By Bob Chrisman
Mom (1927), author Bob Chrisman’s mother in October 1927 at age 12, all images (unless otherwise noted) © 2008 by Bob Chrisman. All rights reserved.
On November 30, 2008 my mother would have observed the 93rd anniversary of her birth. In her life she witnessed many things. Sometimes we lose ourselves in the muddle and mire of our everyday lives. We rarely step back to see the sweep of history that has unfolded during our lifetimes. Here are some of the things my mother experienced.
My mother came into the world in a little rented house in rural northwestern Missouri. Most women didn’t have babies in hospitals. Her family lived in a three-room house heated by a coal stove. They had no indoor plumbing. The outhouse sat out back. The water pump stood in the side yard. They heated water for baths and bathed in a washtub placed next to the stove. In the fall, they dug a hole in the backyard, lined it with hay, and stored vegetables and fruits. They lived off that storehouse during the winter.
She and my father bought and paid for a house in the 1940s, only four rooms, but they owned it and it had indoor plumbing. She kept the refrigerator-freezer packed with food bought at grocers, then markets, then supermarkets, and finally at SUPER marts.
She rode a horse to the one-room school house. She quit school in the 8th grade to work at the local switchboard with her sister, Faye. Her parents needed help. She made sure that both of her children attended high school and college.
The wall-mounted box phones of the 1920s turned into heavy black things, like the one she had for 57 years. She never liked portable phones or cell phones. They belonged in science fiction movies or the Dick Tracy cartoon strip. Not everyone owned a phone. When more people did, they had party lines, not private ones. She had the last party line in St. Joseph.
Her first radio sat in a huge cabinet filled with tubes. Only one person could listen to it through a headset. Radios shrank to portables and then transformed into transistor radios until they virtually disappeared into matchbox-sized squares.
She bought a black-and white TV in 1957 “for the kids.” The colors on the first color television hurt her eyes so she didn’t buy one until the late 1970s.
Music progressed from popular music, played by ear by her youngest sister, to records shared by friends. Records changed from brittle 78 rpm platters played on hand-cranked machines to thin, plastic 45s and LPs played on systems. She listened in high fidelity and then stereo. Records became 8-track tapes, then cassette tapes, and finally compact discs.
She used a wringer washer, which was a great improvement over the washboard and wash tub. She never owned an automatic washing machine. When a wringer broke in the early 1990s she tried to buy a new machine. “Bob, they told me they stopped making those about 20 years ago.” She never bought another washing machine. She discovered the laundry mat.
She line-dried clothes, outside in nice weather and inside in the kitchen during inclement weather. She bought a clothes dryer in 1969 when the amount of laundry generated by my invalid father required quickly dried clothes.
She went from Lou Levin’s “Happy Days Are Here Again” to Amy Winehouse’s “Rehab.” She endured “Scotch and Soda” by the Kingston Trio, a favorite of my sister, to Aretha Franklin screaming “Think,” my favorite. She never stopped loving Bing Crosby and Big Band music.
The first time she saw a car and an airplane, she thought how odd they looked. She never learned to drive. She flew for the first time in the early 1960s. She watched animals go into space, followed by humans, and then Americans who landed and walked on the Moon.
She lived through the numerous conflicts in which America engaged: World Wars I & II, Korea, and Vietnam. Her life ended with the nation at war in Afghanistan and Iraq (the sequel). She saw enemy nations become friends and then enemies and sometimes friends again.
She didn’t worry about who became president. She survived the administrations of 16 presidents: Wilson, Harding, Coolidge, Hoover, FDR (three times), Truman, Eisenhower, JFK, LBJ, Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush I, Clinton, and Bush II. She never missed an election. Besides, she couldn’t complain if she hadn’t voted.
Women won the right to vote during her early years, but she never saw the passage of the Equal Rights Amendment. Despite her lack of equality, she ran the household. She joined other women who ran their households, churches, and school and civic organizations. She knew that women ruled the world. She lived to see women lead nations and corporations and go to Congress.
