Mother Love, A Posey for Zora
Mother was named Zora. Zora is a brand, not a name. In all my years, I have only seen the name Zora two other times. That is puzzling. She was named for her god mother, Zora Platt. In our county, people didn't bother to use Mother's last name; it was just Zora, and she was a charmer of all shapes, sizes and things.
To mother, love was food and food was love. I guess it is part of her nurturing instinct. It was also associated with talent. Mother was renowned for her fried chicken, her pies and her homemade noodles. While Mother taught my sister and I to cook all other goodies, she never once suggested we attempt any of her signature dishes. I'm a bit ho-hum about chicken, but I studied her efforts at pie crusts and noodles. Separately my sister and I accused her of not wanting any competition for her noodles or pie. We both got the same reply: a delighted, hearty laugh.
So here it is almost Mother's Day, and she would have made 100 this year on December 2nd, 2011. She died just short of 93, and frankly the world was a better place while she was here. She thought she was rich; she was poor, not dirt poor -- spotless poor, but because she so appreciated every little thing, I've come to realize she was rich. Anything we did for her thrilled her, and we would hear her trilling about it to the neighbor or relative who popped in to say hello.
Mother loved "posies." As much as she loved flowers, I learned that Mother had her priorities. Some friend suggested it would be nice if I bought Mother a corsage to wear to church on Mother's Day, and she wore it proudly. Later she confessed that as much as she enjoyed it, what she really needed was a good pair of scissors. Ah, priorities, but years later, I redeemed myself. When Mother had trouble getting down for digging in the earth, I nearly suffocated myself driving empty whiskey barrels from Dallas to our little home town in Kansas. Oklahoma was dry then, and I was terrified that a patrolman would stop me and haul me off to jail for a DUI. They really had been whiskey barrels, whew! With very careful attention to the speed limit, I made it through without stopping, and Mother's petunias were glorious for years. This is my Mother's Day success story. Feel free to tell me about yours.