My Mother - Leta Eyre Marchant

Leta Eyre - 8th grade

Leta Eyre
High School Graduation photo

My very first memory in this world is of my mother. It is not a visual one but I remember it well. We had an old rocking chair; it creaked with every back and forth motion and I listened to it's repetitive complaint with my eyes closed. It wasn't an annoying sound. No, it was more of a quiet sound of old wood complaining only a little under the weight, but perfectly at home with my mother and I in it. I actually had no ability to reason about wood squeaking or rocking chairs. But that sound was a comfort to me and completes the rest of the memory - the tender and joyful feeling of my mother holding me close, the motion of her rocking, and the repetitive sound I heard in that chair.

Actually, I think she was nursing me. I remember just being exceptionally close, comforted and completely at peace with the world around me. It was a spiritual feast if not a nutritional one. You probably don't think I'm serious. Well, the memory, as I said, is not a visual one - only sound and touch . . . and as close to God (in this world) as one can get. Yes! I do remember it, and be assured that my memory would not make THAT one up. 'Tis real all right.

To this day I am always trying to repeat that same comfortable and spiritual feeling. I am motivated by peace. Very little ever comes close, but occasionally the Spirit of God gives me a glimpse of it in other spiritual moments.

My Favorite Place to Be

I was very close to my mother as a tot. Being shy, I always reached for her to save me. My mother used to wear 'everyday dresses' almost . . . . well, every day. They had full skirts and I found that if trouble was nearby, all I had to do was grab a hold of her skirt and twist. I was in a little cabbage roll of material. I could feel my mom's warm legs in contact comfort, and I believed there was nothing, once I was in there, that could harm me. No doubt she was quite uncomfortable and exasperated, but I don't ever remember her scolding me for doing that. It was a great place.

Then I have this humorous and indelible memory of my mother washing the dishes. It seemed like she was always washing dishes. Mom sort of twisted from side to side in perpetual motion as her arms scrubbed the canning bottles. This would set her bottom in motion too. I thought it quite interesting (though I am sure she would be mortified to think THAT is what I was watching) as she scrubbed away, jiggling to and fro. And as she jiggled, she always sang. ALWAYS! I just thought that every mother sang when they did the dishes; it was just what mothers are supposed to do. It wasn't until much later I realized MY mother was special that way - singing that is. Nearly All mothers jiggle, I discovered. At least the good ones.

I do, however, look behind be now when I wash dishes to see if I am jiggling as I'm singing. I inherited both traits.

I used to have bad dreams. Really bad dreams. (I won't go into my dream world, that's another blog entry). When I had those, I just HAD to find my mother to make it better. That was a difficult proposition however, as I was also terribly afraid of what was underneath my bed. I thought devils lived there, so I was forced to jump as far out and away from my bed as I could to get away from the unspeakble things there on the underside of the bed. I would run downstairs and there my momma always tucked me in beside her in bed. It wasn't often, really, However, when I was 16 years old, tears streaming down my face, she tucked me in once more. That was a BAD dream, and I needed it.

If I could remove from my memory (and hers) of my teen age years, I'd do it in a heart beat. I am sure I caused her tender heart pain and anguish, and I nearly can't stand to think of it without terrible sorrow. My mom is so precious; she did not deserve the heartbreak I gave her. I think my crimes seem far worse than they actually were, just because my guilt about hurting her is so keen. Growing up in those teen years was just the pits for me, (as it is for many teenagers) and I didn't do it very well. Ouch, it still hurts. Oh Mom, I'm so sorry.

Leta in 1987

Mom is now 80 years young.

There is so much more to say, but I only have this little bit of space to say it.
In short - I would still let her tuck me in when I have a bad dream if I could.
She is an angel among us.
I love you Mom!