She saw Blacks fight for their rights as citizens and she supported them. She believed that ALL Americans were created equal and should be treated equally by the law. She supported the equal rights of homosexuals. During “Don’t ask, Don’t tell” she wrote letters to her Congressional representatives. “I told them that ho-ma-sex-yalls and lespians should be able to serve their country. If we had more of them in the service, we wouldn’t have all those illegitimate children running around overseas.” An argument I have never heard expressed by anyone else.
She survived the flu epidemic of 1918 that killed millions of Americans. She protected her children from polio during the 1950s. She watched advances in medicine that eliminated so many diseases, yet never cured cancer or AIDS.
She made it through the Great Depression, the Red Scare, and the anti-war movement. She saw the assassinations of JFK, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and Bobby Kennedy.
Hemlines rose and fell, the same with empires, nations, religious leaders, and the stock market. She outlived her parents, her sisters, her cousins, and some of their children. She experienced a lot of life in those 92, going on 93, years.
Take some time and reflect on your life. What have you seen change in your lifetime? For 10 minutes, go.
Mom (1999), taken by the author’s friend, Sandra McGuire,
photo © 1999-2008 by Sandra McGuire. All rights reserved.
Bob Chrisman is a Kansas City, Missouri writer who frequently writes memoir about his mother and his childhood. The first piece he published on red Ravine, Hands, talked about his mother’s final days and her death.
His other red Ravine posts include Growing Older, Goat Ranch, Stephenie Bit Me, Too, and The Law Of Threes.
It is 3:30 AM. Snow fell during the night and covered the cars on the street. The ground and sidewalks are wet but still too warm for the snow to stick there. I have sat in meditation for half and hour because I couldn’t go back to sleep. While I was awake I thought I would check the piece and then go back to bed for a couple more hours of sleep.
She has been dead for only 9 months and already I have forgotten the sound of her voice. I remember her words and the things she told me. The pictures capture her life, at least from the years I can remember.
A time of remembering and a time of forgetting, like the snow outside covers the cars and makes them white lumps in the street, ghosts of what they are, but the streets and sidewalks remain visible and real. Time to go back to bed.
Mom, the Prajna Paramita Mantra in your memory on your 93rd birthday anniversary: Gone, Gone, Gone Beyond. Altogether gone beyond. Altogether free at last.
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Bob, this is the morning of Advent Sunday — the arrival of a person or thing. Your mother “arrived” in so many ways, no?
I’m struck by the litany-like rhythm of your prose: “She used a wringer washer, she lined-dried clothes, she saw Blacks fight for, she survived the flu . . . .” and this summation: “Hemlines rose and fell, the same with empires, nations, religious leaders, and the stock market.” I found the pace and detached observation quite effective for marking the changes in one’s lifetime. I’ll ponder the changes in my own lifetime later, but want to sit with your mother’s for a while. Not just that, but the profound sadness seeping through everywhere in your piece. I sense the staccato-rhythm is a way to keep the pain at arm’s length, still. All these details. Evidence of much loss. Surely much pain.
Thanks for providing the photos. I see your face particularly in the first beautiful photo in this piece. Look at those curious, mischievous, deep eyes. They’re yours, too.
Rest in peace, mom.
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A couple more things: Bob — this line in your first comment to your post is beautiful: “A time of remembering and a time of forgetting, like the snow outside covers the cars and makes them white lumps in the street, ghosts of what they are, but the streets and sidewalks remain visible and real.”
Thank you.
ybonesy and QuoinMonkey — redRavine posts are consistently beautifully designed.
Thank you.
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Flannista, thank you for the early AM comments. So many things happened in her life that I included the ones I remembered most. I have an autobiography that she wrote for me in the mid-1980’s which I will dig out and maybe include some parts of during the day.
