THOUGHTS ABOUT MOMA AND DADDY

THOUGHTS ABOUT DADDY AND MOMA December 3, 2005

My circumstances had placed me in a moldy, cold, one-bedroom rental. It was a dark, unwelcoming house that seemed to issue a feeling of foreboding. In the mornings, the sunshine was through the window of the one bedroom which was on the back-side of the house. The back of the house was pushed right into a wet, steep bank that seemed to threaten the house's stability. To look out this window you had to crane your neck and look straight up into trees. Gaining footing to climb this bank was very difficult. The soil and stones in this bank seemed to be pushing on the house as if they resented it being in their way and one day would achieve pushing the house over. To walk between the house and the bank, you had to walk on the sides of your feet. It was that tight.

I was in a funk this particular morning and decided to sit on the floor in that little piece of sunshine that came through the bedroom window. My heart ached for a home that was mine and was full of friends and music with the sunshine coming through all the windows. I had been uprooted from a place that held friends and familiarity. I had been oriented, grounded. Now I felt like I had no connection to anything. I felt like my tethers to the earth had been snipped and I was vulnerable to the slightest wind. I was filled with fear and depression. I felt so utterly alone. And then I felt a change enter this bedroom. The feeling was familiar and comforting. I felt the presence of both my mother and daddy in the room with me. Each of them had completed their journey in this realm and gone on to brighter places filled with music we cannot hear.

I then began to think about things my parents had given me that I could give thanks for and ease my aching heart also. I would fill my mind and heart with precious memories that would bring me joy.

I said, "Welcome Daddy, I love you." I said this out loud. Daddy I thank you for always providing us with a home that was ours. It was not ever fully heated. We were cold in our beds and we very often did not have enough to eat. We stood waiting on the school bus in the winter with inadequate coats and hats. But we had a home. You did your very best with 8 children. When coming home on the school bus I remember looking ahead up the road seeing our house waiting there for me. Always there. It was a treasured sight. And when I stepped off that school bus at my house I felt protected and safe. Daddy you were never a rentor and I appreciate that. You taught us the value of owning a home.
You set the example of reading by sitting for hours at night with the Geographic, newspaper, electronic manuals. Anything in print interested you. I am that way today.
You were an excellent gardener and you taught me to love the earth. The smell of fresh-plowed ground; the feel of it falling through my fingers as I picked up handfulls. I still put my nose into fresh-plowed ground and savor the smell. The different smell the earth took on after a Spring sprinkle fell on freshly planted seed. I would walk with you up and down the rows to see what was pushing through first and wonder at how quickly these tiny green plants became wonderful things to eat. I hoed and weeded with you but I could not last as long as you could. You would work your garden until it was so black dark I didn't understand how you could see what you were doing. Then you came in and ate a bite and went to bed and got up and went to work at the hosiery mill. You always left for work at 5:30am. I would hear the truck leave but I didn't get up that early.
My love of the earth and what it can give back to you was given to me by you, Daddy. Not only will the earth give you food, it will also give you strength and a pride in seeing the results of your labors. Working the earth also gives me a wonderful, therapeutic peace. I feel like I am blended into the earth, the sky, the trees, the wind, the rain, the fragrances. I feel whole. Thank you Daddy.

"Moma, welcome. I love you so. Please stay the day with me." You taught me so many precious and practical things. You taught me to wash my underpants while in my bath and then wring them out in a towel and they would be dry for the next day. Having 6 girls in the house we were fortunate to have 2 pair of underpants each. My moma's precious sisters gave us almost all the underwear we ever had. They were married and had husbands that could buy them such things. They gave us their whole slips when they bought new ones. A whole slip was a wonderful thing to have back then. We couldn't yet wear pants.
Moma, you taught me how to cook in ways that preserved the vitamins and nutrients of foods. You taught me the various healthy properties of certain vegetables. You taught me how to eat right. You told me years before it was ever written in medical research that onions and garlic would protect your heart. You told me that if you didn't have any dairy products in the house that dark, leafy greens would provide plenty of calcium. We never had milk in the house. Occasionally Daddy would buy a box of powdered milk and I remember mixing glass after glass and going outside to sit in the sun and drink it, loving it's taste on my tongue. You seemed to always be running about the house. So much to do with 8 children. But, you would stop in your tracks and pick one of us up and hug and kiss us till we begged down. You taught me unconditional love. You taught me that all living things are to be considered a small part of God. Harm nothing, malign noone, love without bounds, trust without proof, and always, always, show kindness. This philosophy has worked against me a few times; has gotten me hurt and fooled, but I don't know how to approach mankind in any way but with trust and love. Moma you were my salvation. You prevented me from living a life of mistrust and cynicism and I thank you for that. You gave me a view of the world that causes me to find wonder and beauty in the night sky, a summer thunderstorm, a first fallen snow, a tree waltzing with the wind, a ray of sunshine on the floor, wall, ceiling. You taught me to sit on the floor in a spot of sunshine and make it mine. You found beauty in the sun dancing on the dishwater, playing off the spoons. It made little spots of light dancing on the ceiling that you could change by putting your hand in the water.
You endured so much grief watching your children go hungry and cold, but you always found ways and reasons to laugh and smile. And you always made us sure that we were dearly loved. Thank you Moma.


Clydean Stillwell Jackson