Simply being Mama

My mother was born in the Mississippi Delta. She was the middle daughter of a sharecropper, and life was not easy. She once told me her best time was when she and Daddy married and set up housekeeping. She said they were barely old enough to know what they were doing, but it was the happiest she had ever been.

When the earth warmed in spring, they planted a huge vegetable garden. The growing season began in earnest after tender shoots of lettuce, green onions and radishes peeked up into the bright sunshine. They loved flowers and planted seeds Mama had saved from the previous season. Colorful zinnias, four o’clocks and garden phlox grew profusely and burst into riotous bloom throughout summer.

On hot steamy mornings, she arose before daybreak to pick the garden. Afternoons were spent in the shade snapping, shucking or shelling whatever had come into season. Canning fruits and vegetables during July and August in a 100-degree-plus kitchen was a routine daily task.

Mama excelled at time management. Before the first hint of fall arrived, she had organized my brother and me for school. Along with countless other chores, she hustled up clothing, shoes and the necessary supplies before sending us off to be educated. We missed the bus once because the driver was late, but somehow Mama still got us to class on time.

Before she could catch her breath, it was time for the holidays. When the Thanksgiving turkey was nothing but hash, and the Christmas tinsel had been tossed, deep winter was quiet time. Relaxation didn’t come naturally, and her Southern hospitality compelled her to feed all who wandered through our home. I doubt she had a clue how warm and special she made everyone feel. She was simply being Mama.

PATI GUESS Sherwood