okieinexile
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A good soul
By Bobby Neal Winters
Momma was a good cook. She could make a great roast beef with potatoes and gravy. She always made enough roast so as to have leftovers for roast beef sandwiches. They were the best too. She used both Miracle Whip and mustard.
She made the best fried chicken. She made flour gravy from the drippings and either fried potatoes or rice to put the gravy over.
Things have changed. Over a span of time, she has given up activities, has lost memories, has pulled into herself. She doesn't know that she has grandchildren; she doesn't remember my name.
Before thanksgiving she went into the nursing home.
My mother has been a good person. When Momma was a young girl, her Grandma Fowler lived with Momma's family. She and grandmother shared the same bed. Grandma Fowler had dementia like my mother does. Mother cleaned up her messes like you would for a baby. This is something I remember that my mother no longer can. There are so many things I remember now that she doesn't, things that never happened to me. She's given up her memories like she did cooking and housekeeping.
Her mother and father had four children together. She was the third, having an older brother and sister. Her younger brother had juvenile diabetes and she took care of him when he was young. He died soon after I was born, and I never knew him, but I remember him through her. She doesn't remember that he lived much less that he died.
Some of my earliest memories are of her taking me to church and Sunday School. I hated going to church. I despised it. She dressed me in paisley and bow-ties and shiny black shoes. Then she had to drag me, leaving heel marks along the sidewalk.
But some of my strongest memories are standing by her side singing some of those good old Baptist hymns. Precious memories, how they linger.
When I saw her a few weeks ago, I tried singing hymns with her. She didn't remember the words, but she tried to hum along.
Much has been taken. What is left?
She is still a sweet person. She laughs and has a ready smile. We are born; we spend the first part of our lives picking things up; we spend the rest putting them down. When we put them down, when we've lost our memories, what is left?
They debate nature versus nurture, genetic versus education, but there is so much more. We are a product of our times and culture. We are formed by our birth order and the other members of our family. We are receptacles for a spiritual heritage as well as a genetic heritage.
Momma told me that her mother, my Grandma Byrd, always used to say that life is like a vapor. Grandma Byrd died when I was three, so I never heard her say that. She was right though.
It's also like a drop of rain hitting a pond. It hits the pond and ripples go out in a circle forever. The drop itself disappears, is invisible, but remains nonetheless.
Some of us are taken suddenly; some of us are slowly withdrawn from life. We leave pieces of ourselves in those around us. Our memories, the memories of others passed through us. We are a part of something larger, but who are we?
My mother is a sweet person. After everything else is gone, that is what is left. One day what will be said of me?
(Bobby Winters is Assistant Dean and Professor of Mathematics at Pittsburg State University.)
By Bobby Neal Winters
Momma was a good cook. She could make a great roast beef with potatoes and gravy. She always made enough roast so as to have leftovers for roast beef sandwiches. They were the best too. She used both Miracle Whip and mustard.
She made the best fried chicken. She made flour gravy from the drippings and either fried potatoes or rice to put the gravy over.
Things have changed. Over a span of time, she has given up activities, has lost memories, has pulled into herself. She doesn't know that she has grandchildren; she doesn't remember my name.
Before thanksgiving she went into the nursing home.
My mother has been a good person. When Momma was a young girl, her Grandma Fowler lived with Momma's family. She and grandmother shared the same bed. Grandma Fowler had dementia like my mother does. Mother cleaned up her messes like you would for a baby. This is something I remember that my mother no longer can. There are so many things I remember now that she doesn't, things that never happened to me. She's given up her memories like she did cooking and housekeeping.
Her mother and father had four children together. She was the third, having an older brother and sister. Her younger brother had juvenile diabetes and she took care of him when he was young. He died soon after I was born, and I never knew him, but I remember him through her. She doesn't remember that he lived much less that he died.
Some of my earliest memories are of her taking me to church and Sunday School. I hated going to church. I despised it. She dressed me in paisley and bow-ties and shiny black shoes. Then she had to drag me, leaving heel marks along the sidewalk.
But some of my strongest memories are standing by her side singing some of those good old Baptist hymns. Precious memories, how they linger.
When I saw her a few weeks ago, I tried singing hymns with her. She didn't remember the words, but she tried to hum along.
Much has been taken. What is left?
She is still a sweet person. She laughs and has a ready smile. We are born; we spend the first part of our lives picking things up; we spend the rest putting them down. When we put them down, when we've lost our memories, what is left?
They debate nature versus nurture, genetic versus education, but there is so much more. We are a product of our times and culture. We are formed by our birth order and the other members of our family. We are receptacles for a spiritual heritage as well as a genetic heritage.
Momma told me that her mother, my Grandma Byrd, always used to say that life is like a vapor. Grandma Byrd died when I was three, so I never heard her say that. She was right though.
It's also like a drop of rain hitting a pond. It hits the pond and ripples go out in a circle forever. The drop itself disappears, is invisible, but remains nonetheless.
Some of us are taken suddenly; some of us are slowly withdrawn from life. We leave pieces of ourselves in those around us. Our memories, the memories of others passed through us. We are a part of something larger, but who are we?
My mother is a sweet person. After everything else is gone, that is what is left. One day what will be said of me?
(Bobby Winters is Assistant Dean and Professor of Mathematics at Pittsburg State University.)
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