Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness around the world.

May 11, 2006

Today’s announcements

A very special birthday wish goes out to one of our favourite writers, Sharlett Hunt: sharlette863@aol.com

Now onto the good stuff!

Today’s Mother’s Day Stories

~**~**~

MY MOTHER’S EYES

Violet Apted

My Mother was dying!  The doctor’s words resounded inside my head, an echo
going on and on and on. I wanted to tell him to ‘stop,’ but no sound came. I
wanted to pound my fists into his chest harder and harder. I wanted to cry
yet no tears came.  This ‘nothingness’ washed over me as I sat I the doctor’
s surgery that awful day in March 1986.

“Two months at the most, I am very sorry violet.”  There was compassion in
his voice as the doctor touched my hand and answered my unspoken question.
How many times had he done this I found myself thinking, how could he
pretend to care, it was an everyday routine for him.

 It was my Mother he was talking about not his! My wonderful, hard working,
loving, Mother. Who had raised six children through the years of depression
and the WW11. Survived the bombing of our lovely home and all the hardships.
She had gone without herself and worked hard to give us all a happy
childhood.  How could she be dying? No, not my mum!

Denial? Yes even at that moment I realised it, but I couldn’t stop myself,
as the doctor asked if I was all right. My silence had caused him concern.
I stood up and finally found my voice, as I thanked him and turned toward
the door.

“If there is anything I can do, please let me know.’ He said as I left his
office.

‘Anything he can do? I felt like screaming, ‘Yes you can cure my mother of
her cancer!’ The voice in my head was saying as I walked away. My heart
heavy my eyes burning and hardly able to breathe. But no tears came.

Two months later my Mother died! We had spent every day of the two months at
her bedside. All the family shared the time together. We fed her, washed
her. Made her comfortable, as we talked about our lives and the fun and
laughter we had shared. My favourite time was when I brushed her hair. She
had always loved me to do that for her and she sighed and relaxed as I
caressed her head every day.

My last visit she told me she had ‘seen’ her Father!

‘He came to me last night Violet. He is waiting to take me dear. I will be
all right.

And you must not grieve too long my dear daughter. I am happy to go now. I
have been truly blessed and had a happy life.’ She held my hand in hers and
I kissed her.

‘I love you mum.’  I said holding back my tears.

 ‘I know you do.’ A little smile touched her lips as she spoke. She closed
her eyes and sank back into her pillows. I kissed her forehead, gently
stroked her hair and walked from the ward.  Something made me turn back and
I looked into the ward again. Mum’s beautiful big brown eyes were open and
she called out.

’I knew you were going to do that; she smiled. I smiled back at her,

‘Good night, Mum. Sleep well. I love you.’  I called and feeling a little
better, I made my way home. They were the last words we spoke to each other.

Just before we were leaving the house to visit Mum the next morning the
phone rang. It was the hospital. I still hear those words today.

‘ This is sister Jones, I am so sorry, your Mother passed away five minutes
ago.’

Sister said later that Mum had said many times she did not want any of us to
witness her death.

‘She slipped away quietly, before you all came today.’ She told us, as she
gave us a cup of tea.  That was so like Mum.

Through the funeral arrangements and all the necessary things one has to do
at such times, I could not cry!  I could not cry at her funeral either. I
had to be the ‘strong’ one for my sisters. It wasn’t until a week later when
I sat watching a TV show, when Nat King Cole started to sing the song, ‘My
Mother’s Eyes.’ When it hit me!  I burst into tears and just sobbed. I
couldn’t stop. I cried for my mum like a small child. My husband just held
me tight. There were no words that could be right at that moment, after all.

The anniversary of her death is in a few weeks time, am I wrong to keep her
memory alive so long? Even though eighteen years have passed Mum is still
here in my heart and always will be.  I can never be half the woman my
Mother was, but I have her to thank for my strength of mind, that has seen
me through my own hardships of life. Most of all I’d like to say,

‘Thank you, Mum! Thank you for the LOVE. You gave me love and taught me to
love in return. God Bless you.
© Copyright 2004 Violet Apted
violetsrblue7@hotmail.com

~**~**~

THE DIFFERENCE 

Violet Apted

My Mother was a woman that few people ever really knew! Oh, yes, they knew her as the mother of six children, a friend and neighbor, but not the real Lucy.

She was born the eldest daughter in a family of seven children. Her childhood consisted of hard work, as she looked after her younger brothers and sisters. Then at the age of fourteen, she was sent into ‘service.’ She became a servant to the ‘gentry’ folk and waited on them hand and foot. Eventually reached the dizzy height of a Lady’s companion when life became a little easier.

Most of her teenage years were spent during the WW1 in London UK.  Where she had many narrow escapes and saw the wounded soldiers returning from the Somme battlefields.

Soon after the war ended she married my Father and had six children (no contraception in those days). The thirties brought a worldwide depression and my Father joined the army to ensure a weekly wage, as there was no work to be found and we were going hungry. Then came the outbreak of WW11 and Dad was taken prisoner-of-war at Dunkirk. He spent the remainder of the war in a German prisoner of war camp. Suddenly Mother was on her own with six children to provide for.

With all the work she had looking after us, she went out cleaning other people’s houses and doing their shopping. Some days she would be so tired she would fall asleep in her armchair and always went to bed soon after my brother and sisters went to bed.

