What I remember about my mother urges me to be a better person with a better outlook on life.

For some people — although I am not sure who they are — life is a beach, but I think for a lot of us life can be filled with hard knocks. In fact, I remember my mother saying those very words: “Life is full of hard knocks.” That’s why she made such an impression on me.

My mother was no quitter. She never gave up, even though her life was probably not what she had dreamed. She took every task that life served up with the most earnest vigor. She was never — I said never — halfhearted at anything she did. “I can’t” was not a part of her vocabulary. Phrases like “can’t never could do anything” and “where there is a will, there is a way” constantly reminded me that giving up was not acceptable.

Vibrancy. I wonder what the dictionary says it means. Oh well, no need to look it up. All I need to do is remember how Mama approached the day. “Up-an-atem,” Mama would call. Oh, I’m sorry; you may have never heard of this word. Let me write it in its less vibrant form: “Up and at them,” meaning “up from that bed and let’s get to work at overcoming whatever life has to offer, making the best out of the worst and getting all we can out of the day.” This definition was never spoken; it was perceived by her tone, acknowledged by her posture, and demanded by her presence.

“Oh, Mama, I don’t want to get up now!” I wondered why she couldn’t just be in neutral, just idling, for once, while I am getting in gear. But no, the request for more time in the sack was met with a flurry of “up-an-atem” synonyms: “Rise and shine,” “We’ve got to work while it is day,” “The early bird gets the worm.” Maybe you can add a few “up-an-atems” to this list that I have not heard. Truthfully, I had no idea what the bird and the worm had to do with me sleeping a little longer. I could just tell by the tone it meant “up-an-atem.”

Mama passed away a few years ago. That’s why I am remembering so many things about her life. In fact, I think I can see her good qualities much more clearly now. Things have surfaced that had been perceived and filed in the “taken for granted” category.

Yes, it’s true, mothers: Most of what you do because of your unconditional love for your family is taken for granted. There is no doubt that, though taken for granted, my mother’s positive outlook on life and her determination to forge her own way and stand on her own have emerged from the very core of my character.

“Monkey see, monkey do” is the phrase used to describe learning on a visual level, but I would like to offer this phrase: “Mommy do, children see and children become mommy too.” You never ask someone else to do what you can do for yourself. You never put off until tomorrow what you can do today. These are foundational cornerstones for the “up-an-atem mothers.”

I asked my mother, “Mama, do you ever get to do the things in life that you want to do?” She thought for a moment, as if she was considering her response, and said, “Not unless you take the time to do them.”

That leads me to my deepest regret. I love life. I mean, I love things that are alive with life: flowers, trees, greenery, streams, waterfalls, water wheels, fountains and a freshly plowed field ready to produce. I was about 27 years old when my mother expressed to me her desire to have a greenhouse; she wanted to know if I could build the one she was showing me in a magazine.

I was 45 years old when she passed away, and to my shame I never took the time to do what I wanted to do for Mama. With all good intentions on numerous occasions, I reminded myself, “I am going to do that.” Oh, how I wish I could add to my memories that which I did for my mother and not just what she did for me.

I wish I could add to my memories the day that I spent with Mama dreaming and planning her greenhouse, the day we went to town to buy supplies, and the day we laid out the first corner and started construction. But most of all I wish I could add the memory of driving up the hill and seeing my mother coming out of the greenhouse with her gardening gloves, apron and a freshly potted plant, but I don’t have any of those memories because I never took the time. Oh, how I wish I could go to my mother’s house and walk inside the greenhouse that she and I built.

Mama died of pancreatic cancer. Those who are familiar with this disease know of the suffering involved. My mother was more concerned about someone else’s suffering even while she was grimacing with pain.

I remember the night she left us more vividly than I care to, though she departed in a calm peace. What I don’t like to remember is her countenance. The disease had sucked life from her body, and it took the radiant beauty from her once glowing face. Man, what radiance and what a glow my mother did have! The years that she suffered had never taken it from her, but in the peak season of her illness her beauty was disquieted by the awful oppression of the disease. Only something as final as this dreaded disease could keep my mother from being “up-an-atem.”

Take the time to do what you want to do and remember: “The early bird gets the worm.”



Charles Stanley Pritchett is a Meridian resident.