They say that man is mighty;
He governs the land and sea,
He wields a might scepter
O’er lesser powers that be.
But a mightier power and stronger
Man from his throne has hurled,
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.”

“We’re sitting at lunch when my daughter casually mentions that she and her husband are thinking of `starting a family’. `We’re taking a survey,’ she says, half joking. `Do you think I should have a baby?’ `It will change your life,’ I say carefully, keeping my tone neutral. `I know,’ she says, `No more sleeping in on weekends, no more spontaneous vacations.’

“I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think that no matter how sophisticated she is, becoming a mother will reduce her to the primitive level of a bear protecting her cub — that an urgent call of `Mom!’ will cause her to drop a souffl or her best crystal without a moment’s hesitation.

“I feel that I should warn her that no matter how many years she has invested in her career, she will be professionally derailed by motherhood. She might arrange for childcare, but one day she’ll be going to an important business meeting and she’ll think of her baby’s sweet smell. And she’ll have to use every ounce of her discipline to keep from running home, just to make sure her baby is all right.

“Looking at my attractive daughter, I want to assure her that eventually she will shed the pounds of pregnancy, but she will never feel the same about herself. That her life, now so important, will be of less value to her once she has a child. That she would give it up in a moment to save her offspring, but she’ll also begin to hope for more years – not to accomplish her own dreams, but to watch her child accomplish hers. I want her to know that a cesarean scar or shiny stretch marks will become badges of honor.

“My daughter’s relationship with her husband will change, but not in the way she thinks. I wish she could understand how much more you can love a man who is careful to powder the baby and who never hesitates to play with his child. I think she should know that she’ll fall in love with him again, but for reasons she now would find very unromantic.

“I wish my daughter could sense the bond she will feel with women throughout history who have tried to stop war, prejudice and drunk driving. And I hope she will understand why I can think rationally about most issues, but become temporarily insane when I discuss the threat of nuclear war to my children’s future.

“I want to describe to my daughter the exhilaration of seeing your child learn to ride a bike. I want to capture for her the belly laugh of a baby who is touching the soft fur of a dog or cat for the first time. I want her to taste the joy that is so real, it actually hurts.

“My daughter’s quizzical look makes me realize that tears have formed in my eyes. I finally say, `You’ll never regret it.’ Then I reach across the table, squeeze my daughter’s hand and offer a silent prayer for her, and for me, and for all of the mere mortal women who stumble their way into this most wonderful of callings – this blessed gift from God – that of being a mother.

Blue eyed chubby soft and snug
I dribbled in my pram
while all the family and friends said what a little lamb
now all the world can love a lamb
so helpless white and curly
but what when it becomes a ram
plain stubborn foul and surly
lovely is the fresh new life
that paints the world in spring
with daffodils that grow on banks
and snowdrops growing in there ranks
or mushrooms in a ring
but as the season starts to warm
and hot grows summers breath
nettles docks and weeds arise
and choke the flowers to death
so all young things should can be beloved
but love is harder when
the little lamb becomes a sheep
the chick becomes a hen
kitten to cat with teeth and claws
puppy to dog with dirty paws
pigglet to pig with gobbling jaws
and babies turn to men
so thankyou mother for my life
I’m sorry for the pain and strife
but now I’m grown and have a wife
and wee lambs of my own.

I am a Mother and so proud to be,
I have six beautiful children, that God gave to me,
He gave them to me to guide , to teach and to love,
They all belong to him, Our Father above.

While raising them, I did the best that I could do,
It was hard at times, but God was there to see me through,
I pray for my children every day, that they will open there hearts and let Jesus have his way.

My children have brought me lots so happiness and joy,
And they have brought me lots of sadness and tears,
But I kept my eyes upon Jesus to help me thought those years.

Now God has given me grandchildren to love and to hold,
And they are so precious, more precious then gold,
Holding them in my heart each and everyday, reminds me that I should never forget to pray.
I Thank- You Jesus for the gifts you have given me
And someday in heaven your face I shall see,
Yes I am a mother and so proud to be.

