TRIBUTE TO iMOTHERS Apmum
5
A Different Kind of Mother
Madison Byrd
Contributing Writer
When I was thirteen,
my mother decided it
would be a great idea
for her to walk into my
eighth grade English
class and announce,
while pointing at me
with a huge grin on her
face and a mischievous
twinkle in her eyes, that
I was her daughter and
she had breastfed me for
nine months. I sat there
red-faced while the rest
of my class, who were all
well acquainted with my
mother, laughed uproari
ously. I remember think
ing, "Oh my goodness!
She has finely lost her
mind!" Sitting there in
that tiny classroom in my
exclusive private school
while trying to hide
behind my long dark
hair, 1 realized that my
mother was not like other
mothers.
My mother was bom
to a military family in
a tiny, unpronounce
able town in Germany.
She grew up traveling
all over the world with
her five older siblings,
her constantly worried
mother and her hard
working father, who
served in the US military.
When my mother turned
twelve, her family settled
in Enterprise, Alabama,
home of the boil weevil
monument and not much
else. Having spent most
of her life moving from
place to place. Mom had
developed a decidedly
vivacious and gregarious
personality that aided
her in making friends
along the way. She also
developed a strong work
ethic and a desire to rise
above the financial plight
of her own family. In
order to do so, my mom
put herself through col
lege and graduated with
degrees in both psychol
ogy and business.
One of the things I
remember most about
my mother from child
hood is the emphasis she
placed on family values.
I can still hear her say
ing, "Madison Elizabeth
Byrd, your friends will
come and go, but your
brothers will always be
your brothers!" I used
to cringe every time she
gave that particular lec
ture. I must have heard
it over a thousand times
when I was a child. The
truth is that all of her
lecturing paid off. My
brothers and I remain
close friends fo this day.
We have our mother to
thank. Mom made it a
point throughout our
childhood to erisure
that our entire family
sat down together every
evening for dinner. Mom
also used to joke that
she and Dad were like
dinosaurs because they
continued to fight daily
to keep their marriage
alive in a society where
divorce is a growing
trend.
Another unique part
of my mother's personal
ity is optimism. Every
afternoon Mom would
pick up my brothers and
me from school. Before
we could even open
our mouths to begin
complaining about how
much homework we
had to do or whose turn
it was to pick the radio
station. Mom would
demand that we all
buckle in and think of
three good things that
happened at school that
day. If we could not think
of anything, then we
could not speak for the
remainder of the ride. In
this way Mom taught us
how to find the good in
the midst of the bad. If
we ever complained that
something was not fair,
she would turn and say
in a booming announcer
voice, "This game is
not fair!" Whenever I
nitpicked over the little
things and lamented the
everyday disappoint
ments of life, she would
tell me, "Life's tough; get
a helmet!" Her dramatic
responses to our com
plaints taught us how to
adapt and roll with the
punches.
My mother also pos
sesses a unique sense of
humor. The first time that
she met my roommate's
family she told them that
she met my father while
table dancing in a bar.
My roommate's dad is a
pastor. My dad says that
Mom has simply "gotten
Different cont. on pg. 7
Mother and Friend
Elizabeth Raffenspei^er
Contributing Writer
As I look at tiiis pic
ture and see my mother's
smile, she comes to life
again. I stare at the
photo, and quiet tears
flow down my face.
Sometimes I feel cheated,
but I remind myself that
it is not the length of
time people are in your
life but the role someone
plays in your life that
affects you the most.
As images flood
my mind, I recall fond
memories of my mother.
My happiest times with
her were our daily chats
after school. Every day
she would be waiting at
the door, ready to open
it as I came storming into
the kitchen. She did not
scoop me up in her arms
and hug and kiss me;
instead, she greeted me
with a gentle kiss on the
cheek and with the most
wonderful smile. I truly
believed I was the only
one in the world who
received that particular
smile.
Almost immediately
we would sit down at
the kitchen table, and I
would tell her about my
school day. She would
sit in the wooden chair,
and I would position
myself across from her
on the worn wooden
bench that ran the length
of the long table. My
mother's eyes were vari
ous shades of brown and
hazel, depending on
which way the sun was
shining on her. Her lips
were full and looked as
if she were wearing dark
pink lipstick. Her teeth
were large, and if you
looked closely, you could
see the tiniest, almost
invisible overlap of her
two front teeth. Her dark
wavy hair was always
pushed away from her
face. She wore what my
sisters and I called her
"uniform." Plain cotton
shirtdresses were daily
household attire for
many women of the time,
and my mother was no
different. Her favorite
housedress was bright
orange with a tiny floral
trim around the collar
and sleeve.
As we sat at the
kitchen table, I babbled
on about a boy who had
gotten in trouble and
what I did at recess.
We would laugh over
the silliest things. Her
laugh was gentle, barely
audible, but her smile
was big. Eventually, she
would announce that
my mouth moved more -
than a duck's rear end,
and she would get up
from the table and finish
making dirmer. I took no
offence at her comment,
for I never doubted that
she enjoyed our little
chats as much as I. Our
afternoon meetings were
the most precious times
for me because I had my
mother's exclusive atten
tion. In a household of
nine people, I felt special
when I had her as a cap
tive audience.
Even though my
mother's nature was
easy-going, she ran a
strict household. If the
rules were pushed too
far, the gentleness in
her face would disap
pear and her expres
sion would turn stem
in an instant. I can still
visualize her waving a
wooden spoon, and I can
hear the Italian phrase
that accompanied it.
However, the more com
mon form of discipline •
and what we feared most
was "the look." My
mother would stare at
us with a slightly raised
eyebrow, and we imme
diately knew to step back
into line. This look was
certainly not amusing at
the time, but it has pro
vided my family many
hours of entertainment
over the years. Oddly
enough, my sisters and
I have been accused of
having inherited the
Mother cont. on pg. 7