Mama (standard:drama, 3519 words)
Author: Maureen Stirsman	Added: Oct 09 2002	Views/Reads: 5240/2860	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
It was a time when life was hard and money even harder to come by. Mama gave her family a dream that they never forgot.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

like a knife.  Woodhue would cry like a baby if Mama looked at him that 
way, long after he should have.  She didn't care much about our grammar 
either, but no cursing.  “God sees you,” was her motto. 

On our birthdays Mama cooked whatever we asked for.  I planned my menu
for months.  The year I was six we had pancakes with strawberries and 
whipped cream, corn on the cob, and tomato soup, and Mama's wonderful 
chocolate birthday cake with chocolate ice cream.  “You children will 
surely be sick.”  Aunt Jennie was there for the cake and ice cream. 

But Mama just smiled and said, “Blow out the candles, Cherry,” This
week, I was Cherry. 

Daddy worked on the railroad.  He was the mildest mannered man I have
ever known, even to this day.  If he ever had his own opinion he 
usually yielded to Mama.  Now I know- he was an unusual man in his own 
way.  That was a day when fathers brought home the money and mothers 
raised the children, but Daddy spent time with us.  He got down on the 
worn carpet and built Lincoln logs with Danny or became a horsy for 
Woodhue and sometimes he drank invisible tea from my tea set.  On the 
evenings he was home he sat on the front porch and read the paper.  He 
waited for Mama to come out and would take a harmonica from his pocket, 
limbered up his fingers and began to play.  He played ‘Flight of the 
Bumble Bee', ‘Irish Washerwoman' and then the old hymns.  He always 
ended with ‘The Old Rugged Cross'.  He said it was his mother's 
favorite.  I never knew my paternal grandmother, but I saw her picture 
in an old black album.  Her blonde hair was pulled back in a bun and 
her face was firm, unsmiling.  Her black dress was trimmed in lace.  
Daddy said she was a sweet woman, but I couldn't be sure, only seeing 
her picture. 

Our picture, Daniel, Danny, Woodhue, and me was framed and stood on the
player piano in the living room.  Aunt Mamie had come over one 
afternoon to show off her new Baby Brownie camera.  “Let me take your 
picture, children,” she said.  “Go put on your Sunday clothes.” 

“No, Mamie,” said Mama, “take them like they are, the way they live.” 
Aunt Mamie cleared her throat but she didn't say anything.  After Mama 
brushed my hair and put water on my brothers' heads we sat on the porch 
steps for the picture.  I can see us now.  Daniel was twelve and 
skinny.  He wore a white undershirt and cut off-school pants turned 
into summer shorts.  Danny, ten, was a duplicate, but not as tall or as 
thin.  Woodhue was three years old and wore a pink sunsuit that was 
mine when I was a baby.  His blonde hair was combed neatly.  Daddy did 
not shave his head yet.  Mama said he was too little.  And me- my curls 
were manageable that day.  I did look like a yellow haired Shirley 
Temple.  That has always been my favorite picture.  Except for Danny, 
we were all barefoot.  Aunt Mamie complained about that, but Mama would 
not relent, “No, Mamie, like they are.” 

Then that summer in 1939 I turned seven years old.  It was that
afternoon in June, two weeks after my birthday, that Mama left us home 
with Daniel in charge.  An hour later we saw her running down the dusty 
road with her shopping bag and purple crocheted purse in her hand.  She 
yelled,  “Children, children, come, hurry!”  She had the most 
wonderful, most important, most unsettling news we had ever heard. 

PART 2 

She was running.  Mama was shouting and running.  Her purple purse was
open and a can of soup fell out of her bag.  We all came out when we 
heard her.  “Daniel, get your brothers and sister ready for dinner.  
Tonight is a family meeting.” 

“What is it, Mama?”  Danny took her bag.  “What's the matter?”  His eyes
were wide.  We never had family meetings unless it was really 
important.  They were always after dinner, and we always were to be 
prepared.  Our hair had to be combed and our faces clean.  And that 
night we were ready.  One time our family meeting was called to tell us 
about granddaddy being drowned.  Another time that Woodhue was to be 
born.  It was always important.  We didn't think it was bad news now, 
although we hadn't had a meeting in a long time we didn't think it was 
bad.  Mama was singing and whistling, like she was holding some secret. 
 I begged her to tell but she would only say.  “Wait and see, Shirley.” 
I had been Shirley for two weeks. 

That night we had pancakes for dinner, my favorite.  Mama didn't even
burn any, except for the last three, but we didn't notice.  Daddy ate 
them anyway.  My hair was brushed and a ribbon wrapped around my head. 
My brothers' hair was combed and Daddy looked handsome in a clean 
shirt.  Mama took off her apron and sat down at her place after she 
cleaned off the table.  “Shirley, please get some sugar for Daddy's 
coffee.”  When we were all ready and even Woodhue was quiet.  Mama 
pulled a black coin purse from her pocket.  It was a black purse like 
Daddy used before he got the wallet for Christmas two years ago.  We 
just looked at her.  She was so happy, we held our breath.  “Daniel, do 
you know what I have here?” She asked my brother. 

