My mom dropped the F-bomb

Originally published 2/18/18

And when she did, she immediately giggled, looked at me, and said, "Don't you dare tell anybody I just said that." So I knew immediately, of course, that I had to tell everyone that my mom said the F-word. I'll tell you why in a minute. But first, a few words about my mom. My mom is perfect. And not just in a she's my mom kind of way, but in a real way. Ok, maybe kind of in a she's my mom kind of way, but there is some objective evidence that stipulates that she just might be perfect. She created, managed and maintained a fairy tale childhood for me and my brother. I didn't realize it while I was in it, but as I have grown up and met other adults and learned about their childhoods, I have developed a deep appreciate for mine. Karl and I were both born in Seattle, but raised in South Carolina. We moved to SC in 1969, after Boeing infamously diminished its workforce that year. When my dad came home and announced we'd be moving to South Carolina, my mom had to get out the map to see exactly where it was. At the time, she thought we'd be back to Seattle after a couple of years; she was leaving being her parents and two of her three sisters, and her niece and nephews. Although she was born in Farmington, Minnesota, her childhood home was Seattle. She grew up there, lived on the famed Queen Anne Hill, went to the University of Washington as a day student, met my dad through a friend, got married in a small Lutheran church, and lived in their first connubial home on Three Tree Point, a perfect little house that gave them a 180-degree view of Puget Sound, just south of Seattle.

They look fresh in this picture!

She was devastated to leave Seattle and that perfect home. I was 9 days old when my dad got in the car to drive to Spartanburg, SC, to go to work for Milliken Textiles, in their computer division. Six weeks later, Mom, Karl and I followed.

That's me, below, ready for the big move!

So it was just the four of us, flung out to the East Coast, separated by a country from family and any kind of familiarity. Dad was born and raised in Montana, so he, too, was a total stranger to the East Coast, not to mention the South, and their funny accents, deeply ingrained traditions and old fashioned nutritional habits.

My mom set about immediately indoctrinating herself in all things Southern. We learned to eat grits and make buttermilk biscuits, but she couldn't quite stomach Bunny Bread, so whole wheat bread was often made at home. Sugary cereals were not acceptable, so batches of granola were baked up on the weekend. We had ham and asparagus on Easter, but she was never tempted to make Hoppin' John and collard greens for New Years. We baked cakes on Saturday, and always had homemade chocolate chip cookies on hand. Mom never was one for prepared foods.

This is where I get my cooking gene from. Everything is always homemade. First, out of necessity, because we moved to this crazy place called the South.

Then, I think, because we loved it.

They were invited early to visit Lamb of God Lutheran Church, by the Sears TV installation man. In 1970, Sears sent a man to plug your TV in for you. And, when he found out you weren't from around here, he might of assumed you weren't Baptist, and in kinship, invited you to the Lutheran Church, which is where you came from. God places people in your life for a reason. Pay attention. We remained members of that church for 20 years. My mom played the organ there for most of those years. We were there every time the doors opened, except for Christmas morning. That's the only service we as little kids didn't have to go to. You know, Christmas presents and all. Lamb of God was a small church (there just aren't that many Missouri Synod Lutherans in Spartanburg) but was a centerpiece of our lives.

Lamb of God's adult fellowship was called Couples Club. Families took turns hosting, and we always hosted. At right, I'm entertaining in a last ditch effort to hang out with the adults to see what they were doing. That's the bird cage of my pet bird, Tweetie, in the background.

Last year I found out that my childhood Pastor at Lamb of God lives in Chattanooga. I thought they were in Texas, and I nearly cried when his wife, Sylvia, reached out to me on Facebook. He confirmed me as a teenager, and now Barry Hildebrant and I socialize as adults. It's been so amazing to reconnect with them, especially at this juncture in my life. I have my mom and dad to thank for making me go to church, and I thank God for a loving Pastor and family to shepherd me through it.

Some 30 years later Mom got to have dinner with my childhood Pastor and wife this past December. We all went to Sewanee's Lessons and Carols together. It was awesome.

Another thing my mom learned to do in the South was decorate graciously. She has subscribed to Southern Living for more than 40 years, during which it has served as a travel guide, culture curator, recipe book and decorating manual as she adjusted to all things Southern. One thing she and I both ascribe to is that you cannot have too many Christmas decorations, nor can you have too many desserts. Southern Living taught her that.

