MY MOTHERS STORY part #2
by John
(aka. Oaky Wood)©2005

   As I had written previously, when my father died and his abusive ways were gone, my mother was lost and alone. She’d stayed faithful and loyal to him, and stood by him, because women just did that. She believed in the sanctity of marriage, yes to her the better and for worse vows she uttered on her wedding day was her bond, and sacred oath. She would sooner have died at my father’s beatings than break her vows to god. My mother was a devout Methodist, although my father was actually an outspoken atheist. But he did have a charisma and charm that seemed to always attract people to him outside the family home. His abusive ways were at least confined behind the red front door of our council house.

   Every Sunday morning was church day; bells rang out from Mansfield’s many churches beckoning there flock to gather in there ritual ceremonies, and parish priest’s greeted all at their doors, with a welcoming smile, and the usual little bibles clasped in their old white and wrinkled hands. Sunday’s were a time of pomp and ceremony for our growing community. Salvation Army bands bellowed out, and tambourines echoed down the myriad of streets, dressed in their smart pristine uniforms that have become familiar the world over. Singers sang in harmonious tones to renditions of popular hymns, whilst others went door-to-door selling copies of War Cry their own newsletter, and collecting donations. Sundays were a day to be dressed up, yes our Sunday best clothes, were cleaned and brushed, shoes polished, socks without holes found and worn, and for me, my white shirt, tie and the traditional tank top jumper. The pretty pink bows in my sister’s hairs tied neatly, with braids of plaits on either side of their heads. Smartly dressed in their thick coats of grey, and the hand muff’s of black fur completed their attire. Eight thirty on the dot we would start our epic journey across town to my mother’s local Methodist Church which still stands today just outside our town centre. Like a mother hen and her procession of chicks, mother led the way, and in single file we smartly followed. Every Sunday mother walked proudly, head held high, down our street with her brood behind. Not a word uttered except for the usual “keep together’s” and “don’t lag behind” or the “stand up straight and don’t slouch”

As we grew up our Sunday school days were farther between, yet my mother still went regularly like clockwork as she had done so many times before.

   After my father died my mother grew more and more lonely and depressed, locking herself away for days on end, endlessly sobbing. Her whole world seemed to be over, after all she’d been with my father since her teenage days, and the loss of her wartime American lover, now all was gone. The bottles of anti-depressants powerful headache pills for her migraines, and the sleeping pills festooned her medicine cabinet.  Yes days of loneliness took its toll, she talked of ending it all, of being free of her sense of loss, about joining her wartime love in heaven, and seeing my grandfather and grandmother whom she loved and missed so dearly. The cocktail of pills looked more inviting as time passed, they became an obsession, and she collected many as fictitious ailments were told to our family doctor. Her suicide attempts were often just cries of attention, from a lonely soul. Many were near fatal, which frightened us all, as we watched her weakened body lying in those hospital beds, after being stomach pumped yet again. The oxygen mask disguising her still beautiful face. She was losing weight fast through her not eating, her appetite long since gone, and her will to even live dwindling by the day. We tried our best my sisters and I, but all was in vane, try as we may she just wouldn’t snap out of her self-destruction.

   Then one day and for no apparent reason, everything changed. She’d been to an evangelist meeting with a friend the night before. A Billy Graham type speaker was addressing everyone that night. Now she never did say what he’d spoke off, and she didn’t change her own religion, but that man single-handed had such a profound effect on my mother that she wanted to live life again. Not just live again, but have the life she so desperately needed and yet never had. She started going abroad on coach holidays, France, Holland, Luxembourg and her favourite Brussels. My mother was a transformed outgoing happy go lucky fun loving woman, who was enjoying the company of many friends established through her holidays. Gone were the days of her depressions, her migraines ended like a miracle had occurred, she gained the weight she lost and looked so beautiful and elegant So striking was her metamorphism that gentlemen started taking notice as she walked down the street, and the impish smile returned as a wolf whistle was headed her way by the middle aged window cleaner trying not to get too distracted by her passing.

   Yes admirers were literally coming out of the woodwork, all wanting to take her out to the theatre or cinema. My mother floated like a butterfly, with the brightest twinkle in her eyes. And the wickedest smile you ever saw. She was radiant in every way a joy to be with, and a stunning look of youthfulness overcame her. To my dismay at times my mother was mistaken for my elder sister, yet privately this gave me such pride knowing what my mother had endured before blossoming into the woman she became after that evangelist meeting, if I’d have known his name I would easily have gone and shook his hand and said thank you to this powerful speaker. 

   As her trips abroad grew so too did her circle of friends from all walks of life and from all over the UK, meeting on the coaches and enjoying their holidays together.

It was whilst on one of these trips that she met her final love.

   He was a true gentleman in every way, a widower who’s beloved wife had died of cancer. My mother fell so deeply in love. Stirrings she thought were long since gone burned inside her, her passions rekindled as she giggled like a schoolgirl, telling me how sex was wonderful, as though she’d just invented it. My father was always a brutal lover, but her new love was gentle an kind and attentive. Now I thought mum was floating before, well now she flew like an angel, and soared the thermos, so high was this man making her fly. Even her American never gave her such passion. And she told everyone who wanted to listen, which at times, was so embarrassing, yet my mother didn’t care, she was so in love and she wanted all the world to know every last detail including her newest bedroom antics. This was the wonderful woman who was my mother.

   After only a few short months of going out and of course their holidays with the group, they decided to live together in a lovely bungalow in the next village. I remember the day they both came to my workshop and they asked my permission, honestly her gentleman friend wouldn’t have any of it unless myself and sisters agreed and said it was ok. This was the sort of man he was. I simply said I’m not my mother’s keeper and she’s old enough to make her own decisions. I shook his hand and off they went arm in arm, my mother skipping along on cloud nine. Looked back and winked, and like some movie starlet threw her stole over her shoulder as she hopped into her friends open topped car, giggled and off they went down the road, into the misty haze of the summers evening. My mother was so happy, and it was this man who had brought her happiness. I liked him too he really was the perfect gentleman.

   They’d been together nearly five years, when I got the phone call from my mother sobbing, her love was in hospital and wanted to see me, and could I come quickly. My heart racing, pounding worrying as to what was so wrong.

  When I arrived at the hospital the nurses quickly ushered me to his room, where a priest was performing a ceremony. My heart was in my mouth, was I too late, 101 questions rushing through my mind so fast, the giddiness as the room circled, and the rhythmic beats of my heart was all I could here as blackness descended and I crashed to the floor. I’d got myself in such a state I’d fainted much to everyone’s amusement and my embarrassment.

   The priest was indeed there, as were my sisters, my mother and two doctors, and the ceremony. Well it was my mothers wedding. My mothers new love was dying he had a brain tumour, and to ensure my mother inherited the house and his money they’d decided to marry in hospital with the doctors attesting to his sanity. It was a beautiful ceremony with flowers adorning the room. I was so lucky to even know this perfect gentleman I leaned over held his hand and whispered, “Congratulations; dad” He was the only person to ever say “I’m proud of your achievements son” such a wonderful man.

   Less than three weeks later he died, and this time I sobbed for a dad I truly loved and admired, and who gave my mother five of the best years of her whole life.

   My mother died a few years later of a broken heart, as everyday she’d walk many miles to put flowers on his grave and sit and chat for a while, and I do believe he spoke back to her for she always had that twinkle in her eye and the impish smile after her visits. I loved both of you so much and one day we’ll all meet up and walk together into the sunset.

By
John
(aka Oaky Wood)Ó2005
http://thecorner4women.com

Back