“Irish: A Mother’s Day Tribute”
Mother’s Day is really hard for a lot of people. Many people have (or had) a really rocky relationship with their mothers. Some mothers are estranged from their children, often through no fault of their own.
I am one of the lucky ones. My mom and I got along very well, generally speaking. Of course, like most little kids—especially boys—I got into my share of trouble. When I was little, I kept the forsythia bush trimmed. Mom would make me cut my own switch.
Of course, I played all the angles. I would bring her such a small twig that she couldn’t have killed a fly with it. She would send be back for another switch. Then I got really smart. I discovered that, if you get a big older sprig, it would be hollow and break on the first whack. However, Mom knew that too. I don’t think she even switched me in the end, at times. The trauma of cutting my own switch was enough to reduce me to a puddle of tears.
My dad called Mom “Irish,” because she was. She was red-haired and had the Irish temper. But she also had the Irish playfulness about her.
One of my favorite memories was chasing her around our house with a rolled-up pair of dirty socks. This happened on numerous occasions. I think I usually started it, but she almost always had the last throw of the socks. She couldn’t outrun me, so she would eventually just hide somewhere. Inevitably, my curiosity would get the best of me, and I would try to figure out where she was. “Mom, are you hiding behind that door?” She would be quiet, and I couldn’t stand not knowing.
Whap! Dirty socks up-side my head—again!
My mom worked hard. She was a farm wife. When the hay’s baled and in the field, and rain is coming, you don’t care much about a person’s sex or age. You just try to get the hay in before it rains. Despite her small stature (five feet, two inches), my mom was a workhorse. She could throw a sixty-pound bale of hay up on a wagon, three or four rows high.
But she knew how to have fun, too (as the story about the dirty socks demonstrates). When I was very little, sometimes before I would go to bed, I would say, “Mamma, could you read me a story?”
“Well, I need to get these dishes washed,” she would say. But then she would look at my pitiful little face and say, “Oh, we’ll let the elves wash the dishes!” And then, she would read to me.
The next morning, when I got up, the dishes would indeed be done. “Look, Mama!” I would say. “The elves did the dishes!”
“Why, yes!” she would say, “They did!”
I don’t know if I believe in elves these days, but I do believe in Irish.
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