These past three months following the passing of my Mama have been a time of deep reflection, tinged with sorrow, regret and even some guilt. But such is human nature, which can be summed up by the poignant words my brother posted on Facebook: “How can I say goodbye to someone who taught me to read the hands of a clock, to tie my shoes, to be sensitive to others, to make pancakes, toll house cookies, party mix, and barbequed tuna fish and to drink coffee. Life is now different.”

To those lessons I could add many more, such as how to part your hair perfectly; how to dress neatly; how to keep a clean house, wash clothes, cook and wash dishes (all of which my future wifey will love!); and I could go on and on, for the list is endless. But the answer to his question is obvious because as long as you have such memories, you will never say goodbye to the one who so carefully and lovingly taught you those skills of life.

And I’ve been assailed by a plethora of other memories once I began the process of going through Mama’s house, sorting out and sifting through all the pieces of the puzzle that comprised her life. Though in many ways a heartbreaking task, it’s also one filled with nostalgia and the rediscovery of long-forgotten pieces of my early journey through life, for she certainly had saved so much memorabilia from that long-ago time; photos; cards; baby clothes (I actually wore that?); report cards; you name it, she saved it.

Some of the most touching items I’ve found are the many gifts we had bought her over the years for birthday, Mother’s Day, and such. She truly treasured them as evidenced by the care she had taken to preserve so many of them. That got me to thinking about gifts, and the importance we attach to them. Though just things of a material nature, there are those that are of a great and lasting significance that you always remember. That made me start digging into my recollections in search of those gifts Mama had graced me with over the years, things of which she had made it a point to go that extra mile to give me something that may not have been needed, but something that she knew I would love or wanted so badly.

As with all little boys, a bicycle is a paramount step forward in growing up, and I certainly remember that first one: a 26” Schwinn, red and white with a squeeze bulb horn. That bike and I traveled many a mile over the neighborhood and was my joy. Then there was the first BB gun, which of course came with all the admonitions to not point it at or shoot anyone because you might put their eye out, and to certainly not shoot any birds.

At the age of 13, for Christmas she bought me my first guitar, which was later followed by a second better one as well as a banjo. Those, in a way, were a gift to herself because she so loved music, and once I learned to play, we spent many an hour singing together, her teaching me her old favorites, gospel and traditional mountain music, for she had the voice of an angel. And, ironically, it was one of those songs that I sang at her graveside service, Wayfaring Stranger, one of the first songs I ever learned, my final, parting gift to her.

When I was 17, for my birthday she presented me with the first gift that acknowledged my passing into early manhood, a Schick Hot Lather Machine to aid me in my early attempts at scraping the peach fuzz off of my face, along with a personal dresser valet. And though that first hot lather machine is long gone, to this day I’ve always had one and I always think of Mama and that first one when I shave. And that valet still sits on my dresser to this very day.

But those things, and many others over the years, though special, were strictly of the material nature, regardless of the memories they evoke. There was, however, one special gift she gave me that will truly last a lifetime; so simple, yet…one that has given me not only so much pleasure but also was the foundation for the person I became. It was small enough to fit into the first wallet I ever had (also a gift from Mama) but the power contained therein of it has shaped not only my odyssey but the course of mankind as well, that being the power of knowledge contained within an 8 X 5 inch library card.

I was 6-years-old and had just finished the 1st grade when Mama took me to the library and got me that card. She was a voracious reader and, like her throughout her life, after I got my first library card, there hasn’t been one day that there hasn’t been a book in my hands, if only for just a few stolen minutes. By the time I was 9-years-old, I had already read everything I wanted to read in the children’s library and one day I wandered over to the adult section where, much to my youthful chagrin, I was initially turned away. I did, however, with the help of a very special lady, go home that day with two what I called “grown-up” books, two books that had a great impact on my life. But that story, the lady and the books, will be shared at another time.

Nonetheless, without a doubt, the greatest and most important gift my Mama ever gave me, other than the actual gift of life itself, was the library card. From that came my love of the written word, and in many ways books have been my salvation from a life of ignorance. And thankfully, I didn’t keep this to myself because I made it a point to tell Mama many times over the years what that gift meant to me, and I then passed the same gift on to my daughter, who’s probably read more books at her young adult age than I’ll ever read in my life.

I was 14 when my dad died, and I can’t help but think of the poem Mama shared with me on his passing, Alfred Lord Tennyson’s Crossing the Bar, a beautiful elegy of which I’ll share the final two stanzas:

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar

Yes, as my brother said, life is now so different, living in a world without the presence of our mother. But even now I won’t say goodbye, no sadness of farewell allowed. I will say one more time, though, thanks for the memories, and thanks for the library card and for all the love you filled my world with. See ya on the other side, Mama, after I’ve crossed the bar.