Gone All Mushy for Mother

Here's a picture of my mom and Augustine that I stole from my brother's blog. It captures a true part of her.

Mopsy's young-- she jumps over ditches, splits wood, and feeds horses, though her knees mutter complaint and her arthritic shoulders sputter. Her heart is true to my Grandpa Manwaring's, and she's a workin' fool, just like he was. Growing up, I grumbled enough for an army as she and Dad nudged us children to work alongside, and because of this, a shadow of work ethic actually overpowers my procrastination from time to time.

Born to a farmer and the oldest girl of seven children, Mom did a man's work alongside Grandpa, throwing bales and tossing feed. Fresh air's in her blood, and she lives outdoors in the warmer months. She dislikes cold and faithfully feeds the wood stove's belly through nearly every winter night, but a pocketful of chores outdoors has her breathe more sharp air than she'd like.

Her parents and sister died when I was 14 years old.
She hates unhappy endings in Story more than anyone else I know.

From certain angles, her eyes glint and sparkle. After laser surgery a few years ago, the previously hidden birds and buds poked out of the fog, and they still delight her every spring.

Her laughter is unabashed and musical, running up the scale and down again. She sang on the radio in her youth and missed out on life as an opera singer by instead choosing to live as mother of seven. Those same children lowered their heads during the Star Spangled Banner before sports games, hoping their teammates didn't know who was nailing the high notes in the crowd of fans.

Mom never treats herself to luxuries that most of us don't even name as such. When the years were lean, she used every cent as wisely as possible. Now that the purse holds more than moths, all those years of necessary penny-pinching have grown into a way of life. We children dream of someday buying her a shockingly impractical, nonrefundable gift that she can't refuse.

She wears her undyed hair long in a low braid in winter and a high ponytail in summer. Millie asks, "Mama, may I please have my hair in a ponytail all the way to the ceiling like Grandma Johnson's?" On Sundays, Mom lets it fall in waves down her back, and on special occasions, she applies light touches of makeup just like those that impressed me when I was younger.

Mom's 5'2", and one son stands at 6'4". All seven of us are taller than she is; she says she grew us big to carry her from room to room when she's old.

Mom loves strangers, she loves her family, and, most of all, she loves the Lord with all her strength. I've learned so much and hope to learn much more from her godly example. She turned 60 years old on the 18th of January, and we threw her a surprise party a few weeks ago. She hates to be the center of attention (don't you dare wonder how on earth I sprang from her), so it was especially fun that we surprised her so completely. This, to state the obvious, is the latecomer post.