Sadness? Yes, I miss her, but I would never want her back in the state she endured the last 5 years of her life. If her version of heaven came true, she is quite happy now.
Sadness too that we must let everything go. And, in the end, we must leave. That grips me most right now. That I will lose myself and beautiful, exquisite people like you, ybonesy, QuionMonkey, and all my writing friends and family of choice carries a lot of sadness…a reality, but a sadness too.
The joy is that I have however many more moments to bathe in the warmth of the caring and love of these people. That keeps me going.
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Bob, what a beautiful piece and wonderful tribute to your mother. It’s a pleasure to publish it. I am just getting started with the day but love that you were up at 4am with the Prajna Paramita Mantra. It makes me peaceful just to think about it.
It is snowing here in Minnesota this morning and I find myself looking out the window and thinking about your mother’s life — all that she saw in her lifetime. I, too, love to mark history through memoir and I study the history when I head South with Mom in the summers. It’s fascinating. The portraits you add to this piece, the progression of age and history, are really striking.
Think about that first photograph — your Mom at 12 in 1927. The 1920’s, when Mabel Dodge and Tony were settling into life together in Taos, New Mexico. D.H. Lawrence and Frieda and Georgia O’Keeffe, too. I just love the parallels of history. One person’s life is doing this over here…another one’s is doing this over here. It’s like parallel Universes.
What you said about pain and death…
Sadness too that we must let everything go. And, in the end, we must leave. That grips me most right now.
…it does seem like the death of a loved one brings us that much closer to realizing that we, our friends, our loved ones, will die, too, and we never know when that will be. Sometimes that thought makes me incredibly sad. And other times it makes me want to live life all that much harder and in the moment.
Bob, what do you miss most about your Mom? Is it hearing her voice? I noticed you mentioned that you have forgotten her voice. I sometimes save VM’s of people’s voices so that I can hear them when I’m far away. It’s comforting to me. The voice of a person, sound, is very powerful.
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Flannista, thank you for your kind words. I like what you said about the “arrival” of a person, too. When do we know we have arrived in our lives…do we ever arrive…or is it after our deaths that we truly know.
I also saw the same in the photographs — Bob’s eyes in the first photograph of his mother at 12 years old. I can see him in her face. I love when that happens with the old photographs that ybonesy and I post as well. That I can see her, or myself, in another person’s face. The continuity of life.
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What do I miss most about my mother? Off the top of my head, I miss her presence in the world. Not that we had the best relationship in the world or the easiest, but she was a part of my life for almost 57 years, a constant, someone who loved me in her imperfect way. She was there in a way that has never been duplicated by any other person I have known and for such a long time.
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A constant presence for almost 57 years. Bob — I don’t think I can say that of ANYone in my life. My mother, in a way, has been a distant, detached presence and the damage I perceive she wrought in my life could very well have been mitigated by knowing the kinds of details you know about your own mother. Reading those details made your mother very human . . . and, of course, seeing her photos at those different stages in her life added to her humanity.
I own about three photos of my mother, period. She is such a mystery to me that many parts of me remain mysterious to me. How much more would I know about myself if my mother had been a constant presence? Or, how much LESS would I know about myself if my mother had been a constant presence?
Every time I read your piece, new questions come, perhaps pushing me toward another advent in my life.
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Bob–
Thanks for sharing your mother with us. Each time you write about her, I feel I know her better. Your piece makes me think about my own mother, what I do and do not know about her, and that there are many things I’d like to find out while I still have her.
Beautiful writing, as always. Crisp and clear.
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Flannista, when my father died I raged for months about him and how much I hated him for what he did to me (whether real or perceived). Finally a very dear friend took me aside. “Bob, you are angry at every man you see. Go talk to someone about it.” I took her advice and went to therapy. I discovered that I hated my father to the extent that I loved him and wished that he had loved me. The anger went away and I became more compassionate towards him and my memories of him and, maybe more importantly, more compassionate to myself for wanting his love so badly.
