he month of May, especially, forms colorful threads in the warp and woof of the fabric that’s woven on my life’s loom. The blooming of the bloodroot started from one that Mother transplanted to her wildflower garden 65 years ago, Mother’s Day, the return of the wrens for which she listened every year and her birthday cause me to rummage through the trunks stored in my mental attic where memories of the days of yesteryear remain ever fresh.
The year’s at the spring
And the day’s at the morn.
Morning’s at seven.
The hillside’s dew pearled.
The lark’s on the wing,
The snail’s on the thorn.
God’s in his Heaven—
All’s right with the world.
Mother would recite Robert Browning’s “Pippa Passes” every spring and say, “I think that this is the most perfect poem.” I know it by heart, having heard it so often.
Love of nature was one of the gifts she gave me.
My grandfather — himself a teacher! — told her that she’d have quit school after the eighth grade and earn her living. She kept house for a doctor until she was sixteen when she married my father. Born at the height of the Depression, I was the youngest of seven children, two of whom didn’t live past birth. She lived through times of great poverty and babysat to supplement her meager income to help me attend college.
A good education was one of her gifts.
Mother had an inquisitive mind. She said, “I hope that Heaven will be a place where great scholars will teach me.” She read voraciously. She often recited “Abou ben Adhem” by Leigh Hunt who was a friend of the great poets Keats and Shelley. Ibrahim ben Adhem was a real person, an Arabian prince who was told by Allah to forsake his riches and live humbly.
I, also, know the poem by heart. One night, according to Hunt’s poem, ben Adhem was awakened by angel writing in a book of gold. “What writest thou?” “The names of those who love the Lord.” “And is mine one?” The angel replied, “Nay, not so.” Abou said, “I pray thee, then, write me as one who loves his fellow men.” The angel returned the following night and showed him the book. “And, lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.”
It is not politically correct to be a Christian these days, but my mother was a prototype Christian. She preached that to be a true Christian you must accept everyone regardless of creed, nationality or color. Racism upset her greatly: “Some folks will be mighty surprised — mighty surprised! — if they make it to Heaven and find that the God who will judge them is Black!” She continued to grow spiritually. When she was around eighty she broke a hip. She said, “I didn’t used to approve of gays, but I have seen the error of my ways. The gay men who live behind me checked on me, brought me casseroles and ran errands for me. Since Christ accepts all people, I must follow his example.”
She gave me the gift of being free from prejudice.
“You may have tangible wealth untold, caskets of gold. Richer than I you can never be. I had a mother who read to me.” — Strickland Gillian, “The Reading Mother”
She bequeathed to me the love of literature.
The name of Ruth Kelly Gard Wallace surely heads the list. Oh, how I wish she were still here, but I must be content with vivid reminiscence where I see her in my mind’s eye and hear her dear voice in my mind’s ear. On Mother’s Day we wore a red carnation to church if our mothers were living, white if they were deceased. I wear a red carnation on my heart because she is still present within me. wclarke@comcast.net