. Dad ate them
anyway, but Mom was so upset; she told me she vowed right then never to cook
again.
But when she went next door to
Uncle’s place, she was given some tips from the ladies, and she was soon the
best cook in a hundred miles – or so we believed. And so did Dad. He
loved her cooking! Sometimes I would hear him tease her if she asked how it
was; “Better than eggs fried in vinegar!” he would say.
Her baked goods were the best,
especially her rolls. No matter how many times I’ve tried, even with her
standing behind me and giving me directions, mine never tasted as soft and
yummy as hers. Everyone craved her rolls and was so grateful to receive them.
She would get in a baking mood and produced around ten dozen rolls at a time,
and several types: dinner rolls, cinnamon rolls, cheese knots (they had Swiss
cheese in them), and sweet rolls (cinnamon rolls with a caramel coating). Dad
would come home on those days, look at the table covered with these goodies,
and shake his head.
You don’t bake for two months,” he
would say, “and now it looks like you’re trying to kill me with all these
rolls.” He was the first to dig in!
My sisters shared some of their
favorite memories of Mom. Beverly talked about being able to spend Mom’s last
year with her in her home. When Mom could no longer stay at home alone because
of her failing eyesight, Beverly retired from her job and stayed with Mom every
day while Joan was working, took her to dialysis, and kept her company. Joan
talked about living with Mom for several years and how close she and Mom were.
And of course, we all fell in love with her selflessness and the life lessons
she taught us.
Several other family members and
friends had fond memories of my mother. Aunt Karen and Aunt Carol spoke very
highly of her for her cooking and baking, her kindness to others and how much
she did for them over herself, and how much she loved my father.
Juanita Unzicker said, “I remember
your mom always making me feel like I was something special. She was always so
loving, sweet, and kind. Talking with her was like getting a big warm hug. I
really did love her.”
She also remembered Mom’s temper.
She and her parents were visiting us once, and Mom was mad at one of us kids.
Juanita didn’t remember which one or why. But she remembered the conversation
between our moms.
“I remember (Wilma) apologizing and
saying, ' Oh these kids.' My mom just looked at me and said, ‘Wilma, I know.’
Color me embarrassed.”
Some of my best memories with Mom
were from my childhood and the way she pampered me when I was sick or hurt. I
remember a time when I was so sick; Mom was sure I had pneumonia. She laid me
on the couch and put a hot compress on my chest. Then she warmed some whiskey
and told me to sip it every few minutes. I slept exceptionally well that
night, and by morning, my congestion and cough had almost disappeared.
On another occasion, after I had
fallen on my knee, she sat up with me all night, patting my back and rubbing my
hair, crying along with me until I fell asleep. I always felt bad about making
Mom cry.
Another favorite memory of Mom was
when I bought her a small cactus in a pot for Mother’s Day. She set it in the
kitchen window so she could admire it. One day as I walked to the kitchen
faucet to get a drink of water, I was stopped in my tracks by the sight on the
window...all over the window!
“Mom,” I called, “what happened to
the cactus?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Did you over-water it? It looks
like it exploded.” She just shrugged her shoulders and looked sheepish.
My Aunt Carol remembered Mom telling
her this story. She said, “Your Mom told me that she thought if she was thirsty,
the cactus must be thirsty, too.” Okay, she over-watered it.
There was a time when Mom and I did
not get along so well; we didn’t see eye to eye on things. But during those
last few years, when I was able to spend more time with her, we grew closer.
She apologized to me once for not being the best mother she could be. I told
her she was the best mother I could ever ask for, and I was sorry for the
problems I caused her. In the end, we parted closer than ever.
HER PASSING
“What do you mean, Mom is gone?” I
asked, confused at first. Mom had lost her sight and would sometimes get lost
in the house. Had she gotten outside by mistake and wandered down the street?
“Joan, are you there?” She had hung up, and then I realized what she was
telling me.
By the time I made it across town to
the house Mom and Joan shared, the police and coroner were there. Soon after,
the owners of the funeral home arrived, and Joan seemed calmer but now in shock
and not quite comprehending what had happened.
“She was fine yesterday,” she kept
saying. “She was having such a good day.”
So it is, it seems; before the
terminally ill take their final breaths, there often is what is known as “the
rallying effect,” or as some hospice nurses and aids call it, “terminal
lucidity.” It’s a final day with family and friends in which they are more
aware of their surroundings, alert to the activities and conversations of their
vigilant family members; a final day of joy and camaraderie before they say
goodbye. I am so glad that Joan was afforded this opportunity. She and Mom had
lived together for many years, and I couldn’t imagine Mom spending that last
good day with anyone else.
The greatest honor in my life was
singing my mother’s favorite hymn to her at her funeral. It was just for her. I
didn’t care if anyone else heard, as long as I knew she was listening. She was
always my biggest fan.
