Of course I will not be sending my mother a card nor will I be making a phone call and I certainly am not going to be visiting her home. You see my mother is no longer with us, at least not in the sense of physically present. The number of years ago she went to be with the Lord.
Ironically just today I was going through some items as I move my office and came across a box with some of her personal things that we have kept. Letters she saved from her mother and father; little trinkets and a lump of coal as a reminder of home: add some old photographs of her family. For just a moment flood of memory flowed over me and I found myself muttering out loud, “Mamma I sure do miss you. I wish we could just visit for a few minutes.”
I must begin with the one thing that I know personally and that is undeniable by anyone dead or still living. No mother ever loved her children more than did mine and no mother ever loved a son more than this son was loved by his mother. I have come to believe to the point of knowing that my mother considered me to be God’s gift to her. It is a truism within our family and it is this that lead to the phrase “No mother’s son was ever loved as was this one." But I must say she did so in a way that I never perceived myself as being anymore loved or significant than my sister or others in the family.
My mom was the epitome of the Proverbs 31 woman . . . . she demonstrated all of the virtues of what Solomon said made some women rise above others. I could spend a great deal of time and print space showing how that was the case. However, my mother did not always feel worthy of such a claim. I remember my sister telling me of a conversation she and my mom once had where in one of mom’s more melancholy moments said, “When I stand before the Lord what will I tell him about my life. I have done so little for him.” Wisely my sister responded, “Show him you hands mom, just show him your hands.”
The truth of the matter is that she has been dead for some time now and being in my mid-70s I still miss my mother. I guess you always miss those to whom you are the closest. You see my mother was the bravest woman I’ve ever known. As I reflect on her life sometimes I want to say, “life isn’t fair . . . . you deserve so much more than you ever had.”
My mother became who she was in spite of her life experience. I firmly believe we are who we are not because of what happens in our lives but how we react to what happens to us in our life.
I told my wife the other day that I don’t know anyone who had so many major personal losses and tragedies in their life as did my mother.
Some of you may have actually known my mom but I doubt any of you had the privilege of knowing about my mom and about the differences between her and my father's upbringing and early life experience. So, Ill begin by saying . . . . .
My mother was English . . . . thoroughly English. Most of us would refer to her as British. My brother-in-law often called her “Limey.” Truth of the matter is she considered herself to be first and foremost an Englishman and more particularly a “Londoner.” It’s sort of like folks like me. I am a proud American but as I’m traveling abroad and someone asked me where I’m from the answer they’re going to get is not the United States of America or America but they’re going to hear me say, “I’m from Texas.” You see I may be an American but first and foremost I am a Texan. Well, my mother was English in exactly the same way. In spite of that she became a proud American.
She was born in the family of people who were historically "people of the sea." Her ancestors were seafaring people and her father was a long time British sailor. She grew up loving the ocean. Even when she was on dialysis and had little strength she would ask me to drive her to Galveston so she could stand on the beach and just look at the water. She more than once told me, "Had I been born a man I'd have spent my life in the Navy,” and by Navy she meant the British Navy.
I suppose her home life was typical of that of children born in the 1920s. Holidays more often than not were spent at the seashore. She did have a younger sister and a much younger brother but most of her interaction was with cousins and aunts and uncles. She loved dogs and in fact when she came to America as a "War Bride" she had to leave her dog behind, but her family kept it and every time she returned from a visit it was the dog she saw the most. I barely remember when growing up that there wasn't a dog in the house . . . . a real dog not a small fluff ball.
But the reason I say that my mother was the strongest bravest woman I’ve ever known has little to do with her early years and a great deal to do with her teenage years and onward. Before I go too far I will say a word about the difference between my father and my mother in understand what I’m going to say later.
My father was a Northeast Texas farm boy and was 12 years older than my mother. He was raised a tenant farm without hot and cold running water and no electricity and no indoor plumbing . . . . just an outhouse and sleeping on the porch in the summer. Most of his youth and early manhood were spent working in the cotton fields and serving as a mechanic. That had responsibility for all the rest of the children since he was the oldest boy. My Dad was a man of few but often profound words.
My mother on the other hand was born and raised in the world class city. She was accustomed to hot and cold running water, an indoor toilet and bath, sleeping in her own bed alone, and being able to walk to the markets daily. The one thing that they did have in common in their upbringing was on both of them worked early. Neither one was afraid of hard work. Mom was a talker.
