Momma was a short and round woman.
She often said of herself that she was as round as she was tall.
She wasn’t far from being wrong 😊.
She was of Irish descent, with a bit of Native American thrown in for good measure.
I have often read about the mountain women, and although Momma never lived in the mountain
- she had the work ethic, the life force, the attitude.
Momma went 5 days into the 5th grade, and her Momma made her quit school so she could help the family make a living by picking cotton.
Momma was 15 years old when her Momma decided it was time for her to get married.
My Grandmother had chosen a man of 25 to be my Momma’s husband, my Dad.
Momma had many stories of her years growing up
– from picking cotton in the fields of Northeast Texas around Greenville,
- to watching Lefty Frizzell and the other Frizzell kids while their Momma worked in the fields.
I remember stories about Uncle Gene not knowing you were supposed to put Alka-Seltzer in water then drink it, he just thought he was supposed to chew them up and then take a drink of water. Then, when the fizzing started, he cried out to his wife that he was going “mad as a dog”!
Momma talked about her daddy drinking water from a creek on his way home from work one hot afternoon, and contracting malaria from the water.
He refused to drink whiskey that the doctor said he thought would kill the disease.
He died when Momma was only 2 years old, leaving my Grandmother with 5 children to raise.
Momma told about her Momma walking them to town to sell eggs so she could buy oats for breakfast
– because the oats went farther. And about mixing RC Cola with Kool-Aid to make the cola go farther.
And then there were the stories of her and Daddy having and raising 4 kids before I came along.
Where they lived, how they worked and survived.
Through summers and winters.
Through hard times and feasting moments.
Through sickness and health.
Momma was 39 years old when I was born, Daddy was 49.
My oldest sister had married and was Momma herself to 4 kids.
My oldest brother was on his own, too.
My other brother and sister were both still at home
– teenagers, involved in growing up and beginning their lives.
I’ve heard Momma apologize for me not getting the best of her
- followed by her words of, “But you get the rest of me”.
She told about tying me in my highchair with a kitchen towel when I was just a few weeks old, so I wouldn’t fall out, while she snapped green beans.
A neighbor woman criticized her for doing that.
Momma said her answer was, “This child is going to eat these green beans this winter, same as we are, she’s fine.”
When I was about 2 years old, Momma put me under the quilting frame and showed me how to push the needle back up to her because her arms were too short to reach the middle.
Or so she said.
I learned later that this was her way of making me feel important and helping
– while keeping me contained as she worked.
She told stories upon stories while we quilted.
Momma taught me how to build a fire and cook a meal on our wood stove when I was less than 5 years old.
And she taught me how to scrub clothes on a rub board, then lower the clothesline so I could reach to hang them out for drying.
I saw Momma’s tears, in the privacy of our home, when the news came that someone loved had died, but also saw her wipe those tears and put on a “face” (as she called it) so others would be comforted by her strength.
When others were mean or rude, Momma would do a little shake of her head, arms and hands, saying,
“Just shake it off! Don’t let ‘em know they got to you.”
Momma fed the hoboes that came up from the railroad tracks, and she fed the travelers that came in from the interstate that ran in front of the homeplace.
She worked all spring, summer and fall, to put vegetables in jars under the beds, and in bags laid out neatly in the freezer.
Knowing that we would have food for the winter
– food for us, and food to share.
In her “spare time” during the busy seasons, she would cut squares out of fabrics, sewing them in 9-patch blocks, so when the first freeze came she could let the quilting frames down and put quilts together.
When I was in school, Momma was at the kitchen table with me while I did homework.
She helped me read and understand what I was reading.
She helped as much as she could on math, but she never was too good at “book-ciphering”.
I remember one summer day long ago when I complained about being bored.
One time.
Momma said not a word.
She just laid aside her scissors that she was using to cut fabric, got up and walked across the room.
I watched, wondering.
She came back to me with our big red dictionary, a sheet of paper and a pencil.
Handed them to me, and I asked, “What do I do with these?”
Her answer was soft but firm,
“You are going to sit here and starting with the “A’s” you are going to write out every word and every definition until you aren’t bored anymore!”
I did not finish the “A’s” before I thought of something to occupy my time!
Momma even had a way of making the most mundane tasks to be filled with adventure and laughter.
One of my chores was to wash dishes after our supper.
I didn’t mind washing dishes, but detested washing silverware.
I would make them wait until the very last, and it seemed to take forever to get a few pieces washed, rinsed, and laid out to dry.
Momma saw my struggles one evening.
She came to my side, and said, “You know, the knife is the daddy who goes off to work, the spoon is the Momma who can hold the bubbles, and the forks are the kids who just like to play. Make a story of their day while washing them. It’ll go faster.”
Even though it’s been many years since that evening, I still catch myself making those stories in my mind as I wash silverware.
Momma had some quirks that made me roll my eyes back then, and now I just smile with a few soft tears.
“You can go in that lake with the others when you know how to swim.”
“You can get behind the wheel of the car when you learn how to drive.”
“There’s a storm coming, get up, put on clean underwear and let’s sit in the living room waiting it out.”
When Momma became a widow, she simply said, “Well, that’s the way it is.”
And when she was told she had cancer, she looked at the doctor (who was expecting her to cry), and said,
“Well, what do we do about it?”
When it came time to admit Momma to the nursing home, because she could no longer care for herself, and she absolutely refused “to be a burden” to us when we asked her to live with us
– I was visibly shaken and upset.
She patted my hand and said, “Baby, it’s going to be ok. As long as I can have my music, and you will call me or visit me as often as you can – it’s all going to be ok.”
She was “Queen Momma” for almost 10 years there.
My Momma didn’t teach me how to survive and endure by words.
She taught me by letting me watch and help her.
She was known as “Momma Lunsford” by just about everyone in our county and the several surrounding ones.
Loved. Honored. Respected.
Still is.
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