Mama

Several weeks ago as I began to sense that my Mom’s time here was coming nearer to an end, I started to think about how I would describe her after she died. In moments between pushing the thoughts aside and embracing the inevitability of the situation, I began to try and settle my heart on the things that were important about her life.

 

In the last several years of Mama’s life, she became more isolated as she cared for Dad, and then began to lose the ability to get out and interact with people as she once did. So as I thought about honoring her memory, I knew that perhaps the most meaningful accounting of her life would come from me. I didn’t know if I could find the words, and I didn’t know if I could share them with the appropriate clarity and composure. But, here I am. And here you are. And she is not here.

 

She is in a more vibrant place than I have ever known, beyond the constraints of this world. And I come to this moment with the stories of what she has meant to us. Stories of love and faithfulness and saying goodbye.

 

Gary Lois Higginbotham.

 

My mom answered to many things over the years. “GAY-ree” in my grandmother’s distinctive drawl or Miss “Gay-ree” to folks who knew her mainly from growing up on the farm. She was Mrs. Higginbotham to many teachers and 3rd graders who grew up in West Point. Simply Gary Lois to most people. Mom was named for her grandfather, and Gary is not your typical girl name, which obviously never daunted my grandmother in making her a namesake. I think her name probably set her on a path to correct people or set the record straight. I always said about Mom that if something needed to be said, she didn’t mind being the one to say it.

 

When I think about our home growing up and on the farm, I hear this familiar “Gary LOis” with an emphasis on Lois. That was my dad. He always called her by both names, never just Gary. And the Lois got louder when he was urgent, like the time I heard he set the truck on fire at the farm. Or when impatience took over, like the times Mom was pressed into helping herd the cows. Somehow she never stood in the right place during those times.

 

 

She most quickly and lavishly answered to the name G-Mo, what my children call her. A consistent and faithful voice and spirit in my home, G-Mo was woven into the fiber of how my children were raised and into their whole idea of home and family. My own grandmothers were part of my life in a similar way, but for my kids having me as their only parent for most of their lives, I guess G-Mo probably carried a little more weight than usual.

 

Mom was devoted to my Dad, and though some of the 59 years they were married were marked by struggles and change and caregiving, I still mostly remember them having fun. And my dad indulging my mom’s desire to make our home a place of celebration and joy. I remember laughter and snoring. I remember them working together to do things. I remember their shared love of the farm and its simplicity. I remember my mom fussing and my dad listening and being stubborn. And I remember them never allowing their stubbornness or frustration to overshadow the joy and commitment to each other, to me, to my grandparents and family, and eventually my own children. They served us all. They shared a remarkable love of family, but also a devotion to other people’s children – the ones they both served in their life’s work in education.

 

My mom was a teacher for most of her work life and I have vivid memories of those legal sized, mimeographed pages with purple ink strewn across our kitchen table. Her very neat handwriting – the kind elementary teachers have – with written out questions and blanks. I remember her creating little packages of craft projects for her class and the making of classroom bulletin boards on our living room floor with giant acorns and snowmen and all the letters she cut out with messages for each season. My mom wrote plays for her classes to perform. She made her 3rd graders Uncle Sam costumes and turkeys. She helped them make a Bicentennial quilt to celebrate America and countless other projects to give them memorable experiences in school. She had a shirt or dress or earrings for every holiday to wear to school. Elementary teachers are extra, as they say, and my mom definitely qualified.

 

I remember her having a wipeout at 2nd base during field day, much to the enjoyment of her students, and all the mementos she kept through the years that students gave her as gifts — christmas ornaments, bells, soaps and hand towels. And the comical moments she shared many years later — like Seery Dickerson, the child who held his breath until he passed out every time he didn’t like an assignment. Or walking a child down the hallway to the principal’s office and hearing them ask… “Mrs. Higginbotham, can we talk about this?”

 

Since she was the wife of a high school principal, my Mom and I enjoyed practically every football stadium in North Mississippi over the years — rain or shine or cold Friday night — and a few down south, given the Green Wave tradition of playing for championships. But there was also chaperoning the cheerleader van and the occasional trip to the emergency room with a student. My mom was back-up support and behind the scenes for Christmas parties, fundraisers, gifts for teachers and so many things I’m sure I never saw.

 

When my Dad started thinking about retiring, they decided to move back to Macon. My grandmother was beginning to need more care and my Mom was determined to do it. They moved her into the little house next to theirs and for many years, my mom trekked over there, sometimes multiple times during the night to attend to her needs. She was a confidant and help to my Aunt Betty, her younger sister,  through her move from Meridian back to Macon, and cared for her too before her death. They were acts of faithfulness my mom lived out.

 

She’s been a daughter, a sister, a grandmother, a teacher, a church friend, a principal’s wife… “Gay-ree”, Gary Lois, Mrs. Higginbotham.

 

But to me, she was Mama.

 

 

I didn’t always call her that name. I started out calling her Mother, the same as what she called her own mom, my grandmother. I am an only child and so time spent with Mother was never short. We did many things together and my mom relished that. I don’t remember her ever even once needing “me” time or a break. I’m sure she took that time, but I never knew it. The closest she came was telling me she was just “resting her eyes” when I asked for another book or an answer to a question. She always welcomed me close and created experiences that formed the basis of so many of what we now hold as family traditions.

 

Calling her Mother shortened up to Mom as I got older and moved into the teenage years. I guess that’s what I heard from friends and college roommates. Names sometimes reflect the changes of our lives. I’ve called her Mom for a lot of years, but in my adult life, that has softened to Mama very often as she walked with me through so many challenging experiences. And I walked with her.