Long before my father arrived in Europe in 1942 my mother had already had experience with war. I remember her telling me that she and her father would sit the windowsill of their flat and watch the Germans as they drop bombs on the London, city where they lived. All the rest of the family except her and her father would be either in the underground or huddled somewhere below for safety. She and her dad just sat in that window and watched war as if it were some kind of fireworks display. I believe his remark was something to the effect that if he was going to die it was going to be like a man above ground and not like a mole in the earth.
Early in that war or perhaps even before the war my mother had met a young English boy . . . . they fell in love and were engaged to be married. No doubt, as most young couples, they spent a lot of time planing their future. I suppose they thought their childhood dreams were coming true. Unfortunately, (fortunately from my perspective) God had other plans. The war drums in Europe were beating loader and louder and soon her beau found himself in the British Army. Then, as fate and the needs of war would have it he was called upon to be a part of the expeditionary force the British had in Europe and ultimately to the beaches of Dunkirk where he died.
I cannot even begin to imagine the heartache that my mother experienced then. What I do know is that she carried a small photograph of him in a locket all the days of her life. But that wasn’t the only tragedy that she would experience in the war. She would have a cousin killed in Burma during last week of the war. She would lose another cousin on D-Day and another later in the war. A fourth cousin died during that war but from injuries from falling down a bombed-out elevator shaft. Keep in mind that these were the people with whom she spent most of her growing-up years. I suppose that’s enough death in a short period of time for anyone to endure.
Then, much to my benefit, sometime after the death of her fiancé, most likely in early 1943 she met the man from Texas who became my father. My father was in the United States Army Air Force and he wore silver wings. I don’t really know how or when they met. The story I was told is that her girlfriend wanted to date a U.S. airman, but her parents would not allow her to go out with him alone. So he introduced my father to my mother so that they could double date. One date turned into two and two turned into three and before you knew it they were item. After that dad was staple around the Nutting household for the duration of the war.
Rationing is a standard practice for every country during the war but I suppose nowhere more strictly enforced that in England. As a result many items were hard to get and in insufficient supply when you did get. Somehow and I don’t know how it came to be that my father had access to the food canisters on the base at Spanhoe where he was stationed. He would bring large canisters of meat, vegetables and coffee. The Nutting's were grateful for every bit of it. I think occasionally they told him it would be "nice if you could get ahold of some tea."
These were happy days for my mother the midst of unhappy times. They played hard because they lived under the constant threat of death. My mother got to the place where she could distinguish my father’s aircraft from all of the others when they would fly over (virtually all of the routes into Continental Europe passed over London on their way to their targets). She said she would sit in the same window where she and her dad watched the bombs drop on the city and listen to planes as they returned. She remembered counting the number of planes and listen for the distinctive sound of the engines so she would know he was safely home. You have to understand my father was in a troop carrier squadron that flew combat missions dropping paratroopers and supplies on the continent. It doesn’t take a great deal of imagination to understand something of the tension between the excitement of the presence and anxiety of absence the joy of reunion. This cycle went on regularly in war their lives.
After the Normandy invasion and France had been largely liberated my father was transferred to an airfield in France. Fortunately his squadron had the task of flying the Glenn Miller Band back and forth between London and Paris. This meant that he was able to be in London on a fairly regular schedule.
It’s also the time when he met Broderick Crawford who for a short time was the announcer for the Glenn Miller Band. These two men became friends and were often found doing Pub Crawls together when in London. My Mom didn’t like Broderick and referred to him as Dad’s "drinking buddy" and she said you could always count on them when together to end the day blind drunk. It was an activity which my mother did not appreciate. We kids later would be obliged to watch Crawford on TV in the series Highway Patrol.
During one of his trips back from Paris they decided to get married. This meant that my father had to get a written order from his commanding officer allowing him to marry a British subject. This he was able to do in short order. So in January 1945 they married. Almost immediately my mother found herself with child or should I say twins and her husband in France. In the spring of 1945 war was winding down very quickly in August the war was over in Europe.
So the war in Europe is over and my mother was pregnant and my father was being shipped back to the States. The plan, mandated by the army, was that she would remain in England and have the babies and then join him in America after they were born.
In August 1945 my father left London for Tobago where he joined the Ferrying Command and flew returning soldiers to West Miami Beach. He was still on active flight duty while in Tobago when in September 1945 word came that my mother had an accident and lost both babies. The loss of both babies coupled with the loss first love and so many of her family was more than she could handle emotionally. Her doctor, the local priest and a psychiatrist as well as Dad’s former commanding officer wrote letters Department of Army to return Dad to England to be by her side. In typical Army style the answer was no and in November he received orders to proceed to Fort Sam Houston Texas for deactivation and separation from the Army.
