Tribute to my Mother

A Tribute to my Mother

Jean Elizabeth (Reamer) Harbold ~ “Betty,” “Ma”

July 9, 1927 – February 27, 2007

By Tom Harbold

I can do all things in him who strengthens me.

Phillipians 4:13

At approximately 8:15 on the evening of Tuesday, February 27th, 2007, our kind, gentle, loving, feisty, spirited, and devoted mother passed out of this world and into, we believe, closer communion with a loving God, and reunion with our late father, her parents, and many other loved ones who have gone before. Our sadness is great, but so is our relief and joy that she has been released from the suffering that marked the last portion of her life on this earth.

Much could be said about the strength and determination with which she fought for life, or about the peace and holiness of her final passing. But I would like to direct my gaze further back, leapfrogging over the times of pain and suffering to reflect on who Ma was and how much she influenced my life, and the lives of all her family.

You see, family came first in my mom's life. Having lived through the deprivations and fears of the Great Depression and World War Two, she received an excellent liberal arts education at (then) Western Maryland College, graduating in 1949. Shortly thereafter she married my father, a WW II vet whose family attended the Methodist church where her father was pastor. Ma was always proud to be a Methodist minister's daughter, and she brought up her three sons in the Christian faith she professed.

In the early years of her marriage to my father, Ma was a schoolteacher, but it did not take long for her to realize that her true vocation was to the wellbeing of her family. Although it required a lot of scrimping and saving, especially in the early years, she became a full-time wife, mother, and homemaker, and excelled at all three roles.

I think there is probably no question that all three of us boys took Ma somewhat for granted, growing up. She was simply always present, always directly involved in our lives. She patched up our cuts and bruises. She sent us off to school with a good breakfast under our belts and home-packed lunchboxes in our hands. She was there when we came home from school as well, doubtless keeping us out of at least some of the trouble we might otherwise have gotten in.

She made sure we did our homework, but she also gave us plenty of time to simply be boys -- building models, playing with stuffed animals and other toys, or heading to the woods to explore and build "forts." I will never forget playing out in the woods, a good distance from home, only to hear, about dinnertime, a resounding "TOMMMM!" echoing through the forest, calling me home to dinner. And when I arrived, it was to the mouth-watering smells and (usually, with a handful of memorable exceptions) delicious tastes of a home-cooked dinner.

Nor will I ever forget all the times she stood by my bedside, singing songs and reading stories to me, or sharing poems from "the big blue poetry book." I was plagued by migraine headaches as a child, and I can only imagine the back-strain as she stood patiently at my bed, rubbing my head to soothe my pain. I was grateful to be able to perform a similar function for her, in her last days.

Although sewing wasn't her favorite domestic task, my mom was an excellent seamstress, rather a martinet when it came to keeping the house spic-and-span, and taught us to fold clothes with expertise and make our beds with "hospital corners." And oh, the cakes and pies, cookies and brownies and "marble squares" she baked! Holidays were celebrated with delectable foods and special decorations, and she loved what she called "entertaining" – having friends over for dinner and an evening of talking and visiting.

She was very active in her church: when I was growing up, Mt. Zion (United) Methodist, in High¬land, Maryland. She and Pa both sang in the choir at times, and she was often an officer in the Women's Society, later United Methodist Women. She was also active in the now-defunct Homemakers Club.

Ma was not perfect, of course; no human is. But she was a living embodiment of motherly love, and an amazing example of selfless, sacrificial, and immensely loving devotion to her family, and to all the tasks and duties that go into making a house a home. Thank you, Ma. I will try my best to live up to the example you set. And there will be a meeting again.

My Mother’s Piano

By Tom Harbold

This essay appeared as a column in the Carroll County Times on Tuesday, May 9th, 2006.

Just to the left of the front entrance of the house where I live with my mother is the formal living room: what I call the "parlor," asserting that the true "living room" is the family room, since that's where we do most of our living. Call it living room or parlor, though, the front room's centerpiece is clearly our upright piano. The piano. My mother's piano.

Both of my parents were excellent amateur musicians in their younger days. My father was good enough that, after being wounded in action in World War Two and making his way through field hospitals and the "repple depple" (replacement depot), he was tapped for the regimental band, in which he played both piano and trumpet during the post-war occupation of Germany.

My mother grew up in a Methodist parsonage, where she learned to play both the piano and organ at church services, often assisting or substituting for the regular organist. Both parents sung in the choirs of the various churches they attended, and my father directed the choir at one of them. He gave the piano to my mother shortly after they were married – at the time, a major investment, and a sign of the love which shone so deeply through their marriage until his death in 1999, and continues to shine in her frequent reminiscences of him.

I was a relatively late addition to the family, and by my arrival, the heyday of my parents' musical ventures had largely passed. Largely, but not entirely. My father, as might be expected, could play a rare tune when the inspiration hit him, but it was my mother's more frequent playing – usually of traditional hymns, or classic Christmas carols in season -- that had the greatest effect. There are many reasons, for instance, why both spirituality and the environment are deeply important in my life, but surely listening to my mother playing and singing "How Great Thou Art," her loving voice blending with the movements of her strong but gentle hands on the keys, was an important contributing factor.

I find it interesting and a little curious that I have been noticing my mother's piano, and the void left by its silence, more and more often now that she is absent from the house. Having injured herself in a fall a few weeks before Easter, she has been either in the hospital or convalescing and undergoing physical therapy ever since. As her live-in caretaker, as well as loving son, I miss her presence, of course. But it's been poignant to realize how much I miss her piano-playing, too.

To miss it so much just now is perhaps not entirely rational – due to painful arthritis, her playing has been ever less frequent in recent years -- but rationality counts for little where matters of emotion are involved. And there is something about music, or its lack, which touches our emotions deeply. In a sense, the un-played piano has come to stand for the lack of my mother's physical presence, as well as my regret for the advancing years which have robbed her hands of so much of their former agility, over the past decade or so.

It is never easy, seeing one's parents age. Especially not if you love them. But barring catastrophe, it is inevitable, and as my maternal grandfather aptly put it, "getting older is no fun, but it sure beats the alternative." My mother is doing well in her physical therapy, and if her progress continues, should be home in a week or two. For how much longer, though? That is the question. God willing, she'll be around to love and be loved by her family for a good many more years. But not, necessarily, in this house.

And perhaps that is why my throat gets suddenly and unexpectedly tight, and my eyes a little misty, as I run my hand along the smooth, lightly dust-covered cherry wood of my mother's piano. It's not just for the missing music that I mourn. It's for the end of an era which seems, whatever happens, to be drawing slowly toward its close.