Then came the bombing! Our home was destroyed. That same day my two older sister’s place of work was bombed and the school my younger brother and sister went to was bombed. Mother spent the day digging through the rubble to get neighbours to safety. Her best friend died in her arms, after Mum had dug her out of what was left of her home, along with her ten month old daughter Mary, who also died. We lost many friends and neighbors that day, yet life had to go on. Mother had to find us another home and start from nothing, as we had lost everything, but the clothes we stood up in. 

The agony of seeing us off to school not knowing if she would ever see us again is too unbearable to think about, yet Mother had to suffer that horror every day.

There was also the hell of not knowing if my Father would survive to the end of the war. Meanwhile my Father was going through his own hell, but as he said when he returned home. He prayed every day for us all to be safe,  

I can remember seeing my Mother crying one day, something I had never seen before. I cuddled her and asked what was wrong. She had just had the news that Dad was missing, believed dead.  It was almost a year later before she heard he was alive.  Dad had been on the guns covering the rear as our men raced into the boats at Dunkirk. The shells had killed all his mates. He lost his memory and his identity tag had been blown from his neck in the blast.

Somehow my Mother kept us together through the daily air raids on our town. She provided enough food for us to eat and she gave us a happy and safe  ‘arbor’ to come home to every day. I honestly don’t know how she did it. I can only imagine the anguish and heartache she must have suffered. I don’t think I could ever be as brave as she was, giving all her children the courage to face each day as it came. The six years of living through a war, and raising six, happy children, deserves a medal. There were more civilians killed during WW11 than there were military personnel.  Many other Mothers whose stories have never been told.

When the war finally ended and my Father came home, there was a strangeness that is hard to describe.  A difference that   seemed to permeate the very air we breathed.  What was it?  We children did not know of course! There had been so many changes, so many experiences. Life and death scenes played out before us all. How could we be the same people we were before the war? Dad had last seen us as little children. He came home to school children and adults working for a living, but most of all he came home to a very different woman than the one he had said goodbye to. She had become a self- assured competent woman who no longer needed a man to provide.

 Dad had also come home a very different man after all his terrible experiences in the prisoner- of- war camp. They had both held dying friends in their arms, both been through the utter hopelessness that war brings. Yes, there was a difference! A big difference!   Like thousands of others that found they could no longer live together, my Mother and Father agreed to an amicable separation. The difference was too much. They were strangers!

The impression my Mother made on my life has stayed with me all my life. I wish I could be just half of the woman she was. When she died a few years ago I lost my very best friend and I miss her still.

© Copyright Violet Apted (pen name)

violetsrblue7@hotmail.com

~**~**~

Mother’s Day Poetry Section

~**~**~

ONLY A MOTHER KNOWS

Violet Apted

Only a Mother knows, as only a Mother could

her feelings for a child, yes only a Mother could.

The heartache and pain the leaves with the child

as the step through the door to the world so wild.

To have to stay the hand that has guided so long.

To know that now, they know right from wrong.

That advice is needed only by request,

And no longer does 'Mother know best'.

To have to accept they are babies no longer

is hard for some, though others are stronger.

We still want a cuddle, to give a kiss goodnight,

tuck our child in gently and turn off the light.

So if Mother should say, "take care my dear"

It is the love in her heart that gives her the fear.

So show her you need her! You don't have to say

Remember, you could be a Mother some day.

You'll know then the sweetness of giving birth.

The heartache; the joy, the sorrow, the mirth.

The baby the toddler, the bad, and the good!

Yes only a Mother knows, ONLY A MOTHER COULD!

Dedicated to Maureen

© Copyright Violet Apted

violetsrblue7@hotmail.com

Senior Writers

Chief writer: Sharon Bryant

                                     Chief researcher/historian: Hartson Dowd

Agee, Vance; Apted, Violet; Baker, Kathy; Batt, Al; Berry, Nell; Blaine, Pamela; Boda, Ginger; Buhagiar, Victor; Cassady, B.J.; Cavalera, Robyn; Crider, Mark; Deming, Barb; Doherty, Maria; Gilbert, Robert, Jr.; Goodier, Steve; Braun-Haley, Ellie; Harris, Kathy Anne; Hunt, Sharlett; Hymes, Christina; Jacobson, Gary; Kiser, Roger Dean; Kerens, Claudia; Kevin, Tim; Jenkins, Pamela; Liles, Norma; Lily Jodi Flesberg; Lock, Joyce; Marlor, Janice Bumbalough; Mazzella, Joe; Morris, Deepak; Ojeibge, Georgewaters; Petry, Dianna Doles; Roberts, Susan; Shiveley, Debra; Shaw, Bob; Sims, Richard; Streidel, Saskia; Swarner, Ken; Vaknin, Sam; Verhoeff, Jan; Walker, Bill; Walker, Joe; Warner, Gordon, K; Walsh, Sue; Weymouth, Barbara J.; Whirity, Kathy;

Wainland, David; Westerfer, Clara; White Robert;

Storytime Tapestry Staff

Carol Roach - Founder/publisher

Thelma Hartselle - Co-Founder, Moderator

Clara Westerfer – moderator

Bob Johnson - moderator