Thoughts about mother

BY PAUL WOOD

President/CEO, Georgia Electric Membership Corporation

A million words have been written about mothers.

What more can be said about those beautiful saints who are equal parts gentle nurse and restrictive warden, short-order cook and expert Cajun chef, patient teacher of ABCs and high school chemistry, life counselor and friend?

Mothers are all that … and so much more.

A couple of years ago, we rented a small beach house for our family vacation. The first day, it rained. With nothing better to do, I walked around the house examining closely all the artwork. There, among the mostly ordinary seascapes, was an original poem someone had written about her mother.

The poet, Frances Johansan, was not familiar to me, but the mother she wrote about could have been mine—or perhaps yours. The handwriting was faded and difficult to read. With some effort, I copied the tribute she wrote:

You painted no Madonnas on chapel walls in Rome,

But with a touch divine you lived one in your home.

You wrote no lofty poems that critics counted art,

But with a nobler vision you lived them in your heart.

You carved no shapeless marble to some high soul design,

But with a finer sculpture, you shaped this soul of mine.

You built no great cathedrals that centuries applaud,

But with a grace exquisite, your life cathedraled God.

Had I the gift of Raphael or Michelangelo,

Oh, what a rare Madonna my mother’s life would show!

Such beautiful words reminded me of my own mother and the many ways she shaped my life.

Her curfew for me was 11 p.m. “Nothing good happens after 11 o’clock,” she always said as I left the house. Although I doubted the absolute truth of that admonition, I understood the consequences for failing to heed it. If the curfew hour arrived and I was not home, she would go to the living room, sit on the sofa and stay there until I came in. If she fell asleep—as she sometimes did—I had to wake her when I came in. She was a tough disciplinarian who held little tolerance for disobeying her rules.

She lived every day to the fullest, but she knew every day would not be perfect.

“When times are tough, you can always come home,” she often reminded me. She was always ready with a safe harbor when the winds of adversity blew.

Her generosity knew no bounds. She was the first person on your doorstep with a hot meal if there was sickness or a death in your family.

I tell other men that the toughest day of their lives will be the day their mother dies. The bond between a mother and son is special, and strong—and, well, indefinable.

Though she has passed on, in a very real sense, she is still here. I hear her voice as I recall all the wisdom she shared with me. And whenever I chance to look at a clock as it strikes 11 p.m., I think of that special woman who taught me so well.