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| Marjorie June (8th grade) |
Marjorie June, my mother, grew up during the depression moving from farm to farm and living sometimes with extended family. She enjoyed the occasional dogs and cats that wandered unto their place and dreamed of getting married, having a family, and living on a farm of her own.
Her father was a seed-corn dealer, and as a young woman, it was common for her to help out in the field as needed.
Vanity? I'm not sure she had time for such thoughts, stylish clothes, or even a mirror to consider all this.
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| Marjorie June (HS graduation) |
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| Mr. and Mrs. |
S
he met my father at a church gathering and fell in love before he left to serve in World War II. Letters were written and a relationship made more precious by the country's circumstances was formed. Mom made a wedding dress out of white wool and waited. Dad returned home with a silver medal and a gold star--perhaps a somewhat changed man. Vows were exchanged in a simple ceremony.
After a brief honeymoon, they moved to Dad's family farmstead. Used furniture filled the house; however, a new bedroom set which included a chest of drawers, a bed with head and end boards, and a vanity with a mirror the width of the dressing table were purchased.
She must have felt like a princess--
married to a veteran,
living in the country
with her own dog,
and a new bedroom set
with a vanity to boot
in the old farm house.
A hand mirror with matching
brush and comb were
all placed on a doily
which covered the
always shining surface.
And, nothing else.
The front drawers held personal items--
a bundle of letters from my dad written
while he was over-seas, nightgowns, and socks.
I imagine her checking her reflection in the large mirror on Sunday mornings. Was the vertical line on her hosiery straight? Was her slip showing? And, her hat, was it at the right angle; should she pull the netting over her face or shift it back over the hat?
As a soon-to-be-mom, I picture her in the early morning--
after her husband went out to do chores--
looking in the vanity mirror and studying
the changes in her young body as her pregnancy progressed.
Months later,
I visualize her sitting on the bed
holding a new born
and staring at this
new image of herself.
A mother with a miracle.
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| A two year old and a three year old. |
A year, then another, and yet another slips by. A nicely framed picture of the family children settles in one spot on her vanity along with products from the Watkins man, socks needing darning, and a pattern or two. A cluttered surface that no longer needs dusting.
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| My brother and I with a new brother! |
The surface items evolve as one year lapses into another to include a stack of diapers neatly folded, Sunday School lessons, and an updated picture or two of what is happening in the family.
When Mom was busy with the cleaning, baking, and meal preparation in the kitchen, the important papers were often shuffled into the bedroom and unto the vanity. I wonder if she ever took time to ponder her image and wonder what she had gotten herself into as the years tumbled one onto another.
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| And, then, there were four... surrounding Grandpa Harry. |
The clutter on the vanity disappeared when Aunt Gladys visited from California. Within an hour of her arrival, her suitcase would be plopped on the bed in my parent's bedroom with her seated on one side and me on the other and the question, "Want to see my shoes?"
I'd slip on her shoes, drape her colorful outfits across my shoulders and dream of growing up and owning fancy outfits of my own. I remember studying our reflections in Mom's vanity mirror as we shared the suitcase contents.
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| A Sunday morning picture, another brother, and a new baby. |
The vanity stayed cluttered, but the contents continued to change over the years. The Watkins man stopped coming to our house; the Avon lady took his place. Tubes of hand lotion (buy one/get one free), miscellaneous birthday and anniversary cards, pages torn from magazines with articles worth keeping blanketed the matching brush, comb, and mirror set along with a smattering of the boys' school pictures and a stack of cloth diapers--always neatly folded.
One year folded into another.
The family picture changed.
My parents moved off the farm and into town.
The furniture went with them--
including the bedroom set they bought as
newlyweds.
The most recent family picture was moved to a new spot--a bookshelf in the living room--along with numerous pictures of grandchildren.
The vanity surface now supported a box of tissues, miscellaneous items bought on sale from the local dollar stores, new books ordered through the mail, and a prescription or two.
The yearly Thanksgiving and Christmas gatherings passed--along with a houseful of conversation, food, and energy that small children bring. One year flipped into another. The family grew. Folding chairs were brought out of the closet and some of us sat on the floor amongst the grandchildren's blocks and books. The only quiet place was Mom and Dad's room with the visiting coats stacked high on their bed.
Mom was diagnosed with a rare cancer in her eighties.
Who did she see now when she looked in her vanity mirror?
What did she remember?
What were her thoughts?
Did she even take the time to look?
She said little.
I came to stay for a week before her death.
Her appearance no longer mattered.
Daily, she wore the same clothes and shoes
and shrugged her shoulders when asked
a question.
After helping her into bed one night,
I scanned the bedroom. As usual,
my mom was a "stacker," and clutter reigned
--except for the top of the vanity.
One picture remained--
my college graduation picture.
Although filled with furniture, her wedding dishes and silverware, her many books and magazines, the house felt empty after her death. Months later, Dad decided to try assistive living and told us to take what we wanted. Although there were a few antiques of value, I wanted only the vanity with the large mirror that had witnessed so much of life.
Now taking residence in my home, my mom's vanity holds my pajamas, my socks, and my favorite CD's. The surface displays a picture of my husband and me and a picture of her: my mom.
I am often reminded of her perseverance in all things and her unconditional love.
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Thank you, God, for Moms.
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If you've been to confirmation or attended Sunday school classes, you probably had to memorize the books of the Bible in their order. Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus.... from the O.T. and, then, Matthew, Mark, Luke, James... from the N.T.
Jude from the N.T. was a brother of James and "of the Lord" and was writing to "those who have been called, who are loved by God the Father and kept by Jesus Christ." Zechariah was an O.T prophet who spoke warnings to the people of his day. However, both verses can apply to what was happening during Jude's time, during Zechariah's time, and, yet, are encouraging words for us today.
