Biography:
My mother, Doris "Dolly" Hadley, whom her children affectionately called "Mosey," died in 1998. She was 66 years old. There was nothing particularly notable about her life other than the fact that she survived giving birth to eight children in her lifetime and was as good a stay-at-home mother as anyone could ask for. She married my stepfather when I was just three years old and life was a struggle for us all. Even so, she was always there. As women today, mostly mothers, are declaring important...
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My mother, Doris "Dolly" Hadley, whom her children affectionately called "Mosey," died in 1998. She was 66 years old. There was nothing particularly notable about her life other than the fact that she survived giving birth to eight children in her lifetime and was as good a stay-at-home mother as anyone could ask for. She married my stepfather when I was just three years old and life was a struggle for us all. Even so, she was always there. As women today, mostly mothers, are declaring important and time-consuming responsibilities to jobs, charities or education, my mother had nothing but her family. But she was always there. After school, we came home to the smell of home-cooked food - dinner from scratch or the wonderful smell of something baking. No matter what happened at school or play, my mother was there - at home - waiting for us to make everything better. To say that she was loved by each of her children was an understatement.
When I was a young teenager I always wanted a 'glamorous' mother, like one would see on the sitcoms on television. That was never my mother. She drove an old and barely operating vehicle. She wore inexpensive and well-worn house dresses. She never had nice shoes or nice purses; only what she could find at a thrift store. She never had expensive jewelry. She did not go to the hairdresser - ever. She never had a manicure or a pedicure. She never used either a curling iron nor a blow dryer. She had naturally curly hair that she only had time to air dry but it always came out bouncy and shiny. Even as she entered her 60's her chestnut brown hair never turned gray. She used to joke that she lost a tooth with every child. As far as I can calculate, that was pretty much true. Somehow, she was able to qualify for false teeth and she was so proud. But then they ended up not being comfortable and difficult to wear. She was disappointed but it still did not dim her constant smile.
Then came the difficult teen years. I was the first to go through that lovely transition. She was not a disciplinarian. She talked a good game but was never able to impart any real discipline on the children that she loved with all she had. That was my father's job and he did it well. Even when we would get disciplined, it just killed her. All she really wanted was for us to never do anything to get disciplined in any way because it was just not in her to hear children crying. As much of a talker as she was, she had a difficult time getting truly personal and showing her feelings. I think she had to live in survival mode for so long that she mostly kept her deep feelings to herself as to not upset any of us.
Somehow, against all odds, she made sure her children had a relatively normal life. We knew we didn't have money like other children at school but we never felt poor. We knew we did not get to go to restaurants, but we never went hungry and with the exception of her penchant for incredibly rare meat, she was a wonderful cook. If there was a dance at school, she somehow took the money out of her grocery fund to buy a new outfit and arrange for us to attend. I was almost grown before I realized that every penny my mother had was spent on her children - groceries, lunches and saving so each of us could get at least one new outfit for school. As I met other people who had glamorous mothers but were not very close to them, I just could not understand and I appreciated her all the more. Nothing made any of her children happier than surprising her with a meal or a small gift. Her humility, ever present, made her so proud that her children loved and thought of her.
In her early 60's, my mother had a series of strokes and ultimately ended up in assisted living. I never knew what it felt like to have your heart pierced through constantly until I had to put on a smile for her as I visited her. Even so, she was the happiest when her children were in the room. She passed on her talkativeness and sense of humor to her children and as far as I know, all became good and caring parents. That might not be much in the eyes of a materialistic society. But those values, along with genuine love, was all she had to give. To that end, she was a great success.
My mother was cremated. She and I argued about that but she was adamant. At dusk, her children gathered at one of her favorite fishing piers in South Texas to pray over her ashes. As we opened the box with her cremains, my brother put his entire fist into the box of ashes and small pieces of bone. It was horrific to watch, but he just wanted to feel her one more time. Then we watched in silence as her ashes floated but then slowly sank in the water. Just then, two men roared into the pier with a fishing boat. We were speechless! We all stared at them wide-eyed and shocked. They'd obviously been drinking, but one of them said, "How are y'all doin'?" One of us replied, "Fine, but you just ran over our mother..." And with their shocked looks, we just turned around and made our way back to the land. On the way back, we started laughing... First a few giggles and then one of the few opportunities that life gives you to laugh and cry at the same time. It was not an expensive memorial, nor a light bit glamorous, but it was what my mother would have considered perfect.
I had a dream recently about my mother, one of only two dreams I've had about her since her passing so many years ago. It was so pleasant but too short. In the dream, I'd gone to the door of her room and she was in bed with covers to her neck. I didn't realize it was her at first until she lifted up her head, turned to me and gave me a huge smile - still with no teeth. It pierced my heart once again and I woke up with the familiar pain of missing her daily. But the next day I realized that - once again - she'd given me a gift that didn't cost anything but meant everything.
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