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Published on 05/05/1997 All articles from this issue

Revisiting mama on Mother's Day

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By Clyde Noel

A Side of Clyde

My grandparents had several trunks in the attic of their house. They lived in Pennsylvania, and they used one of the trunks to go to the World's Fair in San Francisco in 1916. When my grandparents died, my mother gained title to them. Those trunks held family treasures that went back for generations.

I don't know what happened to most of those trunks, or some of the family treasures, but I have one of the trunks in my garage that was handed down to me. No one seems to know what happened to the family treasures, because they just vanished. You get one person in the family who throws things away, and that's the end of the line for the vestiges of families past.

Out go the old letters, yellow lace tablecloths, photos of unidentified friends and relatives from the early 1900s, and out go a lot of old useless, sentimental junk. About all that is left in my trunk is stuff from my mother and a few pieces of memory from my grandmother.

When my grandparents left for the 1916 World's Fair, they didn't have airplanes, so they packed those trunks and called Railway Express. They came, picked up the trunks and took them to the railroad station and turned them over to the baggage master. Trains had a baggage car in those days where they kept trunks and suitcases.

Things were simpler then, because they didn't have to go through a metal detector and no one inspected their luggage for explosives. Some of the stickers are still on my trunk.

Going through the trunk is like going on a family archaeological dig. I went through the trunk last year on Mother's Day and it brings back many memories of my time with her.

My father wasn't around much, and I can remember my mother going down to the cellar to shovel coal or to bank the coal furnace for the night. There are still some coal company receipts in the trunk. I loved my mother because I thought she did the best she could with the hand she was dealt.

The mother who raised me has been gone for a long time. We buried her on a beautiful autumn day two days before her 71st birthday. Our family was trying to remember when she first got sick.

Although it's been many years since she left this world, it still hurts when I think I will never see my mother again. When I open the trunk, she doesn't stand up and speak to me.

There's a high school diploma, her marriage license, a photo album of family friends, but very few of her.

Her legacy was survival. After my father was gone, she was faced with finding a way to provide for herself, because she was already in her 50s at the time women had no easy access to financial security of their own like women do today.

I think she loved me. She praised me and consoled me, and she gave me knowledge and values. She inspired me, and I can remember playing cards with her and reading to me when I went to bed.

I wasn't living at home anymore when she died, because I was already married with a family and living here in California. But every time I open that trunk, I wish I would have kept closer contact. If I could only pick up the phone and say "Hi Mom" on Mother's Day.