I vowed to myself that I would not let my mother die with hundreds of issues unresolved. (I’m not sure my heart could have stood that muchrage a secon time.) I worked hard over the 21 years that she outlived him to resolve as many of the issues that existed between the two of us. I wish I could say that we addressed all of them and put them to rest. That didn’t happen, but what did happen was my arrival at a more compassionate place in my relationship with her. Sure, I still carry some anger over some stuff but most of the major issues were addressed in one way or another (which means that some were excavated and re-buried without any resolution).
In the end, she was who she was and did the best she could do at the time. I truly believe that about everyone in my life. We all do the best we can at any given time or we would do better.
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Saundra, thanks for checking in this morning. The photographs I have of that day in St. Joseph show her at the peak of her old age. Thanks for the photographs and for the years of friendship.
You shared the experience of your mother with me at the old house on Eaton. Remember? I understood you better after having dinner with you mother and one of your sisters.
Saundra, like we discussed at tea last Monday, we need to record the stories of the people in our lives. What better place to start than asking your mother questions about her life before she becomes unable to answer them?
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Okay, I have made a mistake. Saundra and Sandra are two different people. Saundra, thanks for your comments. I confused you with my other friend, Sandra, the person who took the last picture posted. So, if you were wondering why I thanked you for the pictures you took of my mother and I in St. Joe. That’s why.
Figuring I had made a mistake I asked QuoinMonkey to change the attribution on the photo to show Saundra McGuire. Then I emailed Sandra to tell her I was sorry and she emailed me, “My name IS Sandra. DUH!”
So, Saundra is a writer friend from Texas, who is currently at work on a book about a fabulous, feminist artist. Look for it in the future. My apologies for the confusion.
Sandra McGuire is a friend of mine here in the city whose photographs grace the walls of my house. She took the photos of my mother and I one afternoon in St. Joe when we visited my house so she could see where I was born and raised.
QuoinMonkey and ybonesy, the first sign of an aging mind is confusing those you love. Sorry, but “Sandra” was correct for the attribution on the last photo. Time for a nap.
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Bob, once again I enjoyed your story. I love how you write..it feels good to me. Does that make sense at all?
So much of what you said reminded me of my Grandma Bessie. They saw many of the same changes, and I grew up hearing stories about it.
My Grandmother is still living. She is 101 and 6 months. She counts the months now.
I think she continues to live because she is stubbornly awaiting Armageddon and the end of this world. “The end of this system of things” is the exact phrase I grew up with. She thought she would live to see “the new world”…never dying (according to her religion).
I rebelled and left the religion (which means I am dead to them), but I have embraced the stubbornness. 🙂
I love peering into your Mother’s eyes in the photos…from little girl to “going on 93 years” they remained the same.
Thank you for sharing your memories.
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Bob – I loved seeing these pictures of your mother. I, too, can see your face behind hers, through hers. And I feel her, through you, even more so now, with this recent piece about her. Your attention to the details of her life make her life matter. Some sense of her is still alive in this world, through you. I like that. I hope one of my kids decides to pay that much attention to my history some day. I suppose I won’t know if they do – I won’t be around to see it – but I hope they do.
My own mother and I had a fond but careful relationship in the final ten years of her life. When she died, I lost all sense of her. Only recently have I again felt her presence, as I come near to finishing my book that has so much to do with both her death and her life. It’s as if the love between us got sort of stuck for a while and it’s flowing again,now, so many years after the day of her death.
I have pictures of both my parents as kids, my grandmother as a young woman and my aunt when she was a six year old dancer in my writing room. Their presence reminds me that I came from somewhere. That knowledge makes me feel a little bigger, a little more visible.
Your writing is vivid and I, too, feel the pain between the lines. But I also feel your love. Your attention. Your careful consideration of who she was before you were on the scene.
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gypsy-heart, thank you. I think I understand what you are saying. I try to write as honestly as I can. My memories may be flawed in some ways, but I write from a place of telling the truth I know. Thanks again for your kindness.