 

From my mom, I learned to rest in God’s hand. His providence in all things. His timing. His undeniable goodness and wisdom in our lives. I can remember her telling me on more than one occasion that her greatest prayer was “Lord, don’t let me be a slow learner.” She saw situations as God stretching and teaching us. My mom was always looking for solutions and figuring out how to get things done. But, even in her own confidence, there were times when she would step back and say to me, “We just have to let God handle that.” Even as her own mind began to betray her, she never lost that trust and faith. She had a resolve to watch for His purpose — a resolve I’m still learning to grasp.

 

From her, I also learned the art of celebration. Traditions were important to Mama. She had this way of viewing everyday things as moments worth celebrating. Of going the extra mile. Of insisting that something could be done and figuring out a way to do it — sometimes to the frustration of those around her. My mom allowed celebration to trump practicality every time. Whether that was building a balance beam in the barn for Santa to bring me one year or figuring out a way to get my Dad’s wheel chair down to the beach during our last trips to Gulf Shores together. She gave me the gift of celebration — through so many little things, elevated to important and repeated. She gave my children that gift in her home and by her example we’ve tried to give it a presence in ours.

 

Mama’s birthday was on Christmas Day and anyone who knew her knew of her love for the holiday. Her tendency to celebrate really kicked in, and every square inch of her home was covered in Christmas during the holiday season. One of the first things she told me about Mrs. Pleasant’s house when they decided to move back to Macon and buy it was that the big bay window on the front would be the perfect place for a giant Christmas tree. The practicalities of 1950s wiring were lost on my Mom as long as there was a proper place for a Christmas tree. I got that impractical tendency from her. I remember a few years when she invited a few families from church to come by during December with their children to see the big tree up close, and she baked cookies to give them a fun holiday experience.

 

When my dad moved to a care facility, my Mom was lost for a while. She didn’t know what to do with herself without him to care for. As I began to notice her forgetting things around the house, I started coming to Macon on Fridays to bring casseroles, go to the grocery store, fix her medicines for the week and remind her of things. She wanted to make sure she knew how to use the microwave. But, there came a point in the year when she most often asked me about how we would handle Christmas. How would we get the pajamas? And handle the tree? And who would make the dressing?

 

Every year that I can remember, she bought me Christmas pjs for a Christmas Eve gift and expanded that to whoever might be in the house at Christmas — whether that was friends who came to visit, or my family — and pets — when they came along. She didn’t know how she would get the tree up. And having no tree was unacceptable to Mom. So she hatched a plan for Mr. Clarence to come and pull the boxes down from the attic and sort them. She spent weeks putting up decorations, because that was her way. And when she didn’t know how she would get the pajamas. I told her I would get them.

 

G-Mo’s house lives in our hearts as the seat of some of our most special memories. Maggie I think remembers Mama in the most practical ways. Sounds from the kitchen very early in the morning during Christmas holidays as my mom began to cook. Instructions on how to throw the “snowballs” into the Christmas tree — a tradition my grandmother started when Mama was a child. Sitting on the counter with G-Mo learning to make pancakes. Playing in her jewelry box. She says Mama’s house on Washington Street is the place she learned about giving to people — and from Mama, how to properly take care of people. Love through action and giving, regardless of personal inconvenience. She says G-Mo never missed an opportunity to make us feel loved, and she’s right.

 

When I decided to sell my parents’ home here in town, Maggie and I began to clean things out. My boys helped with the heavy lifting and whatever we asked, but it was Maggie and I who took on the emotional tasks of deciding what to save. We started with the Christmas decorations.

 

We took our time with cleaning out over the course of several months. When I got to her desk and the brown basket with the red checkered lining, I found her notes. I realized that as she began to notice for herself that she was losing her ability to remember, she started writing things down. Things she wanted to remember. Haley – October 28. Travis – May 2. Elisha – November 21. Maggie – August 30. Our birthdays. I found a sticky note with the words… Joy Boy, Smile Child, Angel Girl. Those were the nicknames she assigned my children after they were born and she began to know their personalities and bring identity to the places they had in her heart. She didn’t want to forget. There were notes with passwords, Mr. Clarence’s number, the folks who put gas in the tank at the farm. But it was important to her to remember her people and not forget the ways she had come to celebrate them.

 

When my dad had his stroke, Maggie was only a baby. Travis and Elisha were barely old enough to remember him before his physical limitations. But my mom insisted that he, both of them, be a part of our lives. She saw to it that Paw-T, as my children called him, was embedded in their lives. Because of my mom’s sheer will, my dad visited almost every elementary school in our district, until Covid started restricting their travel. They went to grandparents day and Thanksgiving lunch and whatever program came along, and they visited our home most weekends.

 

During some of my darkest days after losing Mike and adjusting to being the only parent to my sweet children, Mama called me every night before bed. Partly for her own peace of mind and partly to let me talk about my day. To give me that touchpoint with a grown-up. To stand in small talk and silent allegiance to my process of grief and coping and parenting and moving forward. When she found herself alone and no longer able to care for my dad, I tried to do the same for her. To call at night. To ask what she had been doing, what she ate. To finish her sentences when needed.

 

In my life, there has been no greater testimony of God’s faithfulness than the example Mama showed. And it has been one of the highest honors of my life to have her in our home and care for her during her last months of this life. When I moved her to Starkville, she had lost the ability to walk and to get out of bed. She had lost her ability to have a conversation and gradually spoke less and less. But that was ok, because in word and deed, she had left nothing unsaid in our lives.

 

I am filled with gratitude that my mom is now at peace from the struggles of this life and reunited with people whose love we shared. I can only hope to live out her stories of faithfulness with the same love and consistency she did. In God’s perfect timing, it’s fitting that we celebrate Mama as we turn our hearts to thanksgiving and then the holiday she so loved. The time to recognize “God with Us” as he has been through every twist and turn. Through every lesson and season of sorrow.