Just this past Christmas, you see numerous plates of dessert on the table, and baubles dripping from the chandelier in the foreground. No cup of sugar, dozen eggs or pound of butter goes unbaked, and no surface goes undecorated.

First and foremost, however, my mom was a teacher. She taught German and French and, in the 70s, a class called Married Life, all at Spartanburg High School. She was also there when I went to high school. Karl and I rode to school together, because we had to be at orchestra at 730 a.m., but as he ran cross country in the afternoon, I had to ride home with my mom. From high school. So I reported to her room everyday after school for two years.

This is mom's classroom, left, during an after school German club meeting. Far left is actually my best friend, Laura, who was president of the German Club. This must have been a yearbook clubs picture I took. I was a photographer for the yearbook.

It was during one of those afternoon meet-ups that I saw the teacher side of my mom, and it wasn't pretty. First of all, she was the German teacher, so when she taught she sounded mad. I don't know if she was, but that's how most German sounds to the un-taught. And then, I think she was disciplining someone, and I was horrified!! My mom was so mean!! I had always known her as a mom, of course, so to see her as a teacher was a totally different perspective. I had to confirm with my friends who took German from her what I saw - a mean old teacher, but, rather they disputed me, and said she was a good teacher. That relieved me somewhat, but I'll never forget the horror of seeing my mom as a teacher.

Anyway, riding home with her wasn't really that bad. She let me control the radio, with which I tried to keep her hip and updated on the bands of the 80s. She could always guess ZZ Top, but I don't think her 80s pop music repertoire grew much beyond that.

Mom grew beyond that as a teacher, though, taking night classes one at a time to get her Master's degree, then, after we flew the coop, getting a PhD. So my friends who took German call her "Frau Doctor Johnson," a title she secretly enjoys, I think. She went on to be Assistant Principal then Principal for 15 years at a Junior High school, then retired, only to move into higher education at North Greenville University, where she taught kids how to teach for another 15 years. Her life was dedicated to teaching others, and I know thousands of kids were affected by her.

The best thing about being a teacher, of course, was summers off. And my mom immediately learned how - and where - Southerners spent theirs: at the beach. And not just any beach. It was imperative we not go to Myrtle Beach. Sorry - only Yankees and Canadians go there. But Hilton Head in the early years then later, as development moved up the coast, to Litchfield Beach. We have seldom missed a summer vacation at the beach.

And mom participates fully in life at the beach. That's her and Charlotte (I think) a couple of years ago. At age 74. Riding the waves.

Our family vacations to the beach have been a formative and important part of not only my childhood, but that of Isabel, Charlotte, Daniel and Madeleine's. Those weeks have indoctrinated them as native South Carolinian's (the trip's mom is from Michigan, but they were born in SC), and cemented their roots as Southerners. Their other Grandma, though we love her, vacations in Myrtle Beach because she's, well, a Yankee. See how that works?

Mom still works on her suntan while reading at the beach.

Part of my perfect childhood wasn't just pancakes on Saturday morning, piano lessons on Tuesdays, and homemade cakes on Sunday after dinner. It was the consistency of our lives and the intimacy of our family. That we ate every meal together, at the table. That breakfast was proceeded by a devotional. That birthday parties were held at home, in the backyard. That our friends were just down the street, and we rode our bikes to their house. That they lived in that house for 32 years. That our pastor came to our house for dinner. That we snuggled together when we watched one of three channels on the TV in the den. That we opened presents in the living room. That we had a schedule for when Karl and I set the table. That dad hung clothes on the clothesline before he went to work. That we read letters from Grandma aloud as they arrived in the mailbox each week.

Grandma and Grandpa visited us many times over the years from Seattle. At first, they would drive their camper; later, they flew, and always brought us the leftover plane food. Including the salt and pepper packets. We loved them.

My mom was a feminist. When I said I wanted to be a nurse, she said, be a doctor. When I said I wanted to be a stewardess (it was the 70s when we flew home to Seattle), she said, be a pilot. She never insisted I follow in her footsteps as a teacher; rather she encouraged me to follow my own path. When I stumbled on my path, she and dad were right there, to sternly set me back upright.

We could cook food, but we couldn't necessarily grow it. Thus my fondness for the farmer's market.

My mom worked hard. To be a good teacher. To be a good organist. To be a better educator. To create a perfect life for Karl and I. To launch us into the world successfully.

