Orphaned for 35 years

I don't know how I've lived 35 years without her.

Mom died on this date in 1984 when I had four young children, and could have used her advice and influence through the years.

She had her first heart attack when she was the age that I am now, and seven years later, after years of heart attacks and strokes, she took her last breath.

Mom was the oldest of a huge family, all boys! Diabetes and cardiovascular disease ran rampant in the family, so she and her youngest brother were the only ones to make it well into adulthood. She always told me you didn't have to be stronger than the boys; just louder.

She was born and raised in the hills of eastern Kentucky, where she met and married my dad. They had two children before moving to West Virginia and having one more. They were all girls.

Mom did the best she could do with what she had. Dad worked in the coal mines, and was the only one in that coal camp to be drafted into World War II; he was sent to Pearl Harbor.

While he was gone, mom became extremely ill with a goiter that wrapped itself around her blood vessels. Back in Kentucky, her father could sense something was wrong, and drove to see how Ida and the girls were doing. He was alarmed at mom's condition, and brought her back to his house, dropped off my sisters, and drove straight to Columbus, where they saved her life. It made for an early release for my dad. (Thanks to Randy W Whited obtaining a copy of dad's Navy file, I learned more about the situation than my sisters did, for they were all young.)

Mom came roaring back with strength, and a few years later when LDS Missionaries knocked on her door, she listened. And, she listened some more. And, some more. In 1948, when many women didn't have the say so that is found today, and against the wishes of my dad, Mom and my three sisters were baptized. (Dad was later baptized, and was Bishop of our local congregation when I was baptized.)

I came along when my parents were practically empty-nesters. She was of menopausal age, but felt something was "off". A doctor visit enlightened her when they told her she had "Cupid's Tumor". All she heard was "tumor", and was ready to faint. When she learned what it really meant, she was truly ready to faint.

I know it probably wasn't easy to secure a crib, rubber pants, and childproof the house, but she did. And I came along, being raised pretty much as an only child by people who were the ages of my friends' grandparents.

She had perfect aim. My sisters reminded me of my dad pulling a fork out of his hip after he had made a smart-aleck remark to my mom in another room. She flicked that fork, and made her statement without ever opening her mouth.

She taught me how to shoot. On one of our many trips to Kentucky, she took me out behind the tobacco barn and set up all kinds of targets. She was hard to satisfy, but I finally passed "her" test.

She took me through the woods on several occasions and taught me about everything I could survive on if I ever became lost. Or, poor.

But, due to her age, her blood pressure, and her heart, she wasn't able to be there to help me when I brought home our babies. One of the hardest days of my life was when Peter was just a few days old, and she told me she had called my dad. He would be coming to pick her up in a couple of hours.

"But, mom!!!! What in the world am I going to do? I've never been around babies. I was the baby!"

She told me I would be fine, and the best thing for her to do would be to let me discover that.

I cried.

Even at the age I am now, I could use her wisdom, and her "pull up your britches" moxie. I remember the times when I would whine about something. She wouldn't lecture me. She just looked at me with one eyebrow raised.

And, I hushed up.

So, she's gone. I miss her more than I can describe. She was born in the day of kerosene lamps, yet lived to see the moon landing.

Because of her, knowledge was instilled in me that I will see her again. She will not be the older woman who raised me, and who became sick. She will be in her prime.

I can't wait.

So, I remember her and honor her today, waiting for the day I can call out, "Mom!", and go running to her, and to Dad, and to Peter.

Ida Stevens Clemens

1 Nov 1913 - 14 Sep 1984