Thank you, Momma

Eleven days ago, I read this at my mom’s memorial service. We know life is short. It’s a gift. Embrace it and the people in it.

Hug ’em while ya got ’em.

For Ramona Mae

Some of our best memories are connected to gardens. Outside or in the house, Mom could grow anything.

Born in the bedroom of a South Dakota farmhouse, some of her best memories were running the open fields with younger brothers and sisters. That was back in the day when it was okay to hit gophers over the head to keep them from ruining your crops.

Weather permitting; Mom was outside from morning to evening. She loved to plant and tend and grow. We picked radishes, tomatoes, cucumbers, and green peppers. With the sunshine still in them, we made sandwiches with mayo, salt, and pepper.

We have memories of family picnics at the Palisades Park and camping on the Mississippi river. The beach camping stopped after child number six was born.

Mom loved putzing around woods and along the riverbanks. She found treasures in earth, and plants, and trees. We collected scads of rocks, drift wood, feathers,  lotus pods, cool weeds, pine cones … anything that spoke to her soul … and as much as we could carry.

She took home rocks and fireweed on the plane from Alaska. And rocks and cacti on the plane from Texas. And more rocks from her pilgrimage to Bosnia. Many of Mom’s treasures are now in our homes and flower gardens. And even in the homes of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Mom could also sew anything. She made shirts, quilts, and dresses for Easter and Proms and weddings. And she loved denim. She not only wore it, she used it to sew hats, purses, patchwork overalls, and quilts for her grandsons.

Mom painted some remarkable oil paintings and did all sorts of crafts. Recently, we found her bottle cutter from the early 1970’s. She used it to make candleholders out of brown beer bottles. We gave them to our friends at birthday parties. Mom—like most strong women who lived through the Great Depression and World War II—saw a second or third use for almost everything.

In her last months, Mom didn’t always remember our names right away, but she knew we belonged to her. She’d get that sly smile and say, “They all start looking the same after a while.” We told her if we had six kids, we’d get them mixed up too. “It’s okay, Momma. It’s our turn to take care of you.”

When asked how she was doing, sometimes she’d say what her momma said, “I’m still kickin’. Just not as high.” We enjoyed seeing her feisty side. We teased her for ordering chocolate ice cream for breakfast. That sparked a mischievous grin.

Momma glowed when people complimented her shiny-silver, braided hair or her painted fingernails. They weren’t chipped and stained from the soil anymore, but she liked them painted fiery red by the CNAs at the nursing home.

Our dad’s favorite flowers were red geraniums. They bloomed outside Mom’s window in a raised bed next to her bird feeders. Though Dad’s been gone 26 years, Mom’s eyes still lit up when she saw red geraniums. September 28^th would have been their 70^th wedding anniversary.

We’ve been saying goodbye for a while now. We are tired and the days are difficult. But, as we continue to let go in bits and pieces, we hold on to what Mom passed on to us.

We find peace in the earth and plants and trees. In the simplest things, we see her legacy. Fresh tomatoes, paintings on drift wood, recipes for soup and pickles. We find memories in rocks and lotus pods and scraps of denim.

We find treasure in family, fresh air, and sunshine. And we are grateful.

Thank you, Momma. See ya later.

Ramona Mae (Johnson) Bradshaw

11/3/28 ~ 9/29/18