Vol. 18 No. 49 | December 5, 2016
It was Tuesday afternoon, December 8, 1964. That is the day that my mother died. I was eleven years old.
She had been sick for several months. How many? I do not remember. But I remember the afternoon of December 8, 1964.
The school bus made the stop at my Aunt Eunice and Uncle Ruby’s grocery store at the intersection of Highway 4 and Melrose Lane. I had the option of getting off the bus there and making the quarter-of-a-mile walk to my house. Or, I could stay on the bus until it made the loop back around to my house. If I stayed on and helped Mr. Day make sure all the windows were shut, he would often buy me a soft drink at one of the local cafes on the route. On this particular Tuesday afternoon, I saw my sister and brother-in-law’s car at the store, so I decided to get off. Little did I know what was waiting for me.
Just inside the door on the left, there were a couple chairs inviting the regulars to sit, catch up on the latest happenings, enjoy a soda from the refrigerated box, or enjoy a candy bar from the glass-covered case just a few steps away. That is where I saw my sister and brother-in-law sitting as I opened the door. I can still hear the jingle of the bell situated to alert my aunt and uncle that a customer had arrived.
I do not remember the details of what happened next. Obviously they told me that Mama had died, but I do not remember the words. I do not remember if I cried, although I am sure I did. I remember seeing my aunt and uncle standing behind the cash register, and the woman who would eventually become my stepmother smoking a cigarette at the end of the counter. She had known for a while her time with us was limited and she had talked to all of us about it, so technically we knew this time would come, but mentally and emotionally none of us were prepared.
The next thing I remember about the afternoon, December 8, 1964, is pulling into the driveway of our house. My Uncle James (my mother’s brother) greeted me, walked with me out by a big oak tree in our yard, put his arms around me and said: “Go ahead. Let it out!” And I did.
That was the afternoon of December 8, 1964. That was fifty-two years ago.
We eventually went inside where my grandmother and other family and friends were gathered. I have only a few sporadic memories of the several days and months that followed.
My memories of that afternoon are hazy but the lessons I have learned since December 8, 1964 are not.
I have learned that loss is painful, inevitable, and that the pain may never completely go away. For an eleven-year-old boy, the loss of a mother is beyond traumatic. For a sixty-three-year-old man, that loss is still very real. Yes, I have matured and moved past most of the intense pain of that afternoon, but there are still days when I long to hear her voice and feel her touch. I would love to have another taste of her fudge at Christmas time, hear her pop popcorn in a skillet, and eat her fried chicken and cocoanut cake. Much of my life has been lived to honor her life and her memory.
I have learned that life is short and passes quickly. Forty-four years is not a long time to live, but if lived well you can influence a lot of people. It is often stated in poetry and song that it is not the length of one’s life that counts as much. It is the quality of one’s life and the number of lives that are touched that matters.
I have learned that family is important and should not be neglected. Family must be a priority. Quality time with family in large quantities is also important. If you are fortunate enough to be able to spend time with your family, please do not neglect or take for granted that time.
I have learned that what we leave behind is probably more valuable than the things we actually accomplish from day to day. Here I sit, fifty-two years later, thinking about the mother that lived only eleven-and-a-half years of my life. I am only one of four children she influenced. Her grandchildren and great-grandchildren and all who follow will reap the benefits of the impact she had in her short life.
And, I have learned that a life surrendered to the Lord God Almighty, no matter how short or how long, is one that never ends.
May 24, 1920 to December 8, 1964 are the dates that mark a life that continues to live. It was a Tuesday afternoon, December 8, 1964…
Tom
A Norvell Note © Copyright 2016. Tom Norvell. All Rights Reserved.