Theresa Lewis

Mother’s Day is such a special occasion. I am sure that God smiles on mothers and also on all care givers. In our home, Mother’s Day was treated even more special than birthdays.

Our mother was an exceptionally good woman. She wasn’t perfect by any means, but she was still a wonderful mother.

After our father retired, our parents moved to the countryside for a more peaceful life away from the hustle and bustle of the city. They bought a run-down farm with a hundred acres of land. Our mother was excited with the property. She had plans for the farm…real big plans. She wanted to tap the Maple trees to make maple syrup like the farm used to produce before it was neglected. Actually, the objective was to run a subsistence farm to stretch dad’s pension.

The house was built in the late seventeen hundreds and judging by the looks of it, it had seen a whole lot of life. Once the house was made liveable again, it was time to tap the Maple trees. In summer, mother planted beautiful flower and vegetable gardens. She truly loved working with the soil. Both gardens produced magnificently. I can recall radishes the size of apples that were juicy and delicious. Sweet tasting carrots were a good eighteen inches long. Tomatoes were so big that one slice would make a healthy sandwich. Mom loved her garden and constantly worked at it all summer long.

Mom got some chickens so she could have fresh eggs. Slowly, her plan was coming together.

One huge problem with the farm was that the house was located a good quarter mile off the main road. The long dirt and gravel driveway would wash out every spring leaving potholes large enough to swallow a car up to its axles. So every spring, mother would go out into the fields with a giant pick and a wheelbarrow to harvest rocks to fill the depressions in the driveway.

Dad was never a doer; he was a spectator. He would spend a lot of time watching mother haul rocks and fill in the depressions in the road. He admitted that at times he felt a bit guilty, especially when he watched her swing that enormous pick to dig out boulders. I asked him why he didn’t go out and help her, but we all knew that dad was not fit to do that kind of work. He said that after three years he could no longer bear to see mom struggling with that pick, but the job had to get done. He said no woman should have to work that hard. His solution was to buy her a smaller pick that she could handle. He gave it to her for Mother’s Day. Oh, my goodness, was I ever shocked by that. Horrified was more like it.

I asked dad why he didn’t take her out for dinner or buy her a personal gift. He replied that the pick was more practical because he couldn’t bear to watch her struggle under the weight of the big pick. He said now that she had the small one, he can watch her work all day long without feeling guilty. I think the gift of a smaller pick was as much for him, as it was for mom.

For all you mothers out there who would forego the personal gifts for a more practical smaller pick to make your chores a little easier, Happy Mother’s Day!

The End