I will think long and hard about Mom during Sunday coming. Mother’s Day has become a reminiscence adventure.
Gone are the bygone times of buying corsages for mothers and grandmothers. Today’s younger generations have no knowledge of corsages, nor flower meanings. Mother’s Day church service included the distribution of red, pink, and white carnations for the ladies and color had a purpose.
White started in 1908, representing mothers who had died.
Red represented living moms.
Pink symbolized a mother’s love.
Mamie Eisenhower elevated Mother’s Day carnations and popularized the “peppermint” carnation. Today’s young ask, “What’s a Mamie,” while thinking “Meme.”
Angelkeep holds a nature version of Mother’s Day. Mother Linden, also known as Mrs. Basswood, was a tree planted a generation — a quarter century — ago. She no longer lives. One of its three forked branches became a victim to rot and wind. The remainder, leaning dangerously in the direction of the house a few feet away, had to be removed before it fell and collided with the house windows, roof, and walls. It lives on in constant shoots, called suckers, rising from the roots yet remaining underground.
The tree, bordering on being considered invasive, provides wildlife with an abundance of pea-size berries. As a result, birds have deposited new growth in three locations at Angelkeep far from any structure. The offspring of the mother have achieved the level of producing their own next generation. Squirrels and birds clamor throughout the outstretched arms of the tree, devouring the goodness of food created by the mother.
Mother’s Day in bygone days was typically a fried chicken treat, much of the work done prior to walking to church services where Mom played piano for all the favorite Mother’s Day hymns. Last minute meal prep came after church with Mom yet wearing her family-gifted corsage. Her church presented carnation had been placed in a bud vase at the center of the dining room table. She would get a meager gift after the meal, prior to her getting a day off from washing dishes. She birthed several children who helped. Each hand-made a Mother’s Day card.
Today’s younger generation of children are miles away, measured by several states’ distance, and have no idea how to make, let alone buy, a Mother’s Day card. They text.
Angelkeep ponders, and wishes for times past. Not enough Mother’s Day words were said. Not enough questions were asked. Not enough kisses and hugs were exchanged. Now it’s too late. Time sped by. Memories remain, but fade with age. Today’s Mom and Grandma consider themselves lucky to get an emoji kiss or hug.
Angelkeep also misses the mother linden tree. She rose higher than the house. Spring adorned her in white — pure white — the color of the living for a tree. Blooms were so prolific they appeared to the neighborhood as a 30-foot-tall cone of cotton candy. A sweet memory indeed. Its aroma encouraged all nearby to move in close, perhaps become a tree hugger, before it became too late.
Sunday’s Mother’s Day just might involve Angelkeep pulling out a box of photo prints for some reminiscing of ol’ lang syne. A recent funeral caused boxes to be located and rummaged through just a few weeks ago. Few remain living from those depicted in that generation of prints. The younger generation acknowledged having no such box. Instead, images from the past, digitized, not printed, were stored in a stored extended hard drive, too big an ordeal to pull out for viewing.
The once considered miracle of digital had turned a generation into a “no longer worth the energy to reminisce.”
It seems a black carnation represents the evolution of generational forward movement.
“M” is for the mashed potatoes buttered. “O” meant oleo was budget wise. “M” is for the missing mini-hugs. Put them all together they spell MOM, her love unquestioned.
The older generation gets it.
Angelkeep bird moms are busy showing their new generation where to find the linden trees and its abundant supply of nourishment. Each feathered mom deserves a corsage of white linden blossom with their pink and red centers.
Mr. Daugherty is a Wells County resident who, along
with his wife Gwen, enjoy their backyard and have
named it “Angelkeep.” daughertyag@gmail.com
