Dear Mom,
I wrote this for you...

First of all let me say, I’ve known my mom all my life. Not really surprising but honestly, she was always there. My earliest memories of my mother are ones that were captured on film but I have no recollection of. I see her holding me close with my baby doll or in her arms with my dad on the streets of Chicago. I heard many stories in my lifetime about me from my mom and stories about her from herself and her siblings.

Mom was born in a time when getting a new dress meant the flour sack was used up. A time when it wasn’t uncommon for her to have snow on her covers in the morning since their home was a make-shift chicken coop that my grandfather could afford. Mom learned very early on to chop wood and nearly cut her toe off doing so. When she snuck off with her older sister to learn to sew, the needle went through her finger and her mother told her it was time to learn how to since she was going to sneak around anyway.

As she grew older, school was a one-room, 8 grade building that she attended with her brothers. She recited the poems she learned well into adulthood. I was told it was easy to remember them in the corner of the classroom. But mom never finished 8th grade, her mother became ill and she stayed home to help out.

At 1943, at the age of 18 she left her Hardin County home near the Ohio River in Illinois and took a bus to Davenport, Iowa where she would work at the Sanitarium as a nurses’ aide. That’s where she met my dad. They were married sometime later and moved to Chicago where I was born in 1954.

Dad worked while mom guarded me and soon we moved to the suburbs where dad worked as a guard at the Veteran’s Administration hospital and mom started again as a nurses’ aide at the Baptist Retirement Home in Maywood, IL.

It wasn’t long before, at the age of 4, she took me to the Wesleyan Methodist Church, encouraged me to learn Bible verses and become close friends with three sons of the pastor there. 

Mom came to my programs, prepared birthday parties (sometimes from left-over decorations for where she worked), washed my clothes, taught me how to make my bed (with hospital corners!) and how to cook and clean. Dad helped me with homework while mom made sure there was popcorn ready after my bath and time to watch Mitch Miller, Dean Martin, Jackie Gleason or Gunsmoke before bedtime.

I saw her buy things from her meager check for the residents she served. Dresses for Easter and Christmas, lipstick, powder and other cosmetics to help them feel special. Mom never missed their birthdays or any of our relatives special days with out first picking out a card and writing a letter to send. Weekly updates about me were sent with pictures she had taken ( though 12 shot rolls would last her a year!) - every relative knew my progress.

When my dad died, I was 16 and mom was left to make things still work. Still working hard she moved closer to her work since she never did learn to drive and after I left home for college, she moved to Indianapolis, near some distant relatives to work as a Nurses’ Aide at Ritter Hospital and Marion County Home. 

When she met Archie Hubbard, she fell in love again. They were married the same year as Marcia and I and became grandparents to our four children, Nathan, Joshua, Anna and Caleb. Christmas presents, cards, outfits were just part of what mom bestowed upon our kids. Cakes were baked, trips to the Ice Capades, State Fair and meals out were not out of the question as mom and Archie filled the role of grandparents. 

When Archie passed away, the emptiness of losing another husband was tough for mom. She had retired but the years of hard work had worn out hip joints and replacement was in her future. A few years passed and her love of writing letters led her to a penpal from Missouri. Gordon Markham. Their letters were thick and heavily postaged. Friendship bloomed to a visit and the two were married in Jonesboro. A new set of grandparents were on the scene. Mom’s gardening skills were increasing and the place in Missouri held promise for peaceful retirement. But on a trip to visit where mom grew up, tragedy struck and her husband was killed in a car accident that also caused her severe injury and began a downward spiral of health problems.

It was in later years that her medical and physical needs led to her Colonial Oaks where nurses, staff and residents referred to her as momma Janie or just Janie. 

The skills she had honed in being an aide wasn’t without it’s being evident there. Her first week brought a call from the facility asking if I were mom’s son and was I aware of the problem they had. When checked on, she was given a sponge bath to her roommate! I called it work-study, they were not amused. “Houdini” became her nickname as she unbuckled, unclipped, and worked her way out of restraints that she had been accustomed to using on others. But as time passed on, Alzheimer’s began it’s work on mom and slowing down, losing memories, forgetting people, how to write, or current events became the norm.

Mom and I had many things in common that I could jog her brain to help her know it was me. I could sing songs popular from her youth, watch shows together, show her pictures. Praying with her and her “looking for a clean spot” to kiss me good-bye soon dwindled away. Later days, our visits were mom sleeping, sharing a cookie or two, mom sleeping, a drink of water, mom sleeping and me once again praying with her, telling her I love her, behave yourself, ( to which she would grunt) and “be careful crossing the tracks”- which she responded with, “what tracks?” I would say, “You know what tracks.” Because where I grew up in Maywood, there were train tracks on either side of my block. One to the north and one to the south. You couldn’t leave the block without crossing tracks. I had an uncle killed by a train when I was younger and the idea of losing me, I guess, kept that concern on mom’s mind about me.

But why have I told you all this? It took so long cause mom lived a long, full life. This is the edited version of what I remember, what I felt would help you understand why I’m who I am and have become.

Mom loved people. She knew HOW to love. She taught me how to love others. She worked hard, played hard. Saying my prayers at night and being tucked in was important to her. Having a great Christmas when dad was in the hospital with emphysema each year was important to her. Sending me cake with frosting smeared on the aluminum foil in college or when we would visit showed us she loved us.

I’m who I am because she loved me like Jesus loved me and I saw it. I held her hand as she was having trouble breathing last weekend. I prayed with her, sang to her and told her I’d be ok that she didn’t have to worry, that Marcia would take could care of me. I told her she didn’t have to work any more, that Jesus was waiting so she could rest. Her hand held me tightly. When I decided to go home, rest and go to church, I told her to “be careful crossing the tracks.” She listened and a few hours later mom had passed.

There are countless stories to be told about my amazing mother. Stories that have some “wished I’d” or “if only” or maybe even “I should’ve” but mom’s at peace now. I’m at peace now. Heaven holds my mom, my dad and hope. 

So Mom - I’d say to behave yourself, but you’d laugh, I’d tell you I love you, but you already knew that too. So, be careful crossing the tracks seems a bit late cause you already did that too. I guess it’s just, “I’ll see you later.” Thank you for who I am, I trust you’re as proud of me and I am of you.

Be careful crossing the tracks...

No one ever really knows how to say good-bye. For me, I had to let mom know she didn't have to worry about me anymore, that I'd be alright.

There aren't words to describe all my mom meant to all the lives she touched, but she will be missed by all.

I love you mom.