Only One Mother

We choose our parents.

You won’t find this in the Bible, but I heard this theory somewhere.

I imagine our winged souls fluttering above, searching for parents to show us who to be.

I look back at my random life pieces and try fitting them into a recognizable pattern.

I saw my mother, Betty. My destiny.

In first grade, my teacher Miss Long announced we would have a Mother’s Day Program on the Friday before that holiday. We made invitations. We learned springtime songs. We covered the bulletin board with construction paper and painted brown trees. Then we sponge-painted their branches with pastel blossoms. I painted mine pink because that was my mother’s favorite color.

Miss Long handed me a poem to memorize for the program.

Only One Mother

By George Cooper

Hundreds of stars in the pretty sky,

Hundreds of shells on the shore together,

Hundreds of birds that go singing by,

Hundreds of lambs in the sunny weather.

Hundreds of dewdrops to greet the dawn,

Hundreds of bees in the purple clover,

Hundreds of butterflies on the lawn,

But only one mother the wide world over.

Never having memorized anything, except easy song lyrics like “Jingle Bells,” I struggled.

Wisely, my mother made it manageable, showing me six lines began with Hundreds. Then she had me pretend turning calendar pages with pictures of things listed in the poem. “As you recite it, see it in your imagination.”

We practiced all over the house.

While she cooked, she’d say, “Karen, where are the stars?”

“In the pretty sky,” I’d answer.

She’d turn to me from the washing machine and ask, “And what do birds do?”

“Go singing by!”

She’d stop in the grocery aisle and say, “I think the clover is blue.”

“No,” I’d laugh. “It’s purple.”

She showed me a way to succeed with details.

Recently, I realized my mother’s own speech was dotted with images: pleased as punch, fresh as a daisy, too many cooks in the kitchen, a bee in your bonnet, something up your sleeve, pie in the sky, mad as a wet hen, water under the bridge.

I grew up with the soundtrack of her voice describing situations in metaphors and similes. 

I stood by a punch bowl. I peeked up my sleeve. I sliced floating pies. I ruffled my damp feathers. I watched best-forgotten ripples flow by.

We didn’t know it at the time because it was simply who we were together. But now I understand why my fluttering soul chose her.

My mother made me a writer. 

She showed me the value of persistence.

She taught me to notice how specifics formed meaningful patterns.

Although she died in 1999, she never left, never stopped. She had the energy of three people (at least) juggling a home, a real estate career, gardens, church spaghetti dinners, a Girl Scout troop, my father, me, and ultimately granddaughter Maggie—her final blessing. Nothing will ever be past tense about my mother’s impact.

I saw it in my garden the other day, when I happened to turn around by the gate. Pink tulips (her favorite flower) dotted the space, nodding at me right and left down the expanse.

In a meaningful pattern.

Forever my only one mother.