You may be dead to your birth family, but welcome to this one. I knew that I might lose my family over my coming out so I was prepared (at least as much as I could). I could have walked away from my relatives and not been destroyed. I didn’t have to do that.
Jude, please tell your children your own story. I said earlier that I planned to share some of my mother’s autobiography that she wrote for me. I better find it or the day will be done. Her sisters refused to write anything for me (“What’s past is past.” “I can’t write.” etc.). One of my cousins asked for my mother’s piece as a way of connecting to her mothers’ past. All of our stories are important to those who come after us.
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Just beautiful Mr. Chrisman. It really speaks about experiences there are almost no words for. You did a fine job of it. This reminds me of my beloved grandmother- who has been as a mother to me all my life. She is now 90. She too is in a nursing home very far away. I just purchased some pink woolen booties for her – and tons of mystery books.
In my own internal way though- I’ve been trying to let her go for some years now – I don’t want her to see me cry. But I never really can let her go …. there are some people we must love more than any other. I like to think that sort of connection transcends time and space. I find comfort in that thought- and also in your words. Thanks for sharing them.
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Bob,
Your Mother is with you everyday…
She’s an influence in the way you live your life, the way you treat others and the way you solve your problems. Her blood runs through your veins and even her smile graces your face.
You may not remember her voice, but you’ll always remember what she taught you.
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Sibyllae, my mother was in a nursing home within an easy drive every weekend. I rented a car and went to see her almost every weekend even after she didn’t know who I was. She saw me cry which I think helped her know that I would miss her when she was gone.
anuvuestudio, I have internalized a lot of my mother for better or for worse. Although I seem to be preoccupied of late with the hurts that she dealt to me, I have not lost sight of the good things that she taught me and likely will not until my own memory begins to fail.
Thanks to both of you for your comments.
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Oh Bob, the pictures of your mother, especially at 12, with her Mona Lisa smile and then the last one with her wide open grin and looking through your eyes (tho clearly she had her OWN taste in eyeglasses!) take my breath away. Knowing some of your history, I’m struck too by the spontaneity and joy in them.
You’ve captured more of her story once again in the exquisite details. I flashed for a moment upon the TV cabinet in my Irish grandparents living room (the one with with plastic wrapped couch). They were the first folks on their Boston block to get a tv as my grandfather worked selling televisions before he became a private detective for the IRS. My mom was always so proud of this along with JFK framed on the wall.Ok, I digress.
I’m waiting for your next series, more stories within her history and yours. Storytelling the way you do gives true testimony to who she was and the way she lived in the world.
She wasn’t just a mother, but a person, too. Pain and all there’s such dignity.
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Just checking in on the blog after a wonderful and oh-so-exhausting trip through the southern part of the state. I have to say I chuckled over Saundra and Sandra, and for a moment thought, Bob sure does travel a lot, doesn’t he?, having tea in Austin after having recently visited Flannista in her neck of the woods! 8)
There are so many things about this piece that struck me as I read it and did the first preparation of it (and thanks, QM, for the additions you made, as well). First, though, I want to comment on the physical part, the photos. I was amazed by the clarity of the oldest photo here, your mother as a toddler. Which, of course, got me wondering about the circumstances behind the photo. It has such a natural quality to it, and yet there’s the white crocheted bonnet. I wondered what occasion it might have been.
Also, the photo of your mom at age 12, I noticed her widow’s peak, a sort of cowlick, which she appeared to have “fought” in the 1950s photo and the 1960s. In those two photos she’s wearing bangs—going against the grain—but in the rest she wears her hair back. The back sweep is so gorgeous on her, in her 20s and then the 1999 photo taken by Sandra. Well, hair’s a big thing for women, or it can be, and I loved noticing the details of her hair over the decades.
