A Memorial Day Twist
...giving mom her due
Kathryn Gammack served her country like many wives whose husbands were overseas during World War II. And the Korean conflict. And Vietnam.
As we honor and remember those who served our country today, I’d like to shout out to my mom and those like her who were home raising children while their spouses were at war.
Ours was a complicated and sometimes difficult relationship, but acknowledging her is overdue.
It took years and much personal growth training (for me) to get that we didn't understand each other. And I didn't try until it was almost too late. We spent way too much time judging one another.
My dad, her husband, left home, leaving her to raise one, then two, and finally three children as he covered Iowans at war. He was rightfully glorified for his work, winning journalism awards and the love of a grateful readership, who found him their only connection to their sons and daughters serving the United States at war. He wasn't around much in my first five years while he was in Korea, then again in my teen years when he left to cover Vietnam. In his absence, we had an idealized relationship—a satisfying myth. Even when he was home, he was gone a lot. As a result, he avoided the day-to-day job of raising a kid and was, therefore, the favorite parent.
As the last born in a brood of three, I was a free-range kid who left the house after breakfast and came home for dinner. My bike was a ticket to anywhere. I pity the child today whose cellphone tracking GPS allows a parent to know where they are at all times.
Oddly, in the past few weeks, I've been a part of conversations about how women's lives have changed. During my mother's generation, the predominant role of a wife and mother was to be a good cook. She was. Be home in case needed. She was. Put on great dinner parties to forward her husband's career while he walked into the house 10 minutes before guests arrived. She did.
I did not understand that these roles, expected but not chosen, limited possibilities that my generation had to fight to achieve.
People younger than we can't fathom what was common practice for my mom. Our moms. They were known as Mrs. His-First-and-Last-Name. They could not have a credit card in their own right. If they wanted a career, they'd look in the Classified section of the newspaper that labeled jobs Help Wanted/Men; Help Wanted/Women. The women's job section listed openings for secretaries, teachers, retail clerks, and receptionists. They paid so little that the checks were called 'pin money for the little woman.'
When women in my generation started breaking down barriers by going to law school, medical school, running for office, and running businesses (as many already had under the title ‘secretary’). Women of our parent's generation felt their roles as wives and mothers were no longer acceptable. They felt disrespected, then angry. Then, envious.
I remember one of mom's bridge-playing buddies commenting about the changing times of the 1970s; "These young women coming up today are so lucky they can get divorced if they want to!"
Mostly, we did not understand each other.
I refused to join a sorority in college or the Junior League. She pushed and pushed and pushed, but try as she might, she could not control me.
When we had become friends in her final two decades, I said: "You know, we would have gotten along so much better if you could have stopped trying to control me. I had to make my own mistakes."
To which she answered, "But I can't help it! I've lived so much longer. I have so much to tell you."
And, unlike what would have happened years earlier, we just laughed at ourselves. And mom never did stop. I suspect my son would say the same about me.
I think about her a lot. And understand how different her life, my aunt's life, could have been if they came of age today. Both were very smart. Mom could polish off a New York Times Crossword puzzle in record time. As the family bookkeeper, each month held predictable drama when it became clear her husband hadn’t entered a check that needed to be deducted from their account. She was even a regional director for Welcome Wagon when I reached my teen years. Still, hard work for low pay, but she grew exponentially with the responsibility. If only being paid ‘pin money,’ she could justify having her own car. My aunt, who never married, had been a young missionary in Cuba in the 1930s. Were she around today, I’m betting she would have followed in her father’s footsteps and become an Episcopal priest. Instead, she was her mother’s ongoing caregiver and spent decades in therapy. My hunch is she’d be flying a rainbow flag today, but I’ll never know. She’s another story for another time.
So on this Memorial Day, I acknowledge the partners who served their country by staying home with the children, being the disciplinarian, the single-parent in charge of everything. And, in some cases, resented because of the role thrust upon them.
This column came to me as I searched greenhouses to find the right coleus for our porch. It’s a small homage I make annually.
Mom managed to keep this common annual plant alive through the years. It didn’t get quite enough light where it was placed on an antique tea cart in our dining room window. The stalks were spindly and cascaded down to the floor. I’m sure it was root-bound and needed fresh potting soil. Coleus varieties are many, but hers had a faded red center surrounded by green. It’s not always easy to find just the right one each year.
Mom gave me the tea cart when I moved into my first apartment. That thing moved with me from multiple locations in Des Moines, Rock Island, Arlington, VA, Kelly and Ames, Washington, D.C., back to Des Moines, then Annapolis, and two places in Florida. She was there with every glance in the tea cart’s direction.
As my taste swung from traditional to contemporary, it was an icon that no longer fit. But I kept it anyway for another five moves. When an impending departure from Florida commenced, it dawned on me that if she was willing to let it go 50 years ago, why wasn’t I? So, I gave it to my brother, who now has the honor of lugging it around. Or not.
As my mother would say: “Too soon, old, too late smart.”
She had a million of these sayings.
Every Memorial Day, mom would visit her mother’s grave. I remember swans in the cemetery pond named Jack and Jill. It’s a tradition I have not followed, except for one day when my siblings and I were all in town on the same day, and we gathered at her grave.
At my request, my son took one of the coleuses on our porch to mom’s grave this morning as I wrote this column.
Are you signed up for the Okoboji Writers’ Retreat? Don’t wait too long. We were sold out last year, and heading there again: www.okobojiwritersretreat.com
Do you have a few minutes? I’d love to hear what you say about your mom, Memorial Day, and how women's expected roles changed throughout your life.
Thank you for this piece, Julie. Can't wait to finally meet you at some point!
Beautiful Julie! Thank you!!
I am remembering my last days with mom at that wonderful Hospice facility in Des Moines. Just before mom died, the Hospice volunteer explained to me that it was important for me to let her know that I would be all right. When I told her that, she smiled and squeezed my hand. That was the last time I saw her.
Love you sister