Now you’re beginning to see something of why I believe my mother was the strongest and most courageous woman I’ve ever known. But of course, that’s not the end of her story. Somehow, he was able to pull it all together so that when she got word that there was space for her own ship headed for America, she boarded it. I don’t know if the ship ever left port or had left and broke down and had to return. Whatever it was neither it or my mother made it to America. And she had return again to her childhood home. I don’t know if you see the pattern of disappointments in her life, but they were legion.
Sometime later she received word that she was now booked on the Queen Mary and that she would arrive in New York there take the train to Dallas Texas. And that’s what she did.
She arrived in Dallas and while it wasn’t London it was at least the city. She was met at the train station and they drove in an old jalopy of a car to Celeste Texas where she encountered a small house with no hot and cold running water but did have outdoor plumbing and toilet. I cannot begin to imagine what was going through her mind about the circumstance in which she found herself.
Since this is not primarily about my father but my mother, I had left out early on part of my father’s story going to war. It seems, and I have the photographs to prove it, he had left a sweetheart of his own behind. The thought occurred to me more than once over the years that I wish I had asked him about this lady in his life. But as my mother would say, “wish in one hand and spit in other and see which one feels the quickest,” but I didn’t.
Try to wrap your mind around this picture. Dad had left for Europe in 1942 in the last picture he had made privately was standing in a cornfield with his arms around a woman by the name of Inez Gilbert. His family, most notably his two sisters, it’s the scene that plays over and over in their minds. For the next three years they are believing he’ll return and make Ms. Gilbert their sister-in-law.
I’ve often wondered when he actually mentioned to his mother and the rest of his family he was married. So here comes mom having just lost her twins arriving to meet a group of people who already resent her. I do believe that had it not been for a woman by the name of Ruby Warren my mother would have lost her mind in Celeste, Texas.
It is unfair to say mom didn’t like the country. To the contrary, she loved it. She loved outdoors, animals and gardening. She didn’t like but adjusted to outhouses and outdoor plumbing. Their time in Celeste was short lived when the moved to Orange, Texas. That moves brings us to me. My birth was my mom’s miracle. Having lost twins while in London she was expecting again . . . expecting me. This was in 1946. Unfortunately my mom and dad had issues with the Rh blood factor that put both her and any babies she carried at risk. In those days there was no magic shot like today. Having children for couples with this issue was risky business for both the mother and the baby.
Try and imagine this, with all the losses mentioned above the Doctor now comes to my father and says, "Based on everything we know to insure that your wife not run the risk of death I suggest that we abort this baby" (ME!). My father’s answer showed a profound understanding of mom's history of loss and the significance of my birth to her because of those losses. He said, “Doctor, you might as well take a gun to her head and shoot her now if you take that baby.” That was his way of saying how significant it was for me to be born. Even in my name you see something of that connection, David Alan meaning “my beloved darling.” Fortunately for her I was born and suffered no issues and it turned out pretty good for me too.
Mom would go on and loose a couple more babies and I remember as a child attending the grave side burials. A couple of years after I was born my sister was born (1949). For the next few years life as I observed it for my mom was largely focused on her children. She was a ferocious she lion when it came to her children and defended her home against all comers and that included members of our extended family.
Truth be told, with all the challenges she faced in her life I believe the biggest was when my father left his job with General Motors and decided to move to Pasadena, Texas and open an Auto Repair shop with his brother. Unfortunately, having gotten off to great start the business suffered a major setback due to the city closing the street where they were located for more than a year. Soon it became evident that it could no longer support two families and so my dad and his brother parted ways regarding the business. His brother had a chance to go to work with Foremost Dairies and Dad soldiered on with his garage business the rest of his life.
On the surface that seems benign but in fact it was really tough on her. It meant more loses. Just as she believed her American Dream was coming true the bubble burst. Her new home with all it’s new furniture had to be sold. In exchange she had to share a household with dad’s family. It was a challenging for everyone.