Her being a constant presence in your life for 57 years—well, I can certainly appreciate the ordinary-ness of that, the way a person becomes as natural as your own self. I just came from my mother’s, and I spent almost four hours today at her sister’s in the southern part of the state, and I can tell you that I am so completely at home at both their homes. There aren’t many places I can go and sink right into that completely natural, comfortable place inside myself. Just thinking about not having that place someday—well, it brings a lump to my throat.
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I will email Sandra (again) and tell her that you corrected her name. DUH!!! I won’t live that one down any time soon.
Glad to hear that you are back from your trip safe and sound.
The photograph of her as a toddler says, “Lucile Patton.” That’s all. She wrote in her autobiography, “I was always falling down on my nose and making it bleed. I ruined more white dresses that way. Little girls wore white dresses then. Guess my mashing my nose so much is the reason it is shaped like it is.” Just a part of the 16 pages she wrote for me and entitled, “The Life of Fannie Lucile Patton Chrisman.”
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nice post bob…made me think of my mom’s life. she grew up in Gallitan/Hamilton Missouri–same farm, same ways…survived the depression and everything else life threw at her because of it.
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Scot, maybe that’s a major lesson to me about my mom’s life. She, like your mom, survived everything life threw at her. We may not think we will live through it, but we do.
A quote from the piece she wrote, “I remember the depression. You could buy a dress or pair of shoes for 25 cents each if you had the quarter. Dad worked for $5 a week plus meat, milk, rent, fuel. Of course we had chickens and eggs. Always had a garden. What would kids do today if they had to live like that.”
When my mother wrote this piece, her typewriter had the dollar and the cent symbol on the keyboard. It isn’t on my computer keyboard. Tells you something about prices these days, doesn’t it. Not much use for the cent sign.
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Bob, I chuckled when I got home from the movie last night and saw the Sandra/Saundra mix-up. I went in and corrected it right away. I have to admit, I was a little confused, too, until you explained it. 8)
About the cent sign, isn’t that weird? I sometimes wish I had one on my electronic keyboard again. I kind of miss the lonely cent sign. 😦 I do use the one on my old typewriter keyboard whenever I can.
Some great responses to your piece. It is amazing what our mothers live through, isn’t it. I think it’s especially poignant because back in our mothers’ generations (which may span several), women were the primary caretakers of their children. And they often gave up and sacrificed a lot for their kids. But my mother says those were the happiest days of her life, raising all of us.
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Bob, I read this post last night before retiring to my bed. So many others have already expressed many of the same feelings I had while reading this.
I write about my own family quite often. It helps me preserve the memories that I fear I will forget in my later years.
I’ve so enjoyed reading your posts & look forward to more from you. Great tribute to your mom. She was a lovely lady.
D
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Bob–
So when are you coming to Austin to have tea?!!
Your piece sparked so many wonderful comments. For someone who writes so much crap in a notebook, I feel unworthy when it comes to responding. But you know I love and support your writing–and you.
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My condolences on your lose and what a fine looking woman.
My mother died of Alzheimer’s disease at age 93, September 23, 2007, and like you, Bob, I’ve written about my mother, and indeed entire family through my website. Under Cool Side of the Pillow, I chronicled the caregiving role, especially as it applied to mother’s illness, and how I coped, hoping in some small manner I help someone else, even if briefly.
I found your great site through Sibyllae, who I in turn found through Musecatcher. I’ve added your site to my Art roll under Appetizers.
Godspeed to you and Shalom,
Henry
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Saundra, I’ll be down for tea as soon as I can tell Sandra from Saundra. I would love to have tea with you in Austin. Please, you don’t write “so much crap.” The book you are writing is testimony to your writing ability. Thanks for commenting.
alittlediddy, writing about our families is important to preserve our memories of the past. I wish I had spent more time interviewing my mother about her past so I would have more details. That’s why I think that what QuoinMonkey is doing deserves all the support everyone can give her.
