Mother’s Day, 1979
… As she adjusted to being in the new role, my little brother and I adapted to calling her Mother.
My little brother and I trudged through the woody underbrush at the back of our property. There weren’t a whole lot of wildflowers on our land at this time of year, but we were determined to find something.
Ah, there they were! The waxy white petals of the May apple (Podophyllum peltatum) were on display! We plucked several of the tall green stems, topped with two large umbrella-like leaves covering the single blossom, and then each clutching an odd, bundled bouquet in our little hands, ran back toward the house.
Two weeks before my 5th birthday, on August 11, 1973, my dad married my head-start teacher and my brothers and I gained a new mom. She was 26 at the time and had never been married. Even though she had worked as an elementary school teacher since college graduation, the role of “mother” was foreign to her. I’m not sure if she was delusional at the time or if she really was that head over heels in love with my dad … nevertheless, she bravely took on the role of step mom to three children, aged nine, five and three.
As she adjusted to being in the new role, my little brother and I adapted to calling her Mother. My older brother soon went to live with our birth mother who had left the three of us with my dad earlier that year, but that’s a story for another day.
Within a few years, my parents decided they wanted to build their own home. They found eight beautiful, wooded acres right on US Route 40 — the original National Road. The parcel was covered with ancient white oak, mystical ash and shagbark hickory trees. I loved hearing stories of how around the mid-19th century, camps of gypsies supposedly hung out in our woods as the road was being constructed toward its western terminus in my hometown of Vandalia, IL. I could see, in my mind’s eye, the spots where they had surely parked their wagons and set up their tents in the shade of those old oak trees.
My brother and I quickly became acquainted with every inch of the eight acres, both through work and play. We helped our dad clear the underbrush on six of them, build a bridge across the stream, thin out some of the trees, split and stack the wood, pick up piles and piles of sticks, and rake the leaves of all six acres by hand. We assisted as he used old-fashioned hand tools to split and debark some of the oak logs into rails, carefully chiseling the ends to fit into the hand-drilled and chiseled receptacles he’d created in oak posts for the split-rail fence that marked the boundaries of our property.
We took advantage of every opportunity though for exploring, creating trails, sailing paper boats in the creek, attempting to climb very tall, straight trees, stumbling upon yellow jacket nests, rolling down the hill into mountains of leaves, ripping poison ivy vines from trees with our bare hands, and playing hide ‘n seek as dusk fell and the chirp of the cicadas filled the evening air. There were times when Mom came to “the woods” with us, but more often than not she was doing her own thing …. I suspect she welcomed the reprieve, and I certainly can’t blame her. However, I do recall a very specific incident during the construction of the house when dad talked her into climbing up onto the roof.
My brother and I had been ‘assisting’ Dad with putting on the heavy asphalt shingles, but of course he continuously had to raise his voice to get us back onto the task of handing him shingles or refilling his nail pouch since we were off running the ridges and sliding down the valleys. Perhaps his desire for a more reliable assistant is the reason he talked Mom into joining us on our perch high in the sky.
There was only one problem. She was terrified of heights. My dad no doubt came to regret the decision to coax her up onto the roof. When I say it took hours to summon enough courage to move her feet from the edge of the roof to the first rung of the ladder, I’m not exaggerating. Okay, perhaps it wasn’t hours, as in multiple hours — maybe just one hour — but even without the “forever” perspective of a nine year old it was still a very, very long time. I’ll never forget the terror in her voice as she eventually got herself turned around and tenuously conquered step after step until she finally touched terra firma. I don’t think my dad ever lured her onto a ladder again, but I certainly gained a valuable lesson in patience and overcoming one’s fears.
After passing my 10th and my brother’s 8th birthdays at the end of summer and continuing to work into late fall, the house was finally ready. We moved in sometime that winter. To avoid having to switch schools mid-year, we rode to town with Mom since she taught at a school in our old district. We were thrilled to have a reprieve from being latchkey kids and riding a school bus! As a teacher, she was required to arrive at her school before the buses dropped off the kids in the morning and then stay until they were gone in the afternoon. Therefore, my brother and I got to walk the half mile from her school to ours in the morning and back in the afternoon. Wow, we thought we were big stuff! Not only did we get to ride to Mom’s workplace, sunk into the white leather seats of her big old Chrysler New Yorker, but for at least a few months we got to walk to school like the “town kids”.
I think perhaps it was this experience of going to school with Mom on a daily basis that really sealed the deal for me and my brother. We had had a good five years to adjust to each other by this time. Whatever the case, I know that we were very excited to get out and scavenge the woods to retrieve something that would show her how much we appreciated her that Mother’s Day morning. Little did we know, but this gangly woodland plant, the May apple, is poisonous if ingested in large quantities. Even worse, it has the reputation of being extremely malodorous. In other words, it stinks to high heaven!
We proudly handed our sweet, wonderful mom the precious bouquets from our trek into the wild woods as we said in unison, “Happy Mother’s Day!” She exclaimed, “How beautiful! Thank you!” and gave us each a hug before placing the awkward bundles in a vase of water.
A smile has spread across my face and my heart is full as I remember how graciously she accepted our comical, smelly gift. Her penchant for goodness, kindness and grace will forever be part of her legacy.
Earlier this week one of my old friends from grade school and Girl Scout days posted a Facebook status regarding Teacher’s Appreciation Week. In this post she honored “four amazing teachers” from her past, including “Linda Barbee Willms who was so sweet and kind to me as I entered a new school in 3rd grade”. Another of Mom’s former students left a comment on the thread, “Aw! Ms. Willms was my favorite teacher in 3rd grade too!”
My mom left the teaching field 30 years ago to join my dad in our family business. Other than that one summer of head start, I never had the privilege of having her as a classroom teacher. However, I’m so grateful to say that I did — and will forever more — have the privilege of having her as a Life teacher and the honor of calling her Mom.
I love you, Mom! Happy Mother’s Day!
Heartfelt thanks to Tracey Pharoah for her thoughtful feedback, suggestions and edits … much appreciated!!