Early in the morning on April 2nd 1993 while showering, my phone rang. It made me wonder, “Uh-oh, what happened?” Hearing footsteps walking toward the bathroom, I slowly opened the shower curtain. Meeting my husband face to face with his outstretched hand holding the cordless phone, he sadly mumbled, “It’s your Mom; something’s wrong.” Stumbling over the tub, I stood nude taking the phone from his hand and voicing a good morning “Hi”. My moms morning greeting wasn’t so perky. “OH SHARRON…Alan Kulwicki died in an airplane crash yesterday!” She expressed in horror. Listening with shock, dripping droplets of water onto the floor, I searched frantically for a towel to wrap around myself so I could find a comfortable spot to sit down. Wrapped in a bath towel, sitting upon the bathroom rug, I listened with sadness hearing my mother’s grieving voice explain the details. I thought to myself, “Oh my gosh, she sounds devastated, like someone in our own family just died.”…But you see…. Alan was a part of our family. We’re NASCAR fans.

Our family grew up being race fans. Starting in May, every Thursday my sister and I would arrive home from school and be greeted at the door. “It’s racing night, finish your homework and take a nap.” Funny thing…I never argued with my mom over taking a nap. Sis and would under take our homework assignments as quickly as we could and both snuggle together in our double bed while we listened to all the neighborhood kids congregate for an afternoon swim at the house across the street. We lulled ourselves to sleep with thoughts of crashing cars and eagerly awaited the aroma of burning tires.

My dad would even plan a weeks vacation every summer to travel the tracks in Michigan and Ohio. He knew where the hot racers were racing. In 1984 Dad died.

Winters were lonely for Mom from then on but every February she came alive. She would always have a certain spark about her. She spent Saturday’s watching Busch Grand National (BGN) and Sunday’s watching NASCAR and “her” Alan on T.V. If I wasn’t able to be at her house to watch the races with her, she kept the phone nearby so we could call each other to discuss how good Alan was running.

While at our local track one night, Mom purchased Alan’s collectible Matchbox car. She displayed it on top of her T.V. While she watched the NASCAR race she would hold and pat it rooting, “COME ON ALAN! COME ON ALAN!!!!!” When he won the 1992 Winston Cup Championship, I never saw anybody so excited and thrilled! She even kissed his little car! Anything she could get her hands on of Alan’s she had; posters, t-shirts, news-articles, etc. She treated and respected him as her own son. She was so proud all curled up on her couch watching him receive his awards at the NASCAR banquet; you would have thought she was in New York City with him.

Alan’s death was very devastating for her. She mourned for
days. On April 16th Mom’s lung collapsed. Things didn’t seem too bad and the doctors assured us that she would get better soon and come home. I had purchased an Alan Kulwicki sweatshirt at a local car show for her for Mother’s Day. I presented it to her while she was in the hospital. Almost comatose, she just smiled.

On April 27th Mom joined Alan forever. Her all-time favorite
number was always #7.

My sister and I decided to bury Mom’s little Matchbox car #7 with her and placed it upon her ashes. Treasures that will be held in our hearts forever.

As local racetracks open all over the North Country this weekend. While the opening track prayer is recited, we pray for my mom and Alan.

Spring treasures forever.
S. Marie Hugo

About S. Marie Hugo
S. Marie Hugo, Author of TENDERPAIN..After Daddy’s Suicide..a poetic journey (ISBN 0-9704463-0-6) a poetic memoir of a father’s life and tragic death seen through the eyes of his daughter. This compelling collection of verses will show a satisfying blend of strength, hope, survival and love throughout the authors healing journey. S. Marie lives in a city once called a village, Essexville, Michigan. The craft she calls her most loved passion is writing children’s picture books. Visit Marie Hugo at Hugo’s Haven.

Dedicated to Mary Grace Hugo.
My mother, a women of strength whom I became close friends with after the suicide of my father. She died at the age of 61 of lung complications on April 27th, 1993, nine years after the death of my father, Arthur.

