Mother

My mother touching up photographs by hand. Wasn’t she lovely!

Her pulse was weak and thready. My hand lay in the center of her chest. With my eyes closed, my sense of touch was heightened. She was soft and clammy. Suddenly, I realized that the heartbeat I now felt was the very first sound I ever heard nestled protectively in her womb. She gave me life; I supported her as she escaped it.

It is a documented fact that at the age of 20, my mother had a 19-inch waist. Yes, she was a petite, redhead with blue eyes, freckles and a lust for all things musical, creative and alive. My earliest formative memory is of her is sitting on a piano bench in a dark room haloed only by the yellow glow of a lamp as her tension eased from long lean fingers and was absorbed by the keys of ebony and ivory. She married the treble and base with ease. I could tell if she was happy, sad, angry, lonely… by the way she sat the bench and the tenor of the tune the played. Her posture was perfect.

Unlike most women with children in the 1960’s, she worked. My sister and I were left in the care of an old lady we called Aunt Mary. She smelled like snuff and had one curly gray hair growing out of the side of her chin. She whipped me with a switch from a bridal wreath bush. Though she was hard on me, I loved my Aunt Mary dearly. To be honest, I have more childhood memories of Aunt Mary and my maternal grandmother Nanny than I do of my mother. I used to think mother had to work for financial reasons but have come to realize over the years that she needed work to get away.  Not all personalities marry well with motherhood. Looking back, I recognize that and respect her for following her passions. As a portrait and wedding photographer, she found her escape. On rare occasions, she would welcome me into the darkroom with her for an afternoon. She would lift me to a tall stool so I could see into the chemical vats of developer and stabilizer. She smelled like Chanel and her hair was cinched in a French twist. Drip, drip, drip… There was always a dribble of water trickling into the final wash basin. Music! It was always playing in the darkroom; she hummed as she gently nursed the prints to life. It was like magic.

 When I was 10 years old, my mother and sister were in an automobile accident on the freeway in Houston.  A lawn chair fell from the back of a truck into my mother’s lane. Instead of running over it, she came to a full stop in the center lane of Highway 59 and was swiftly rear ended by a truck. She was in a neck brace for months and months… The medications combined with the trauma of it all smothered my mother under a dark heavy blanket of dependance and depression that she could only manage to kick off sporadically. The clinical depression that had tugged at her since her early teen years finally took firm hold.

It was a crisp fall morning. I had awakened early and brought a bowl of cereal to the back porch; the falling leaves were spinning on the breeze. Mother walked out on the porch, tossed off her dark blanket of depression, folded it atop the patio table, and sat down with me to chat. It was like that over and over again. She couldn’t mix the keys anymore; she lived her life either base or treble. My relationship with her circled around creativity. Even in her most depressed state, she could critique a photograph, edit a story, praise an achievement… She pushed me to be better, and I fed on it.

Red hair fades over the years. It’s like the color is forced by the pressure of living to the end of each strand of hair until it drips off the tips leaving something akin to a blood trail all the way to that place where life ends.  Mother’s hair finally dripped its last red. When she could take it no more, she halted kidney dialysis. Though she refused all medical care and said goodbyes, she lingered as if she had something left to do. For 7 days a strange happiness pushed her dark clouds away and we had the best talks. “Do not look back at your life when your days are numbered and realize you have not lived to the fullest,” she urged. “Make sure my grandchildren and great grandchildren know Christ and have a true and growing relationship with Him!” She traced her long lean fingers across my forehead and down my cheek. Then, she drifted into unconsciousness. It was a moment I will never forget. For two silent days, we sat with her. My daddy sat by the bed and held her hand while my sister paced and gazed out a window that overlooked a birdfeeder no one cared to fill. I sat opposite my daddy with my hand resting on mother’s chest. Suddenly, I felt her pulse more rapid under my touch. Then it was gone… Kissing her forehead I questioned, “Do you see Him Mother? Do you see Jesus?” Yes, my mother was in heaven free of her demons and able to enjoy the full keyboard once again.

I share these details because it is what my mother would have wanted. Sometimes depression latches on and never lets go. If you have the symptoms or recognize them in a friend or loved one, take action. Help is available today that did not exist when my mother was younger!

My mother behind the counter at Mac’s Photography Studio in downtown Jasper, Texas.