We were taught to address parents, teachers and elders alike, withyes sir or no sir, and yes ma am, or no ma am no exceptions.Perhaps it seems odd or amusing by today s generation, but ourcontemporaries were comfortable with the custom especiallygrowing up in the Bible Belt. I don t know about other families, but Mother was thedisciplinarian in ours. Believe me, when admonished by her, I feltthe magic of her hands. The only time I recall being punished byDaddy was when I was 3.
Occasionally Daddy smoked a cigar; one dayin from the field, he placed a fresh unlit cigar on the dresser.While he finished lunch, I felt it necessary to see how cigars weremade. I dismantled it, leaf by leaf. By the time I was through,there was only a pile of crumbled tobacco leaves. I quickly hidthem in the trash; and when questioned about the cigar, I deniedany knowledge of the thing. I told him the devil had taken it.
After ample time to confess my transgression, he gave me one lastchance to come clean. Of course, I stuck to my story about thedevil. Daddy had no choice, except to punish me. I m sure thosethree easy pats on my bottom caused him the greater pain. However, back to Mother s magic hands.
With a few cups of flour, adab of sugar, fresh-churned butter, a couple of eggs, a dash ofcocoa and a wooden mixing bowl, her hands performed magic! Withsleight of hand quickness, she could whip up a devil s food cakewith chocolate icing, fit for a king. Each morsel of the darkchocolate was savored by her family especially me! Her astonishing efforts were evident at every turn. On school days,crisp brown bags, packed full of food, love and surprises, wereenjoyed by her four children. Sometimes we d find a piece of candyor fruit, snuggled in between a ham sandwich, and a friedfruit-pie.
Each day, lunchtime was as eventful as opening apeddler s trunk. Mother s magical hands didn t spin wool or weave material for ourraiment. However, they sewed fabrics for my sister s dresses,using Vogue patterns, and mended socks, underwear or work clothesfor Daddy, my brother and me. They fashioned quilts to keep us warmon a cold winter s night; canned summer peaches, preserved fallpears, field peas, corn or apricots enough to fill the root cellar,and her hungry growing family.
They chopped cotton, pulled boles,and occasionally drove a team of mules. Once, she even built amodel airplane for me, out of orange crate wood. She even carvedwooden propellers for the engines. I can still recall the hummingnoise they made, as I held them out the window of the bus on theway to school.
Often, Mother s magical hands performed like physicians; whencroup, bronchitis, chest congestion or labored breathing caused herchildren anguish. The touch of her gentle, loving hands soothed afever, warmed a chill and calmed an anxious heart. Setting asideher own fears, she assured us that healing was on its way. Whetherapplying hot chest packs or soothing iced cloths, her silent,prayerful, moving lips declared faith in God s healing power.
As we grew older, her magical hands unendingly conveyed courage,confidence and soothed broken hearts. Before entering college,getting married, joining the military or just setting off onlife s journey, the tender, yet firm, grip of her loving handsspoke volumes as she gave us hugs that never let go! While on leaves from my base, Mother would always pack a large boxof food for my train rides back. I d feign attempts atdiscouraging her, but her care packages never failed to accompanyand delight me. Eating my way through each layer, I d discoversomething extra she d placed into the old cardboard suitcase! Aprized goody, lovingly packed, was more than welcomed. It remindedme of earlier days, and school lunches, in crisp, brown paper bagsfilled by Mother s magical hands.
It always brought about a smile,but more often a tear or two as well. Doyle Driver is a native Texan reared in Hardeman County and a39-year resident of Conroe. He can be reached at .
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