SO I THOUGHT

Mom grieved as she
erased all memory of
you from her life.

So I thought.

Frilly feminine wallpaper
now hangs on your
bathroom walls.

Dresser drawers stay empty.
Living room walls no longer
hold your face,
keeping you out of her sight.

So I thought.

Your unexpected death
caused her deep affliction
never being able to speak
your name again.

So I thought.

As Mom lay comatose
I whispered,
Daddy’s waiting for you now,
he still loves you.
As she wrestled and moaned
it made me doubt the words
I just uttered.

So I thought.

On the eve of Mom’s
eternal journey,
a feeling of peace and
contentment overflowed
inside of me.
I no longer have to doubt
Mom’s love for you.

Longing to hold her close
I search through her purse,
touching her trinkets and
smelling her scent.
Fondling her wallet
it softly opens.
My eyes find you.

She held you closer than
a picture on a wall.

Daddy, you may now hold Mom
forever,
as she always held you.
1999 S. Marie Hugo

I wrote this poem to my mother March 11, 1996, for her birthday.
I sent her one red rose, three yellow, six pink and eight white.

In the center of every heart there is a strong blood source that alive.
Whose blood flows through each generation with your, well you have touched us, ” Look we all survived “.
As you glance at each rose some part of you, you will find.
Three yellow are your first, from your love that began to bind.
Now the family grows double in its size, from one beautiful red rose, six pink join to strengthen the ties.
And just when you thought the patter of little feet you would hear no more, your fertile little pinks bring eight white roses to your side.
Hopefully one day each will be a red rose, following your example, watching them grow, watching them bloom.
Oh yes red rose you have fought the greatest battles and won.
No need to tell you where or when.

When I think back on my childhood
And events of yesterday
Without fail, a vivid picture
Of somebody comes my way;
I can see her in the kitchen
Apron tied around her waist
Stirring up those homemade biscuits
With a smile upon her face.

And her hair was black as raven
Plaited ’round her head, so dear
Cheeks so red from wooden cookstove
Singing songs I loved to hear;
Sewing clothes from printed feed sacks
Near a crackling fireplace
Reading scriptures from the Bible
With that same smile on her face.

And the hands that rocked my cradle
Often brushed my tears away
Hands made rough by hours of labor
O’er a scrub-board, while I played;
Oh, those early years weren’t easy
For she was a farmer’s wife
But she made us all so happy
With our simple, country life.

Though the years were filled with struggle
And the hard times did abound
In our home of seven children
Strength and love was always found;
In the middle of that picture
Was somebody; oh, so fair
With her cheeks so pink and pretty
And her long, black, shiny hair.

Now her hair’s a different color
And her eyesight’s not as keen
But to me she’s still perfection
And she’ll always be a queen;
In this great, big world we live in
There will never be another
Like this dear one whom I cherish
May God bless her ~ she’s my mother!
Copyright 1987 Nell D. Fordham

A Mother’s love is like the heavens…
—-So impossible to reach.
It holds powers so eminently special
—-only her child could understand.
It is as deep as the ocean,
—-as wide as the shores,
and can ease any hurt with the
—-simple touch of her hand.
A Mother’s love is
————forgiving,
—————-faithful,
——————–and true.
It’s uplifting,
———forbearing,
————-and comfortable.
—-For, about it, you always knew.
I am greatful to my Mother who has
—-taught me everything.
In unlocking any answer she always
—-held the key and now
————–all I can do is pray
that someday I’ll be as good as she.

Dear gentle hands have stroked my hair
And cooled my brow,
Soft hands that pressed me close
And seemed to know somehow
Those fleeting moods and erring thoughts
That cloud me day,
Which quickly melt beneath their suffrage
And pass away.

No other balm for earthly pain
Is half so sure,
No sweet caress as filled with love
Nor half so pure.
No other soul so close akin that understands,
No touch that brings such perfect peace as Mother’s hands.