“It looks like Daddy's coin purse,” my brother said, not imagining what
was special about it. 

“No, sir!  No sir, indeed!”  Mama said.  “This, young man, is a coin
purse that I found today coming home from the store.  This, young man, 
is a coin purse full of money.” 

“Mama, where did you find it?” asked Danny. We were all on our feet and
spoke at once.  “How much money, Mama?” I said. 

She just smiled waving the coin purse over her head. 

“Tell them, Emaline,” said Daddy leaning back in his chair. Woodhue was
bouncing on his high stool and Daddy put him on his lap.  . 

“Well, sir,” she said. “One hundred dollars, that's how much.” 

“One hundred dollars?”  Daniel said.  “Mama, that's a fortune!” 

“It's a lot of money, son,” said Daddy. 

“Whose is it, Mama?”  asked Danny. 

“No body knows, silly,” said Daniel.  “Right, Mama?” 

“Right, Daniel, nobody knows.  I found it—is all.  Coming home I found
it on the side of the road,” Mama beamed. 

“Let me see it.  Can I hold it, Mama?”  I said.  She held the black coin
purse out but did not turn it loose.  I peered inside.  Sure enough it 
had a roll of green bills inside like I had never seen before.  All of 
us looked.  “A hundred dollars, Mama!  What are we going to do?”  I 
said. 

“Well we have to find out who it belongs to, right, Mama?”  said Daniel.
I was beginning to get annoyed with my eldest brother. 

“Oh, yes,” she answered.  “Oh, yes, of course we will have to find out
who it belongs to.” 

For the next seven days we read the lost and found in the newspaper and
held our breath until at the end of that time there was never an ad 
about a lost coin purse. 

On the evening of the eighth day, which was Sunday, Mama and Daddy
called another family meeting.  We all had our baths the night before 
in the galvanized tub in the kitchen, where Mama heated the water on 
the stove.  I was always first because I was the only girl.  When I was 
out of the tub, my brothers took their turns and Daddy carried the 
dirty water outside. 

Mama looked on the faces of each of us.  Her own face was shining.  We
all knew no one had claimed the money.  Each one of us had been praying 
it was so.  Mamas reached out and touched Daniel's hand on the one side 
of her and mine on the other.  “We get to keep the money!” she 
proclaimed. 

Danny yelled, “Whoopee!”  We were all beside ourselves.  One hundred
dollars was a lot of money in 1939.  Woodhue looked at Danny 
bewildered.  “Woodhue, do you hear that we have one hundred dollars?” 
Daniel, always the more logical, down to earth one of us, said, “Mama, 
are you going to get something for the house?” 

“Mama, can I have a doll?” selfish me!  I had been hoping for a ‘Betsy
Wetsy' doll for my birthday but I only got a monopoly game and two red 
ribbons.  I could have bit my tongue for being so selfish.  “Mama, I'm 
sorry.  I don't need a doll.  I am sorry I was so greedy.”  I tried not 
to cry. 

“Shirley, sweetie, that is not being greedy.  You can have the doll if
you want it.  Each of you can choose something.  You can each have one 
wish, every one, even Woodhue.”  Mama tossed her long braid over her 
shoulder and kissed Woodhue on both of his chubby little hands. 

After that we all went out to the porch and Daddy played the harmonica
to the beat of the squeaky porch swing.  Danny and Daniel tossed an old 
softball they had found somewhere.  Woodhue sat next to the porch 
digging a hole in the soft black dirt with an old kitchen spoon.  As 
for myself—I sat on the step, already searching my mind how to spend my 
wish. 

The next meeting was scheduled for the following Sunday night.  Mama
made a special banana pudding with graham crackers for the occasion.  
Daniel and Danny put their Sunday shirts back on and their hands were 
clean.  Woodhue was wearing Danny's cut-off's from when he was his age. 
 Daddy was handsome as always.  He put the final bite of pudding in his 
mouth and the last sip of coffee.  I wore my Sunday shoes and my good 
dress.  It was such a special day.  But Mama—Mama was her most 
beautiful.  Her hair hung loose, glistening down her back.  She put her 
blue silk kimono on over her white slip.  Her hair was pulled back with 
a blue ribbon.  The ribbon was the exact color of the kimono and that 
of her eyes.  “Mama, are you sick?  Why are you wearing your kimono?” 
asked Danny. 

Mama raised her hands in the air.  “No, Danny, I am not sick.  This is
the prettiest thing I have to wear and since this is special occasion I 
want to wear it.” 

