This date in history would be my sainted mother's day of birth. She was brought into the world on a ranch during a bright night with the neighbor woman assisting in the birth and was the second child in a family that eventually numbered five children. Her mother was of the blood line of the Swedish folks, and her father was who knows what. He was long and lean and red of hair and had a desire to roam around race horses and poker tables.
I was told many tales of poker losses and weeks of missing the man of the house when all the chores and ranch work fell to the mother and kids. My uncles loved to tell stories, and they filled many a evening telling me tales. My sister didn't enjoy the nights we men -- I wasn't quite yet one -- sat around a camp fire and boiled up cowboy coffee. A life of hardship makes a person able to endure the meanest things in life, such as deaths and droughts.
My sainted mother never let any bitterness develop in her being. She was sweet to all and helped everyone she knew. She was the stuff that held us on that dry ground when the wind blew every day for a year and nothing could grow. The coyotes left and the rattlers crawled to better country, but Momma said it would get better and we stayed. Pappy said she was sure enough sent straight from heaven, and we believed him.
I was a big old kid, leggy and still sitting on Mom's lap and would have stayed there but my little sister came along and bumped me off. Pappy tried to ease the misery by giving me a new hat and some spurs of my own, but I sure was rudely displaced by that squalling kid. The extra piece of pie and the hugs finally made things a lot better and, eventually, I even liked that squirming little kid.
Dates and days are not something most of us fellers remember. We need reminders of things that do not pertain to our business, like birthdays, anniversaries and when our close relative will be at the benevolent ladies meeting instead of in the kitchen at supper time. I guess I just was blessed again to think of my sainted mother this afternoon, and it sure makes me feel good to remember her.
It is my opinion, and everyone has one, the time comes that you need to tell your history to the next generation and then the next one, too. Tell the grands about the wood cook stove and the first screens on the windows. Tell them how the first air-conditioned building felt to you as you stepped into it as a kid and what the ice house snow balls tasted like to a kid that was sure the ice house was magic anyway. Don't lose the tales that bind the generations together. It's good stuff!
Stay cool.
Bill is the pen name used by the Gravette-area author of this weekly column. Opinions expressed are those of the author.
Editorial on 06/17/2015