Mother’s Day is a complicated holiday. For some, it’s a joyous celebration of motherhood. For others, it’s an unwelcome reminder of loss, infertility, estrangement, hurt, or disappointment. But, at its best, I think the holiday is a celebration of the women, here or in heaven, who have influenced, encouraged, cared for, or inspired us ~ whether those women be our mothers, grandmothers, aunts, sisters, neighbors, or motherly friends.
Sometimes I get so wrapped up in the daily grind that I forget to even give thought to the women in my family who made my very life a possibility. Not one of us is an island. We all have a history. And there are women all throughout the pages of those histories who molded our lives in ways we may not even realize.
One of the women who had a big impact on my childhood was my maternal grandmother, or as we called her, Meme. Like many in her generation who grew up during the Depression, her life was not one of ease. When my great-grandfather lost his job as a streetcar driver, her family abruptly moved from a comfortable life in Kansas City to a very difficult life in the hills of Tennessee. Nearly overnight she went from living in a big city with modern amenities to living in a poor mountain county where the teacher in her one-room schoolroom poked fun of her Midwestern “accent” and set out to make sure her family’s transition was a rough one. Not allowing that experience to shake her resiliency or her work ethic, she adapted to her new life and eventually went on to complete both business school and beauty school in Knoxville. At 21 she married a dairy farmer and soon divided her time between keeping house, raising children, caring for her own parents, serving in the Methodist Women’s Circle, and cooking for the farmhands.
My mom tells stories about the way Meme treated those farmhands. When it was the season to bale hay and the hours in the fields would get particularly long, Meme would cook a huge lunchtime spread, pack up the meat and an array of hot sides, drive out to the middle of the farm, and set up tables {with tablecloths!} there in the fields so they would all have a good, warm meal.
In other seasons, my very extroverted grandfather would invite all the farm help {or anyone else he might have run into} over to the house for lunch, oftentimes without warning. But Meme was always prepared with enough home-cooked food to feed an army. Regardless of race or background, all were welcome and well-fed at her table. Hospitality was her gift, acts of service were her love language, and neither inconvenience nor fatigue ever stood in the way of her acting on those.
In what should have been their “golden years,” Meme found herself the primary caregiver for my grandfather. Alzheimer’s Disease silently began its attack on his mind and body when they were in their early 60’s. His illness was the cause of a financial mistake that eventually led to the loss of their home and any hope of retirement. Rather than resenting that loss, Meme took a job at a local produce market and kept doing what she knew how to do best: working and caring for others. In this season, Papaw was the one who needed her most and she served him until she couldn’t physically care for him in their apartment any longer. Though his illness took a tremendous toll on her own health, she would have had it no other way. I’ll never forget her insistence that he have the comfort of his stuffed animal beside him in the bed in the nursing home. When he could no longer recognize her, let alone care for her, she mothered him stubbornly and tirelessly.
When I think about the ease of my suburban life in contrast to the challenges my grandmother{s} faced, I feel ashamed for ever complaining about my woes. If the Spouse called me from the pharmacy and said he was going to be stuck there late doing inventory, at best I might drop off a Chick-fil-a nugget tray. And if people showed up unannounced at our house for lunch or dinner, we would all share some hummus and chips and then proceed to starve together.
Remembering my grandmother and the other women who came before me reminds me of the type of person I want to become. I don’t think I’ll ever be a great cook {I’ll certainly never make a vinegar slaw quite like hers} or a savvy gardener or the most natural hostess. My acts of service may need to take different forms. But, I want to become more selfless and love the people around me with that same kind of fierce determination to do it and do it well.
When I had our firstborn and my mom became a grandmother, she chose to go by Mimi. We had to spell it differently because there could only be one Meme. But I love that she chose a name with the same familiar ring. Meme and Mimi are both a combination of strength and tenderness. Maybe some day I’ll be a Meme {with an alternate spelling, of course}, too.
Until then, I’m thankful for the women who came before me who weren’t able to document their days on blogs or Instagram, but who would impact generations of people with their quiet acts of service and love. In often subtle ways, Meme and the other women in my family and the family I married into continue to shape my ideas of womanhood. And, I imagine there are many in your family or life experience who have done and are still doing the same. I guarantee they’re the type who would least enjoy being the focus of a blog post or any other form or publicity. But, sometimes the most unsung heroes in our families and our lives need their own song.
Here’s to the moms, the grandmothers, the mother-in-laws, the sisters, the aunts, and the women of any other title, who have shaped us and loved us. May we make them proud.
If you ever write a book, please include Meme for a chapter! You have captured it well in these paragraphs! Yes! she worked hard. I’ve heard my Grandmother say, “I’d rather wear out than rust out!” She fell pulling weed in her 80’s, and she and my mother cooked for 10 “work hands” as they called them on their farm–breakfast and dinner (lunch), before moving to Ft. City in 1919. Keep writing, Hollie. Your stories are extremely interesting and fun to read!