Lessons from my Mother

Why do we all read?  My mother!  Why do we all read with inflection?  My mother!  Why do we read fantasy?  My mother!  Oh how she would have loved to read Harry Potter.  From the earliest of memories I remember story time every night before bed.  I loved it when she read poems, particularly "There are Fairies at the Bottom of Our Garden."  I knew there were fairies at the bottom of my own garden, right there by the rock garden.

My mother's grandmother came from Sweden (the Johnson grandma).  My mother told me how the only book she had was her Swedish Bible.  She had been very particular and had insisted that all her (I believe there were 8) children had to learn to read and write.  They learned in the village church.  The Book of Mormon was not translated into Swedish when the missionaries came to her village, but some how she gained a testimony and she and her husband and all of her children joined the church.  When they reached America she encouraged her children to learn and read English (even those who were grown and already married).  Strange that some cultures don't have this same attitude. 

She cherished her Swedish Bible for it was all she had to read for the rest of her life. 

Grandma Johnson (Merle Snelson, my grandma) loved to read also.  The odd thing is that the son of the Swedish grandma (my grandfather) thought reading was a waste of time.  For him it was just like watching TV for us today.  There was no practical benefit in frittering away your time reading a book when there was so much work to be done.  So my grandmother and my mother worked out a plan.  When the boys and Grandpa would come in from the field they had to pass along a hedge that ran by the side of the house.  The hedge was just low enough for grandpa's hat to be seen above it.  After the boys and grandpa left to work in the fields, grandma or my mom would start the house work and the other one would start reading out loud.  The one working was responsible for keeping an eye on the hedge and a lookout for Grandpa's hat.  If the hat was spotted, the one reading would be warned, the book would be tucked away and a dust rag or broom would be grabbed and when grandpa walked in, both mother and daughter would be busy working. 

My mother loved Dickens, Shakespeare, and other classics.  She also loved poems.  She loved the rhythm.  She liked how the sound of many words gave you the feeling of what they mean.  She loved to read with expression.  She was an actress at heart (hey, now you know where I get it).  She loved to develop a characters voice and mannerisms when she read.  I loved it as a kid.  When she would read to me as a little kid, she made my siblings go to bed.  This was supposed to be just me and mom time.  She said they had all been read to and now it my time.  Well, I am sure she probably knew this, but all three of them used to sit on the stairway very quiet and very still so they could listen to her read to me.  I didn't know this until I was married and Kathleen confessed. 

The tyrannical nature of grandfather's reading policy was of benefit to me and my siblings.  We were given chores to do but as soon as those chores were done, we could spend as much time as we liked reading.  It was wonderful.  One summer vacation I spent with Ishmael searching for the great white whale.  I sat on the back porch everyday and read and read.  I could smell the sea salt on the breeze.  I swear I could hear the waves lapping against the boat.  It was one of the greatest adventures of my life.  After cleaning my room and helping my mom clean up the house, I was left to go on my adventure everyday for as long as I wanted.  I read through lunch and had to be called to dinner.  As soon as dinner was over, I was back outside and one of the crew of Captain Ahab.  Thank you, Mom for letting me discover the wonderful world of my imagination through books. 

Grandma inspired my imagination.  She would ask me what I saw in a leaf, what lived in that leave, what kind of world was under the leave.  I could spend what seemed like hours lying on the ground under the lilac tree and imagining a world filled with little tiny space cars flying from leave to leave.  It was probably only 10 minutes and then I was back in bugging my mom.  But she would suggest another imaginative activity and I would be outside again and imagining all kinds of things. Who needed toys.  One fall, a girlfriend and I created a mansion in the field behind the house with a kitchen, bedrooms and ballroom.  We flattened the wild wheat into squares for the rooms and had hall ways between rooms.  It was great fun and we were allowed to spend hours at it. 



Mom wanted her children to be cultured and have good manners.  We all were required to play the piano.  Mom had had just enough lessons to teach her the notes and how to count.  She could fiqure most melodies out and play them with her right hand.  But it was very hard for her.  She could not help us with our music but she sat in the front room for years with each of us, listening.  It must have been hard for her, because she always felt there was housework to do.  But she took the time to sit in that living room and listen to us practice in order to stop us if we just ignored a mistake and to encourage us to practice for the entire 30 minutes and not play around.  After we improved enough on the piano she would work in the kitchen while we practiced.  We were still reminded when something did not sound just right and she was usually right, a mistake had been made. 

Michael, loved to practice.  I think it was how he got out of work.  He would play and play and play, until we would all want to scream at him to stop.  One day he had played the same song over and over again for about 3 hours.  Mom finally had had enough, "If you play that song one more time, I am going to break your fingers! Stop it."  As I think back on it now, I think Mom thought Michael was doing it on purpose just to annoy her (maybe she was right).  For some strange psychological reason, I desired to be yelled at to stop practicing too.  I began to play the "Spinning Song" over and over.  I must have practiced that same obnoxious song for at least 4 hours straight.  I could not stand it any more and Mom did not seem to be the least bit upset about my practicing.  Finally, I said, "Aren't you listening to me.  I have been playing the same piece now for the last 4 hours and you have not yelled at me like you did at Michael.  I don't think you even listen to my playing." 

Rather taken aback (why would any child want to be yelled at), my mother assured me that she had been listening to me and she was so grateful that I had been practicing it had not bothered her in the slightest that I had been playing the same thing over and over again.  I never tried that one again. 

When Mom called you, you learned very early in life to come immediately.  I have a hard time with this because my children do not come immediately.  My father even came immediately when Mom called.  It did not matter if he was sawing a long piece of wood.  If he heard mom call for dinner, he stopped and came for dinner.  Whatever we were doing stopped the moment that Mom called us for dinner.  It really drives me nuts that my children continue doing whatever and so does my husband.  I have to give them warnings and even then it is not a guarantee that they will come.  We were taught it was an act of respect for my mother.  She spent the time preparing the food to perfection, we owed her the respect to eat that food when it tasted the best and looked the best.  If she was ready to eat, we were ready to eat. 

Well, I am apparently running out of room and time.  So look for further blogs about both Grandpa and Grandma Cates.