My ‘Far Outside the Ordinary MOTHER(S)

 

Mothers are the thread, the golden thread, capable of weaving hearts together forever. It begins at birth, and continues throughout our lives, until their death, even beyond.  Most of us will keep our mothers in our hearts until the very last moment, until our very last heartbeat.

Even so, mothers are not perfect, though they may try to be, or want to be. I have unlucky friends who have said how unkind, uncaring, and unaffectionate their mothers were. Yet, these very friends are such wonderful mothers today. And so are their daughters with their own children. You see, one doesn’t need a perfect mother, or even a good mother, to  become a wonderful, nurturing mother.

When I think of my good fortune, I almost feel guilty. I have been blessed with two wonderful mothers: Sylvia LeBlanc Landrum, 89 years  young, gave birth to me and my sisters– Deborah and Gina. And Mazelle Patterson, now 92, came into our family before I was born. They are like two sides of the same coin, each nourishing me in their own unique and wonderful way. Both are a constant in my life and are my priceless gems.

To this day, I still have the art sketched poem I gave my mother when I was only six-years-old. What can I say, I save my heartfelt treasures forever.

“M” is for the million things she gave me,
“O” means only that she’s growing old,
“T” is for the tears she shed to save me,
“H” is for her heart of purest gold;
“E” is for her eyes, with love-light shining,
“R” means right, and right she’ll always be

Put them all together and they spell mother. A word that means the very world to me.

Although the author was Howard Jones, my first grade teacher had me believe it came from me…. as an original. It would be years before I realized it was simply a poem, belonging to someone else, copied by a six-year-old little girl for her mother. Actually, for her mother(s). I made one for my Mazelle too, after winning the argument with my teacher.

In the recipe of life, I think mothers are the main ingredient, perfecting, or ruining the flavor.  Born in New Orleans, my mother has a Cajun/Creole attitude with French and Italian blood.  Sylvia LeBlanc is one of God’s atrocities.  She is a colorful character with a serious germ and chemical phobia.  It’s a good thing I love her —- she could make a sane person snap. I say that lovingly, if you are reading this, Mama.

You see, she is obsessed with organic food, clothes, and cleaning supplies. She is aware of dangers lurking out there long before the FDA mentions it, argues it or bans it. Her Yorkie dogs — Rhett and Scarlett — lived until they were almost seventeen years old, after a life of only organic dog food and bottled water.  She sneaks her silver flask, filled with organic wine, to restaurants. No one should be surprised she looks twenty years younger than she is, and is still very healthy for her age.

My mother is generous and compassionate towards animals and people, a foot soldier for the underdogs of the world. That might be because dog is in the word underdog.

She met my father, a surgeon when she was only 19 years old. He was already 26 and finishing his residency at Charity Hospital in New Orleans. They married in 1945.

On the opposite end of the health forum from my mother, Lou Landrum, my father, smoked Salem cigarettes, drank Smirnoff Vodka, ate Oscar Meyer bologna and Sunbeam white bread his entire life.  He had his side of the refrigerator, she had hers.  His was filled with products containing sodium nitrates, her side with products and labels no one recognized. Fifty years ago she was shopping health food stores in a neighboring town.  Our family drank purified water in five gallon jugs, delivered by a truck from the same neighboring town, one hour away.  My friends knew it was strange. By then, I was oblivious to our oddity.

My mother was more like a fourth daughter to my father. She was stunning with her pearly white skin, ebony black hair and lean figure.  All of which scored her modeling assignments before marriage to my father. When we were shopping as teenagers, a shopping clerk would approach my mother, sisters, and me.

“May I help you girls find something?”

“No thanks!  My friends and I are just looking,” replied my mother.

She never acknowledged she was our mother. Who would have believed her anyway?

Like many women of her generation, she was given an allowance to run the house.  To this day she never records a check or balances a checkbook.

“I know my balance, it’s in my head.”  She says tapping her temple with her pointed index finger.

“Really, so forever you remember your running balance?”  I ask.

Sylvia-isms will always be remembered, whether I practice them or not.  I must say I’ve learned some important lessons from her over the years.

The first is benevolence.  She supported all of her siblings and sustained two of them all of their lives.  Her brother Charles, the strangest of the litter, lived in the impoverished home situated in the ninth ward.  When Katrina hit New Orleans, he climbed into the attic with only his cartoon of Camel short cigarettes and one small bottle of water.  He laid on his back for three days and nights in the dark.  He only became frantic when he was getting down to his last Camel. On the fourth day, a boat came by and rescued him and CNN interviewed him.  He was 75 years old at the time and my mother paid to have the destroyed house rebuilt. He moved back in and lived there until the last year of his life.

Something else I learned from my mother is the importance of good health.  It’s the one thing you can’t buy and the only thing that matters. Oh and there is her ‘sleuthing’ and ‘maintenance’….. two more very important things.  You should read the labels on everything and take care of your skin, eyes and organs. They need to last a long time.

Here’s the best, or maybe the worst, depending on how you look at it.   Hitchhikers — never pick-up hitchhikers, or make eye contact with them.  My mother always picked them up when we were young.  I would feel the car slowing down and my stomach would start knotting as I sat in the backseat, my eyes first squinting, then focusing, on what/who lay ahead.

“Please mama — don’t pick ‘um up!”  I pleaded.

“Hush! You girls move on up to the front now, it’s too hot outside for anybody to be standing on the side of the road. We’re gonna’ pick ‘um up.”

She would. She did.

How we all never ended up in some green dumpster still remains a mystery to me.

Finally, there is family.  They are more important than anyone else and should always come first.  Treat your family with the same courtesy you would a stranger, they care more about you.

My mother’s recipe for life remains spicy even now.  Her Creole and Cajun juice has been stirred and simmered for a long 89 years, resulting in a memorable feast.

“What’s your mom’s secret, she looks fantastic!”  A friend asked me.

“A splash of something called LeBlanc.” I replied.

My beloved father died from lung cancer when he was only 67 years old.  My mother warned him years earlier he would.  I remember their conversation as he ate his bologna sandwich on his day off from his medical clinic.

“Lou, I don’t know why you keep eating that stuff, it’s gonna’ kill you.”

“Just leave me alone, will ya’!  Pick how you wanna’ die. I’ll pick my way.”

The irony: my mother preaching to the doctor on issues of health and the doctor ignoring her advice with dire consequences.  In his defense, it all occurred before staying healthy became a full time job for the baby boomer population.

I never ate processed meat after that day.  Her preaching worked on someone it seems.

And so this is just a tiny bit about my very own ‘far outside the ordinary mother’. I’m sure each of you have a great story about your own mother. Please feel free to share it with me. Just realize I’m a writer and you may want to change the name to protect the innocent.

Each of us are united by one common thing……a mother who birthed us. Enjoy yours today, or remember her from yesterday.

May you have a ‘Far Outside the Ordinary’ Mother’s Day!