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Arlien Kipker
August 5, 1922--April 21, 2019 Thanks Mom. Rest in Peace.
I’m sitting with my 94- year-old mother at the Living Center that is now her world. She’s babbling the language of dementia in a voice I hardly recognize. I remember a soft voice and gentle words of days long gone. Don’t get me wrong, she was never a push-over. But, no one ever saw her lose her cool, feminine approach, while never backing down.
We lived in a small bungalow. When Mom had something private to impart, we went into the bathroom, shut the door, and sat on the edge of the bathtub. When the viciousness of the playground sent me home in tears, Mom told me, “Sticks and stones can break your bones, but words will never hurt you. Unless you let them.” In my elementary school this boy hassled the girls and beat up the smaller boys. Today he’d be labeled a bully and the mom infantry would mobilize in defense of their victimized daughters, probably posting it all on facebook. My mother said, “If you don’t run, can he chase you?” He demanded our candy after school, threatening to beat us up. We girls wanted to beat him up! Mom said, “Then you’d be no better than him. You need to be smarter. Stay above the fray.” We tried to think up vile things to call him. Mom said, “You’re giving him more ammunition. If you don’t want those words used on you, don’t use them.” We wanted to get even. Mom said, “Fighting fire with fire isn’t the best way to put it out. The best way is gentle dowsing and firm raking.” One plan was to throw tomatoes at his door and when his mom came out, we’d tattle on him. My mom asked, “Have you seen David’s mother?” No, we hadn’t. “She had polio a few years ago and is bedridden.” I can still remember the taste in my mouth. She never said don’t do it. But she convinced us we could put our heads together and come up with something that was worthy of smart girls above the fray. Jewel made taffy at home, wrapped them in waxed paper and brought them to school for her friends. So, we hatched a plan. We helped Jewel come up with a new flavor, wrapped them in waxed paper twists, and put them in our pockets. After school when the bullying began, pretending the victims, we surrendered our Cayenne-Pepper-Flavored-Taffy. Mom laughed and laughed and said they’d surely have to respect such smart girls! And that ended the bullying.
When middle grade gossip broke up friendships and brought out the worst in girlfriends, my mom told me to stay off the phone and never talk about a girl who wasn’t there to hear it. “Talk one-on-one,” she said, “face-to-face. You will understand each other better if you can see one another. It’s easier to forgive and harder to say something you’ll regret. Stay off the phone.”
In high school we had “those talks.” I didn’t always want to listen, but her words clung to me like a charm bracelet jangling on my wrist. “Just because others are doing things, doesn’t mean it’s the best thing for you. Or them. Don’t let others write your story for you; they’ll write your endings. Stay above it.”
My mom was a war bride of the Greatest Generation, whose mother died when Mom was only five. She had a high school diploma. I was the oldest of her three children. The youngest was born with arthrogryposis, a serious birth defect. Mom was a small person, but she lifted, carried, and cared for him all his life. She figured out how to get the best care, how a poor family would pay for his surgeries, and how, without a car, we could get him there. She was resourceful, and tough. She was married to my dad till parted by his death just a few years ago. She never visited another country, never lived in another state, didn’t learn to drive until I was in high school. She didn’t have friends or “do” lunch, or have a social life. She taught me to pray, but she never attended church. She told me in later years she never felt she had the proper clothing or good enough shoes for church. But she made sure I did, and I was in Sunday School every Sunday. Which church, was my choice. I went to all of them!
She took in ironings to help with the income. Most of my memories of her are standing over the ironing board where she was when I left for school, and where she still was when I returned. My middle brother was embarrassed that people brought their laundry to our house and that she was the ironing lady. But Mom believed all work was important and should be respected. She taught me that “women’s work” (which was everything!) was noble and dignified. No one should ever be embarrassed by their work unless they weren’t doing it the best they could! She always hummed while she worked.
From this humble woman I learned how to make my own happiness and find joy in my life, whatever I chose to do, or whatever the circumstance. She taught me I could color my pictures any color, and not to worry what others said or thought about it. She taught me if I needed or wanted something, I had to work to get it and be willing to sacrifice for it. She taught me never to be a victim; I don’t take offense when none was intended. I respect others and myself, and expect to be treated respectfully. Words spoken softly in a feminine voice, spoken with conviction and dignity, taught me that’s what it means to be a woman.
I hope I told her thank you while the words still made sense to her. I wish I’d told her how much I admire her. Because now she doesn’t know this woman sitting beside her listening to her babble, is proud to be her daughter.