“You are beautiful in anything you wear, Emaline,” said my daddy.  His
eyes sparkled when he looked at her.  “Let's begin.” Then we all had a 
chance to tell what our wish was.  Danny said he had been thinking all 
week.  “What is it, son?”  Mama asked. 

“Well, Mama, I would love to have a pony.” 

“A pony?” said Daddy.  “Do you know how to take care of a pony? Horses
are a lot of work.” 

“I think he does, Will, said Mama.  A pony it is.”  Then she looked at
me. 

I had struggled all week from thinking about MaryJane shoes and lacy
socks, to a Raggedy Ann book to piano lessons, although I didn't think 
on that long.  Finally I settled.  “Mama, could I have a Betsy Wetsy 
doll, please?” 

Mama laughed.  “Sure you can, Cindy.” 

“And, Mama, would you mind calling me Claire?”  I could not believe I
said that to my mother. 

Her face fell just the least little bit for just the least instant. 
“Sure, honey, sure, Claire.” 

“What about you, Woodhue?”  said Daddy.  We all had been trying to
influence Woodhue with things we wanted, a train, candy, and games. 

“What, Woodhue?” Mama asked.  “You have a wish too.” 

“A real shovel.”  We looked at our baby brother.  “A real shovel so I
can dig a real hole.” 

Mama and Daddy laughed until Daddy pulled his hanky from his pocket and
dabbed his eyes. 

“Daniel, what about you?”  Daniel had been quiet through the whole
meeting. 

“Well, Mama, this is my wish.”  And he took a paper from his pocket,
stood up and began to read.  “I, Daniel Parker, wish for a rubber ball 
for Woodhue, an electric train for Danny, and for my sister Claire, a 
Betsy Wetsy doll.”  That minute I could have kissed my older brother.  
I felt such a love for him I didn't think possible.  He was the most 
unselfish boy I ever knew. 

Mama cried a little then too, besides Daddy.  “What about you, son, what
do you want for yourself?” 

Daniel read from his paper again.  “And three white hankies for Daddy
and a blue dress for Mama, and a box of candy for Aunt Jennie.  If I 
could,” he cleared his throat.  “I would like a bike.  I saw one for 
sale that Jimmy Curtis had before he got his new one for Christmas.  It 
is just $3, Mama.”  Daniel sat down.  I thought he was going to cry. 

Mama looked at Daddy and he said, “Okay, son. Done!  My word, you are
the most unselfish boy I ever knew.”  I knew it was true. The next week 
we had an unheard of third family meeting in a month.  Danny smelled 
like a horse but no one seemed to mind.  He was as happy as a new 
father.  Woodhue had a new ball and shovel as well.  His fingernails 
were heavy with dirt, but he was happy and Mama didn't mind.  Daddy 
blew his nose on one of his new hankies.  And Mama had her hair down; 
shiny against the finest blue dress to be had in Barstow, New York.  I 
was so busy changing the diaper on my doll I hardly noticed when Daniel 
called everyone outside to see him ride his new bike.  Daddy and Mama 
stood on the step arms around each other, her black hair like a cloud 
around her shoulders.  Daddy put the hanky back in his pocket and I 
could see the bulge of his Christmas wallet.  Then Mama began to sing.  
“I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away." 

... Today all these years later, with my marriage, three children and
five grandchildren part of my life, I look from the upstairs window of 
my mother and father's home.  Daddy has been gone these thirteen years 
and Mama was just taken to a nursing home.  I have dreaded this day all 
my life.  My brother Woodhue stayed to help me with the upstairs rooms 
before the cleaning people come to ready the house for the new family.  
“What's this, Claire?”  My handsome tall Norseman brother asked.  “It 
was stuck in the back of the drawer.” 

“It looks like a coin purse, Woody.”  I said.  I felt the soft black
leather and clicked the gold clasp. 

“Woody, remember the money Mama found?  Did you ever wonder where that
came from and how one hundred dollars could go so far? Besides the 
things we wished for, everything we did and bought for years came from 
that one hundred dollars.” 

“Didn't we buy Aunt Jennie a box of candy, too?” It was Aunt Jennie who
said mama was ‘a little off'.  I carefully wrapped the picture she took 
of us that day put it next to my purse.  “You go down, Woodhue.  I'll 
be there in a minute.” I heard his footsteps on the treads of the 
stairs and I looked for the last time out of the window.  In the 
distance I could see a tow-haired boy in cut-offs riding a shiny new 
bike and shouting.  “Look at me, Mama. Look at me!”  I looked once more 
in the mirror and my blonde hair was white, but my eyes were still the 
blue of Mama's.  And I remembered how beautiful she was that day in her 
blue robe in the kitchen scrambling eggs and singing.  “Good bye, 
Shirley,” I said into the mirror and closed the door. 

Maureen Stirsman 


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