When my mother died six years ago, I took possession of her old, gray blazer.

Not a fancy coat. Something to wear to the grocery store with a pair of jeans in an autumn chill.

My mother had worn the jacket for years and it was long ago out of style -- split flap vent and gold buttons -- but it was hers, so I wanted it.

It would only be later that I would discover in its pocket two brown, hard nuts left there by my mom. Brazil nuts. My mom called them by another name, before she was politically correct.

I remember getting the nuts every Christmas as a child. Christmas in a large family such as ours can often be rather dreary, but my mother always made it special. Delicious cakes baking in the oven. A golden turkey and country dressing. A few gifts left by Santa that we thought were the best ever made.

Apples, oranges, candy and ... nuts.

Memories of those Christmases lead to other memories…

The cat my Mother fell in love with and named Tammy Faye --only to learn from the vet much later that she was a he!

New hair ribbons at Easter and patent leather shoes. Hot combs the Saturday night before. Damp hair and singed scalp and the occasional burned ear.

My mother had a thimble that she used to make quilts. She made us nightgowns out of flour sacks one year when we were little.

I remember sitting down on lard cans at her knee while she taught us to read, her finger pointing out the words as we haltingly read each line. Her voice sounding out the words too hard for us to know.

My mother loved flowers, and I hated that she made me help weed them. She would "pinch off" a piece of anything from anywhere and drag it home to plant. She said no self-respecting woman would live in a house without something blooming in the front yard. Each year I plant flowers because I want to be "self-respecting."

I recall the year I was put in charge of the Christmas play at church. I had the bright idea to make angels wings out of cardboard with glued-on cotton. The angels would march in carrying lit candles to worship the baby Jesus. When one of the angels’ wings caught on fire, after the flame was extinguished, I heard my mother’s voice from the audience saying, "Go on, now. Go on with the play."

A red rose bush bloomed at the edge of our yard. As children, we would pick red rose blossoms to pin to our dresses on Mothers day as proud testaments of our love for our living mother.

I hate to confess it, but I haven't yet sent mother’s blazer to the cleaners. I go all year and never think about it until autumn comes around and I put it on … and then I reach into the pocket and there it is again -- memories of my mother.
***
D. Barbara McWhite grew up in York County, SC, and lives in Orange Park, Fla., with her husband and cat. Her column is published here each Tuesday.

Got news to share with Qcity readers? Email us at editor@qcitymetro.com.
Sign up for our weekly email newsletter below

Sign up for our Weekly Email Newsletter Email: For Email Marketing you can trust

Other Ways to Share Twitter Del.icio.us MySpace

Discussions and Submission Agreement