Never Enough To Do

For Mom, being Mother and Wife was a professional responsibility.

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That sums up my Mom. She was always busy at something. She would plunge headlong into whatever came her way. Not only was she busy, she kept my Father busier than he might have been otherwise. (Moms probably always keep Fathers busier than they might have been otherwise). She made sure myself and my brother and sister, were busy, too. 

She often quoted the adage: “Idle hands are the Devil’s helpers”. 

She would have made a first-rate Executive Secretary.

As it was, her work was confined to herself, family, church, and neighbors. It wasn’t enough, but she did the most she could with not nearly enough challenges. Her work was welcomed by many, not so much by others. No matter. It was fine if her efforts were lauded. 

If not, she had the satisfaction of knowing she did what needed to be done. 

She was proud of all of us. She promoted her family whenever she had an opportunity. We could not have asked for a more tireless cheerleader. She praised us when we needed praising. She pushed us when we fell short. Being a mother and a wife for Mom was 

a professional responsibility.

She was not the sort to shirk responsibility.

          We didn’t always appreciate her help. We should have. Long years of experience have convinced me there is nothing quite as enduring or indomitable as a mother’s love. I owe her 

a lot. So do does the rest of my family. 

          I’ve made her seem a taskmaster more than I should have. That’s probably because children, even adults, tend to recall uncomfortable events a little more readily than fun events. My cousin Karen remembers my Mom differently.

          Karen remembers Mom as a lot of fun.

          Karen told me about a long-ago Christmas at our Grandparent’s little retirement house 

in Mt. Moriah, Missouri. I don’t know how many made the trip, but Karen remembers cousins, Vicky, Brenda, and Debbie, (Aunt Iona’s daughters) were certainly there. The four girls were great friends; not quite children and not quite teenagers at the time. Mom had brought gifts 

in her usual thorough way for everybody she knew would be there. 

          The girls were very excited about their gifts. What could they be? They couldn’t wait 

until Christmas morning! Couldn’t they open their gifts right now? Please, please, please! 

Mom thought it would be alright if the girls opened their gifts before morning. Aunt Maudine, and Aunt Iona nodded their assent. 

          The girls scampered upstairs to share youthful delight in their giftwrapped treasure. Downstairs, the adults could only hear giggles and squeals. Minutes later the girls came down with blackened eyes, looking like four little raccoons.

          Mom had given each of them a small Maybelline cosmetic kit. 

           Karen has many stories about how much fun my Mom could be. It’s easier for aunts 

to be fun; they don’t have the responsibilities of moms. Still, I’ve enjoyed hearing Karen’s memories of a side of Mom I was less familiar with. I have many wonderful memories 

of Mom. I have fewer memories of fun. That’s no doubt my own dour fault. Nobody thinks 

of me as a barrel of laughs, either. 

         When Mom and Dad moved to Ohio, they took a good deal of the farm life with them.

Their backyard truck garden in Parma was about twelve feet by forty. They grew enough food 

to feed several families. What they didn’t eat fresh, Mom canned.

          In the event of disaster they were stocked for at least half a year. They went” back home” to Missouri at least once every year. On several of those trips Mom insisted on bringing back bags of good ole’ black Missouri peat for their Ohio garden. It must have worked. they always had a bountiful crop. 

          Producing such a large amount of produce was only a portion of Mom’s work. She also made her own cleaning materials and medicines, sewed, mended, baked, and cooked, along with checking homework and doing the laundry. In between she read and kept her mind challenged with crossword puzzles. Mom fairly ran to a challenge, particularly if she thought the challenge was a threat to her family. 

          Anyone who engaged in battle with Mom would regret it. Even if they won, they would walk-away bloodied. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t use vulgarities. She spoke quietly, almost off-handedly, with the unsettling directness typical of the Billups clan. Her weapons 

of choice were wit and an uncanny sense of her opponents soft spots. It was rapier against 

bludgeon. She was also indefatigable. Adversaries would often surrender from exhaustion. 

          She was a warrior. Diplomacy to her was unnecessary blah, blah, blah.

          What she lacked in spontaneity, she made up for in planning. Myself, my brother, and sister were born about ten years apart. We grew up almost without siblings. Was that planned? It wouldn’t surprise me. 

          One child at a time would allow her to devote full attention to each of her children. 

As a result, we all have slightly different memories of a slightly different Mother.

          She’s gone to Heaven now to be with Dad. I’m sure Heaven doesn’t need any assistance. 

         When Mom got to Heaven, I’m sure she offered to help. 

          Busy people are never bored.            

By K. L. Shipley

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