That change eventually lead to her working at anything to make a few dollars. She made clothes for successful people and even the manager of the Sands Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas. She cleaned other people’s homes and took in ironing. Like I said, anything to make a few dollars so her children could have what they needed. However, with all the challenges she made it a happy time for her children. She was more than a seamstress . . . . . she was a tailor who could make men’s suits. I always had the most stylish fashions when it came to clothes. They were all name brand and made in America . . . . . “Mamma’s Brand.” I never felt deprived of anything I needed. In fact, I know I got some of the things I needed at great cost to her.
My mom really loved children and animals. I cannot remember a time when my friends, regardless of their character, were not welcome in our home. Mom was a hit with all my friends. She had a natural ability to interact with our friends. Most of them never understood just how poor we were. It might also be because they weren’t really any better off than were we. The kids in my neighborhood knew her as the bread lady. The aroma of fresh bread baked every two days might well account for that. Many a kid got their first taste of home made bread at her kitchen door.
Speaking of bread . . . . . My mom often referred to herself as a “Jack of all trades and a master of none” or “the chief cook and bottle washer.” Truth is my mother was a superb tailor but an even better chef. Yes, I said chef. I remember riding with my father once as we were going home from work and talking about being hungry, he said jokingly said, “I’d leave your mother, but I’d never find another woman who can cook as good as she does.” She was famous for her breads and pastries, but she was a phenomenal main dish chef. Even when we had little in the house to eat it was always prepared in an appealing manner.
I’d add that she was patient with children. She loved to have our help. I learned to cook (as did my future wife) in my mother’s kitchen. I still have visions of my children standing in a chair helping her get dinner ready. She patiently answered our questions and showed us how to do the work. In this as with everything she rarely just told us what to do she showed us how to do it and explained why it had to be done that way. Oh, and it didn’t matter how big a mess was made. For her it was all about us.
There is so much more that could be said and I will add much of that for the edition that is written for my children and grandchildren. But suffice it to say that while these were tough times financially I still look back on them as the “Best Days of My Life.” I think too they were also good days for my Mom.
The truth is the years from my marriage until mom and dad were both diagnosed with cancer and in the hospital at the same time life while not always easy was mostly good. Grand children were born whom she adored. Church life became more significant for her during these years. Yes, I’d say this was probably the best years of her life. It seems her dreams were in fact coming true.
Then it happened . . . . cancer diagnosis. Mom with breast cancer and dad with esophageal cancer. Both would undergo surgery and chemotherapy. Mom would thrive and my father would die on Father’s Day, June 19, 1983, at the age of 71 within five years of diagnosis. I cannot remember ever seeing my mother grieve so deeply.
A widow at the age of 59 she continued for a while to live with my sister. Eventually, she moved into an apartment of her own and actually bought her first and only car. Then seven years after my father’s passing, I became the pastor of a church in Pasadena and my mother was one of the first people to join when I arrived. I was so blessed to have my mother nearby for the next eleven years. These were hard years for my mom and yet having me nearby seemed consolation enough for her. She had one health issue after another. I remember her once saying to Dr, Haden, “I don’t understand why the Lord doesn’t just take me home. I am so ready to go.” Dr. Haden said to her, “Mrs Appleby I don’t know why the Lord doesn’t take you home but I don’t believe for a minute you are anxious to go because you have passed up too many good opportunities to do so. You fight harder to live than any patient I’ve ever had.”
On March 20, 2001 my mom went to be with the Lord. Ironically, she was getting ready to leave rehab and move into a new apartment. She was so happy and so excited. Then it happened. Just days before she was to leave the rehab an aid was helping her dress for bed when she dislodged the shunt in mom’s neck and in her fear tried to put it back causing mom to have a major thalamic hemorrhage and stroke. Within hours she would leave us to be present with the Lord and the American Soldier who wore the “silver wings” to who she devoted her life. I was with her to the end, and I can tell you I literally witnessed her spirit leave her body.
The one thing I think my mother feared more than anything was being alone when she came to the end of her life. She managed to get that idea into many of our conversations. I remember the day I promised her that I would be with her on that journey until I could walk with her no more. She told me, "I'm going to hold you to that." God was good to us in that regard, and I was able to keep that promise. Mom died peacefully with me sitting beside her and holding her hand.
My mother was the strongest woman I have ever known. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her in some way. I just thank God that Sylvia Elizabeth Nutting Appleby is my mom and that there is a day on His calendar when I too shall return to Him who gave me life through this magnificent woman. She deserved more than she had but she did as much as could be done with what she did have.
I think she might describe her life as:
I've loved, I've laughed and cried
I've had my fill, my share of losing
And now as tears subside
I find it all so amusing
