It is difficult for me to write about my mother. She will forever be a multi-faceted, precious gem of constantly changing hue. She could “fish the brook” behind my grandmother’s house in silk stockings as easily as she could drive a bulk truck beneath the harvester, her thick hair bound in a satin kerchief. Her mashed potatoes are by far the best I have ever eaten, and her experimental tomato soufflés are best left unmentioned. Her laugh was infectious and she and my Aunt Edie, her sister, would talk for hours on the phone; speaking in a tongue known only to sisters.
My mom loved cars. She told us that she had received a certificate of completion from an unnamed trade school that enabled her to repair televisions. More than once, I have witnessed her removing the back of a television, small screwdrivers and pliers in her hand; a look of deep concentration on her pretty face.
My mother was one of 14 children and her childhood was one of poverty. She vowed that her own children would have everything they desired and it was her mission to keep that promise to herself and to us. My father adored her. She did not have the ability to read music but she could play a guitar, and any other musical instrument for that matter, with the skill of a trained musician. She taught me how to read long before I started school and how to drive as soon as my feet could reach the floor pedals. She would much rather wear a tool belt than an apron and she smelled of Wind Song and fresh linen.
My mom passed away at the young age of 68. When I think of her, I do not recall the three days she fought for her life while we sat beside her, trying to reason with God. I focus on the last day I saw her alive, her heart strong and her eyes jumping with mischief. She danced in my driveway that day, adorned in stylish jeans and a pink and white striped summer shirt. We had gone to the Evergreen Cemetery earlier that day to visit my father’s grave. We parked on the hill and I told her just how much I loved her and that in all of the Universe, she was the most wonderful of mothers. I thanked her for always believing in me, even when I did not believe in myself. She turned her head away from me, looking out at the many graves surrounding us and she did not speak again until we returned to my house. She glided out of my car, reaching out for me to join her in that final dance. The dirt beneath her feet swirled around her like angel dust as I held those beloved hands in mine; hands that could calm a raging storm. Hands with a velvet touch yet calloused from years of hard work.
My mother’s beautiful hands never successfully repaired one broken television set but she could always put me back together.
When you see your mom, tell her you adore her! She is the giver of life and the creator of unconditional love.
Editor’s Note: Belinda Wilcox Ouellette has lived in the Caribou area for all of her 56 years. She presently lives in Connor TWP. with her husband Dale and their Goldendoodle Barney. They are currently working on building a home in Caribou. You may contact Belinda online at: dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