QM, your changing of the names from Sandra to Saundra to Sandra is greatly appreciated. I still laugh about that. Now Saundra wants me to come to Austin for tea per her remarks above.
Laura, my mother didn’t do plastic covers on furniture. She preferred doilies on the backs and arms of the easy chair and the sofa. She didn’t pin them because she was afraid people would tear the handwork (they were crocheted doilies). So I was forever picking them up and putting them back in place. She stopped with the doilies at sometime in my teens, I think.
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Henry, thanks for your condolences. My sympathy to you on the death of your mother.
I will be sure to go to your website and read about your family. Because of my close proximity to my mother (50 miles), I visited her every weekend. When she couldn’t remember who I was, I continued to go most every weekend despite the knowledge that she wouldn’t know who I was. I could not bear the thought that she would come out of her daze one day and wonder if I had forgotten her. Writing down the stories of my visits to the nursing home saved my sanity during those years. I have notebooks full of those stories.
This website is run by the amazing team of ybonesy and QuoinMonkey. Their work provides a place for writers to present their work to some amazing people. Glad you found it.
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That is a very nice tribute to a fine old gal.
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Bob, what a wonderful piece. I cried. Loved the photos. Your writing gets better all the time. As I note all the time.
What struck me about her eyes is that they changed over time. That bright, impish spark dimmed over time. Am I an asshole to say that? I wonder how the spark in my eyes has changed. In case you’re wondering, Bob – you still got spark, baby – but also some sadness as well.
And I had to shake my head at Saundra denigrating her writing. So crazy, my friend. So many great writers I know do the same thing, definitely those who should know better.
One thing to keep in mind – I just finished reading Malcolm Gladwell’s new book, Outliers. One of the factors of success that he talks about is this magic number of 50,000 hours of practice. Lots of writing practice to make it to 50,000 hours. Bob, with your dedication to consistent writing practice you’ve either made it or you’re very close. Explains alot about the excellence of your work.
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Bob, I can’t believe that I didn’t find this post until now. I’ve been spending a lot of time with my own ailing mother lately.
Clearly, you have practiced paying attention … and deep listening … to capture such luscious detail. That is one way your sitting practice has paid off. You are one of the best listeners that I know.
Your rich details are wonderful. I love the section on the wringer washer and line-drying clothes, inside or out, depending on the weather. Bob, did your mom iron? My mom likes everything ironed, clothes, sheets, hankies. She pays someone to do it for her now. Mom wants to buy my new clothes sometimes because mine are wrinkled.
I appreciate how honestly and candidly you talk about your relationship with your mom. I also appreciate how you shared that your anger with your father after his death, was a motivating factor to connect and resolve issues with your mother.
This is a deeply touching tribute, Bob. It is also a gift to the rest of us, because whether our mothers or living or dead, it is impossible not to think of them after reading your piece.
Thanks, Bob, for posting this piece.
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[…] In Memoriam by Bob Chrisman […]
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[…] **You will have approximately 1/2 can of evaporated milk left when you finish. My youngest cousin says that she uses regular milk. Hopefully you have a strong heart and clean arteries. Bon appetit. Bob Chrisman is a Kansas City, Missouri writer who frequently writes memoir about his mother, her three sisters, and their influence on his life. His other red Ravine posts include Hands, Growing Older, Goat Ranch, Stephenie Bit Me, Too, The Law Of Threes, and In Memorium. […]
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[…] About Bob: Bob Chrisman is a Kansas City, Missouri writer who frequently writes memoir about his mother, her three sisters, and their influence on his life. This is his first piece about his father, Part I of a series of three. Bob’s other red Ravine posts include Aunt Annie’s Scalloped Oysters, Hands, Growing Older, Goat Ranch, Stephenie Bit Me, Too, The Law Of Threes, and In Memoriam. […]
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[…] Howard hit the buffet line in April, 1990. Aunt Vera followed in December, 1993. In February 2008, my mother joined them. My family won’t add any more people because we have scattered all over the […]
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