It’s Mother’s Day, a day when we pause to honor the women who gave us birth. It’s fitting that today is a lovely Spring day when, after a night of stormy showers (good for growing things), the sun is clearly intent on vanquishing a stubbornly overcast sky to bring some warmth and brightness to the festivities… and I suspect it will be successful in that endeavor. Similarly, good mothers throughout history have endeavored to bring a little sunshine into the lives of each of us. It’s a day when the Net is absorbing multiple terabytes of mom pics, some of them snapped that very moment, and some of them rare, vintage photos of our ladies from bygone eras.
Based on a pic I acquired from my sister, I tried my best (which ain’t great) of repairing some damage in the upper left.
The lady to the right is my mother, Violet Lillian Foster, born of Roy and Florence Moore near St. Paul, Indiana on August 6, 1914. She left this plane of existence in February, 1999… 84 years young. There are plans afoot to get the family together to celebrate her centenary this year.
Besides being an astute judge of character (and therefore typically a skeptic), perhaps Mom’s greatest attribute was sheer endurance — she grew up during the Depression, worked a man’s job for 10 years at Warner Gear in Muncie during WWII, and went shoulder-to-shoulder with Dad and my two elder brothers building a successful heavy equipment business during the post-war economic boom. My father wasn’t the easiest man to live with, yet she held the family together through thick and thin, eventually outliving the old man to enjoy a couple decades of travel, diligently fixing up and peacefully puttering about the home on the burbling banks of Buck Creek they bought back in the mid-40s, and taking great joy in her 4 children, 7 grands, God knows how many greats… and schnauzers, she was big on schnauzers.
I got most of my musical talent from my mom’s side. She was an organist of the old-school, swinging bass-playing left foot and all, and Grandpa Moore was, from all reports, a damn good big band drummer back in the day… and also half Cherokee. Despite the strong Native American bloodline, Mom inherited Grandma (Bruner) Moore’s Germanic curly hair, as did I and my elder brother Max.
I received less of her easy-going temperament, unfortunately. At parties (the life of which was inevitably Dad, no matter how big or small the gathering), Mom tended to shy away from the spotlight, preferring to watch other people carry on, their antics an endless source of amusement (and evidence, I think) for her. She was a devoted friend to others, but did not suffer fools gladly, and she had a very intense way of looking at you, as if she could see to the bottom of your soul. I think that was the Cherokee in her, as Grandpa had that same look.
Mom always put her kids first, though she wasn’t too keen on spoiling us very much. The family policy was to provide the essentials for a good life, but for the superfluous things we were expected to sacrifice, to have some skin in the game. While I couldn’t appreciate this at the time, I’m very thankful for it today. I was provided my first guitar and lessons, but every expansion of my arsenal of instruments I earned by working in the family business during summer breaks, or working with Dad on the farm we eventually acquired a few miles outside of Muncie. It might take me months to save for a new guitar or banjo, a new amp, whatever… but that of course enhanced the anticipation, and made the eventual acquisition all the sweeter and more appreciated.
As we grow older, we cannot help but see aspects of our parents in ourselves, both the good and the bad. Sometimes it’s hard to change or overcome the dysfunction that inevitably accompanies an upbringing, but that challenge is part of what life is all about. If we’re smart, we identify and discard as soon as possible those aspects which do not serve us, and the good bits we hang onto for dear life, to hopefully pass on to the next generation. While I personally opted out of having children (a topic best left to another blog post one day, perhaps), today I nonetheless find myself in the role of grandfather to the youngsters of my step-daughter. I couldn’t love them more if they were my own flesh and blood, and being their “pappy” has been an eye… and heart… opening experience on more levels than I can count. So of course I look to how I was raised for inspiration, take the good and leave the rest, and do the very best I can on any given day. Through it all, I’m consistently of the opinion that if I can be as good an influence on Michi and Ceci as my mother was on me, the kids will be alright.
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Oh… and Happy Mother’s Day to another devoted mother and grandmother of my intimate acquaintance, my wife Rhonda.
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