As I write, Valentine’s Day 2022 is five days past and Valentine’s Day 2023 is 360 days in the future.
Regardless of an uncooperative calendar, my heart requests a valentine to my mother, who passed away 12 years ago.
Flossie Muriel Akins Eades always seemed a little uneasy about expressing love for her children. She was thoughtful and kind, but private and reserved. Although I never doubted her deep love for me, I understood with a child’s awareness that she was not going to talk about it.
She showed her love by the things she did, not often by the things she said.
As an adult, I overheard phone conversations at work (it happens in a small office with many desks) where co-workers routinely told their dear ones “love ya” when signing off.
That seemed a marvel to me; it was not the way I’d been raised.
Once I decided to try it with my mom. I typically called her every weekend, at least until her hearing finally gave out, despite mechanical assistance.
As our call came to an end that day, I nervously ventured, “Love ya.”
And she said – nothing. I sensed surprise and fluster on her end as I hung up. Nope, not a good experiment.
But she excelled at demonstrating love.
On my ninth birthday, she persuaded the four other kids (the last of our bunch had not yet been born) to keep quiet about my special day while we all spent the morning at Vacation Bible School. I had too much pride to bring it up myself and was pretty sad by the time we returned home. But Mom had planned a surprise family birthday party, complete with my favorite foods – fried chicken and lemon meringue pie!
As is usual with my memories of childhood, I can exactly recall what I was wearing that day – a blue, sleeveless dress sprinkled with darker blue sprigs of flowers, tied with a bow at the back. I remember feeling very pretty in the dress my mother had sewn for me off a Butterick pattern.
At 13, I accomplished the rank of “queen” in the Girls Auxiliary group at my church. Mom and I shopped the remnant table at Sew and Sew, where all the fabric for my clothes was purchased. We unearthed a piece of yellow crepe and a gorgeous remnant of scalloped lace.
My mother turned me into a fashion statement in my first floor-length gown. It put the other girls’ fancy dresses to shame, at a fraction of the cost. Likewise, the green and silver brocade skirt and silky white blouse she created for me to wear for my first date, at my church’s annual Sweetheart Banquet.
I can remember how proud I was to win the local American Legion’s Voice of Democracy speech contest at age 15. I received a plaque and $100, the first money I earned for my writing.
As I walked up to the stage to collect my prize during a high school assembly, I hoped the other kids noticed my super-short, long-sleeved empire dress, made from ribbed cotton in a cream-and-pink floral print. I still find it hard to believe my strict Baptist mother not only allowed such a short skirt, but hemmed it that way herself, because that’s the way I wanted it.
I needed a whole wardrobe for a three-week European choir trip when I was 19. Mom made one for me. The standout piece was a knit pants suit in a pink, blue and white plaid, set off by a wide white collar. I love the photos that show me wearing that outfit, although it was a little tighter when I returned home. One of my many discoveries on the trip was that I could no longer eat unlimited bread without consequences.
Off to college the next fall, I roomed with a young woman who was amazed by my clothing. Where could she shop to find such unique garments? Ummm, she needed bargain basement fabric and a selfless mother’s love.
When Mom died, I yearned for her black Singer sewing machine that looked like an antique even in my girlhood. It still worked, though, and my niece needed it, so off it went.
Years later, my sister-in-law mentioned that Amanda now possessed a modern sewing machine. Did I want Mom’s?
Boy, howdy. It’s on display now in my dining room, a constant reminder of a mother whose service spoke her love.
Eventually, while raising my own children, I recognized I had inherited my mother’s tied tongue, and started trying to have it both ways – not just showing my kids I loved them, but telling them, too. Maybe even at the end of phone calls; maybe even in front of people.
The first few times I tacked on a loving phrase at the end of a conversation, I felt awkward, but with practice, I improved. Now, it’s finally become second nature.
Enough to try again, with strong conviction she will hear me.
Love ya, Mom.
