Prompt 31 - Mum

When asked, “who is the first person you remember,” like avalanche, the faces of those I love pour into my head, crushing it into jam. But sitting pretty atop that mountain of wonderful people is more often than not, my mother. I never actually call her “Mother.” I don't even use the title “Mom.” As a little bit of a Downeaster, I simply call her “Mum.” My mother is far and above, more Downeast than me, so naturally, she is accustomed to such breaches of etiquette. She raised us children with a humility that matched her own beginnings. While there are many who I hold dear, she is dearest.

My mother was born and raised in the village of Blue Hill, Maine. Much like what you read in Charlotte's Web, White could not have penned the time in which my mother grew up any better; save for the talking spiders and such. Much like myself in childhood, she did not have much in the way of what the world deems as wealth. But the life she lived, and the things she learned were seemingly more than sufficient to supply us children with a very “wealthy” upbringing.

I remember her and my father getting a divorce. You already know the whole story as theirs was no different than the ones you read about. But after that, she had to work hard to keep us fed. Work hard to keep us clothed (though much of what I wore were hand-me-downs. A trick moms use). She had to work hard to keep us warm in the winter, walking miles a day to work and back on account that she never earned her license. She worked hard, plain and simple. Necessity dictated so.

Don't get me wrong, however. I remember plenty of times in which I thought none of these things about her. You try loving someone when they are whaping your hind end with a wooden mixing spoon you bought them for Christmas when you were seven. It's hard to do unless you know you deserve it. And much of the time I did. But when you are a child, you don't understand these things. Pain is only temporary. Spankings only last for the few minutes they are administered and until you mother asks you why you were spanked and gives you a hug and kiss. Oh kisses! Better than bandaids. If you could wrap them up and sell them you be sitting down with Bill Gates holding a pen and asking him “how much?”

When asked, “who is the first person you remember,” I really do have a hard time. There are so many people that have graced my life and played such enormous roles in developing who I am as a man. But few can come close to making a man what he is than a woman. And as it was for Lincoln, so it is for me. That woman is my Mom. I remember my mother first because I knew her first. I was buried in the darkness inside her womb for nine months, just getting to know her. I remember her first because she taught me the most. The importance of hard work. Not just hard work, but hard work without boasting. She did it all with quiet humility, something I strive to match. Maybe most importantly, however, she fed me first. As a tiny baby. And on the occasional Sunday when I drive over to her apartment, she continues to feed me. I shouldn't have to tell you how good her potato's and meatloaf is. She isn't my Mother, she's Mum. And she's first.