After we left the nest my mom continued to grow in her life as a woman. She's likely done more since she's been able to give up day-to-day management of children. She defeated breast cancer while she was assistant principal at a junior high school, and never missed a day of work. And, she admits to taking only one nap during her treatment, and never lost a single strand of hair. To this day she continues to run long on Saturday mornings, and goes to the YMCA three days a week. I think she's taking kick-boxing and weightlifting classes right now. For 14 years she volunteered at Heart of Hannah every Thursday night; HoH was a half-way house for women recovering from drug and alcohol abuse and stints in prison. She led an exercise class and a Bible study there; beach week and Thanksgiving were the only Thursdays she didn't go. For 14 years. She only quit because the home closed. Now she visits with fourth graders on Tuesdays at Mountain View Elementary, where she helps with the Good News Club, an after-school Bible study attended by about 100 kids. She teaches Sunday School (they have, unfortunately, become Baptist due to their geographic situation, but it's fine, really) and has the Ladies Circle over a couple times a year. It's a Baptist thing. She took up golfing after we left home too, and continues that in warmer weather; they even moved to a golf course when she retired from the Spartanburg schools.

This is a long one, but it's true. It completely defines my mom:

10 A capable wife who can find? She is far more precious than jewels. 11 The heart of her husband trusts in her, and he will have no lack of gain. 12 She does him good, and not harm, all the days of her life. 13 She seeks wool and flax, and works with willing hands. 14 She is like the ships of the merchant, she brings her food from far away. 15 She rises while it is still night and provides food for her household and tasks for her servant-girls. 16 She considers a field and buys it; with the fruit of her hands she plants a vineyard. 17 She girds herself with strength, and makes her arms strong. 18 She perceives that her merchandise is profitable. Her lamp does not go out at night. 19 She puts her hands to the distaff, and her hands hold the spindle. 20 She opens her hand to the poor, and reaches out her hands to the needy. 21 She is not afraid for her household when it snows, for all her household are clothed in crimson. 22 She makes herself coverings; her clothing is fine linen and purple. 23 Her husband is known in the city gates, taking his seat among the elders of the land. 24 She makes linen garments and sells them; she supplies the merchant with sashes. 25 Strength and dignity are her clothing, and she laughs at the time to come. 26 She opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue. 27 She looks well to the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness. 28 Her children rise up and call her happy; her husband too, and he praises her: 29 “Many women have done excellently, but you surpass them all.” 30 Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised. 31 Give her a share in the fruit of her hands, and let her works praise her in the city gates.

Proverbs 31: 10-31

My mom exemplifies the Proverbs 31 woman. It could have been written about her, down to the strength of her arms and the vibrant colors in her wardrobe.

That's why it was so funny when my mom dropped the F-bomb the other day. And why I knew I had to tell on her.

She dropped the F-bomb, of course, not in anger, or at anyone. We were moving things out of her attic, down to the garage to give or throw away. I loaded up several things, and she warned me to not carry so much so that I might drag something along the wall and scratch it. She and dad are both fastidious about their home-keeping, and legendary in their maintenance.

"I got it, Mom," I assured her, as a teenager would.

She started down the stairs in front of me, herself loaded up with maybe one thing too many, and the wheels of the suitcase she was carrying scuffed the wall. She heard the noise, stopped on the landing, and dropped her load. She looked at the two small scuff marks on the wall.

She started to smile, let out a little giggle, and said, "F**K!"

Then she looked at me sideways and laughed. And said,

"Don't you dare tell anyone I just said that."

At that moment, I knew how lucky I am. I've met so many people who struggled as kids with alcohol, abuse, and other family dysfunction in their homes. I have a mom who can't even curse angrily, she's so perfect. And, through all the teenage and young adult discourse we traversed, I never heard a foul word come out of her mouth, at me, or about anyone else. And for her to finally say the word that is so common in today's popular lexicon, in frustration at a scratch caused by her own folly, followed by a giggle, was just the icing on the homemade cake that is my mom.

I think, because of the life my mom crafted and taught to us, Karl and I have stayed closed to home. Not totally on purpose, but again, maybe God has something to do with it. Opportunities have been near, and we've always been content, happy and successful being in South Carolina, close to the home my mom made for us.

I write this as a prayer, as Michael inches toward graduation and begins looking for a job, that Lord, you will keep us near Mom and Dad, so I can continue to bask in the glow of my Proverbs 31 mom.