Musing Of MOTHER BY LEMMIE LACOUR MAXWELL 1947

To Odis, Lila, Paul and David- with all my love.

April 1, 1947

Odis and I have built a patio of broken brick and cement in the space where the kitchen and back bedroom form an ell. We laid the red brick helter skelter, mixed our own cement, and poured it with spoons, between the cracks then we used a neighbor's plastering tools, which he so kindly loaned us, to smooth it. We are going to enjoy it this summer as it will have shade all afternoon.

Our tiny trees have tiny leaves and the grass is almost ready for its first mowing. The day lilies hide the spaces between the foundation pillars of the house, and we have dug flower beds and planted annuals. The house is actually beginning to look as though it is growing out of the ground itself, which is the way a house should look.

We aren't quite as homesick as we were at first. One of the neighbors has a little girl, Susan, the age of the twins, and they all have great fun together in the fenced in play yard where the gym-set and sand pile are - and where I can watch them from the kitchen or back bedroom windows.

Lila and Paul have always "gotten along" so beautifully with each other that I do believe they think that is the only way to play with other children. They are kind and considerate and willing to share their toys. To me, that is one of the most wonderful traits of twins - the completely natural willingness to share with others.

April 27, 1947

What an unbelievable thing has happened to me! After years of stooping over the bath tub for my "every day" washing, I am now the proud possessor of one of those automatic washing machines. They have become available, on home improvement loans, to people like us who are "paying on" a house. And the best part of it is that what the heavy clothes laundry bill amounted to each month will not only take care of the payment on the machine but will also allow me to have my ironing done at home, weekly, by a colored "iron lady."  I have engaged Orelia, who used to wash and iron for Odis and me before we had children - and too many clothes.

The working of the automatic amazes all of us. What will they think of next - as my Grandmother used to say with each new marvel.

Odis wanted me to have one of those wringer type washers long ago, but to me they always seemed more trouble than they were worth, and I was deathly afraid of those ominous looking wringers, having read in the papers several times about hands and arms getting smashed in them - so I never bought one. A few of my friends have been able to afford automatic washing machines since the war, and they always told me how wonderful they were. I remember one morning several years ago when I was on my way to the grocery store early I saw Hazel, who had an automatic, just sitting on the steps in the sun. Knowing how industrious she is and that she does all of her own housework, I called to her, "My goodness, Hazel, don't tell me you have caught up with your chores this soon?"

"No," she laughed. "I'm just resting while I wash."

Now, I too can rest while I wash!

May 31, 1947

Grandma Hart died right after Easter. They took her home to Fishville and laid her to rest in the beautiful old cemetery at Friendship Church. Fishville's hills and creeks and pines were at their most beautiful. Little Grandma, with her bonnets and long voluminous starched skirts was fragile and quiet and gentle, but under the gentleness was a will of iron - and for most of her life, she lived with a tragic mystery.

When Mama Maxwell and her sister, Hattie, were babies, Grandpa William Hart left to drive cattle across the western plains, and Grandma never heard from him from that day until the day she died.

After Odis and I were married, she told me all about it many times, in a calm way, and repeating as old folks do, and she always ended her story with the same words,
Maybe he was killed by Indians. I never found out." I have always thought about her and about how she must have waited, wondering at first, then worrying, then with anguish - when all clues led up a blind alley -  and, finally, as the years passed, with resignation.

"What did you do, Grandma?" I would ask.

"I worked," she would say. "I plowed behind a mule, I sowed, I reaped, I tended the stock, I built rail fences....I had to raise Lila and Hattie....Then, when they were grown and married, Hattie died....but, I had Odis." And how she loved Odis. When she was in her early eighties she made a quilt - an intricate ziz-zag pattern that is a work of art. "This is for Odis," she said, but I noticed she used my favorite colors - yellow and green.

I think the saddest part of her whole life was that she had to die still wondering whether William died on the plains from an Indian arrow - or whether he just simply deserted her and her babies.

Just before she died, she murmured, to herself, "I wonder what became of him?"

I like to think that they are reunited, and he has told her all about it.

June 2, 1947

Most of my summer, thus far, has been spent outside with the children. They are perfectly willing to stay in their play yard while I am busy inside the house, but they seem to sense the moment I am free and call, "Mimi, come and play."

Their play yard is safe for them and close to the back windows where I can keep a constant look-out. In it, they have shade from the neighbor's trees, their sand pile, their gym set, and all their other outdoor toys, but how they love to run around and around the house, and take turns pulling each other in the red wagon.

It is wonderful the way twins play together. The "come and play" is just flattery so that I will open the gate of the play yard and set them free, because they seem only to need each other. They talk constantly, and are always laughing at some private joke of their own. Occasionally, when their cousins or other children are here, they will forsake each other, but not for long..

One mother who has thirteen year old boy and girl twins told me a little sadly. "Mine aren't twins any longer. They have different interest now. These days, they are merely a brother and a sister who happened to have been born on the same day."

June 29, 1947

Mother has sold her piano. She had been quite ill, and the illness has left her weak and listless. "Playing the piano is just too much exertion now. I haven't the strength," she said. "Your strength will come back. Please wait, " we begged. "No, she said. "I feel as though I shall never be able to play again." I think the real reason she sold her piano was because she just could not bear to see it sitting there - closed and silent. Such a pity. No one can play the piano like Mother. She sits straight and tall on the bench and her hands, with long, slender fingers are strong and beautiful. I have always felt that if she had not married so young she might have become a concert pianist.

Mother’s music is the first thing I can remember about her. And Kathleen stood at the piano humming along with the melodies before she learned to talk. None of us inherited Mother's special talent, although she taught us to respect a piano. "A piano was not made to be banged upon," she would say. She tried very hard to make musicians of us, but we were bored with scales and those stiff, little "pieces" Sister Bonadventure taught us. I suppose one has to want to be a musician.

We all miss Mother's beautiful playing very, very much. And I did so want Lila and Paul to grow up hearing the classics and familiar hymns and popular music as we did. Of course, children nowadays can listen to wonderful music over the radio - but that isn't the same thing as having your particular favorites played right in the home.

August 21, 1947

Someone told me today that he had received a letter from overseas with the address just "Bunkie". "Bunkie, The Best Spot Topside God's Green Earth," is a slogan which was coined and made famous in all forty-eight states by my good friend and former employer, J. Howard Fore, editor of the Bunkie Record.

Bunkie is evidently the only town or city in these United States - or possibly in the whole wide, wide world which bears that particular name. It is a proven fact. Cards and letters have been sent from all over to folks here with the address simply "Bunkie" and the mail has always arrived on schedule.

The way Bunkie got its name is a charming story. As a matter of fact, the whole story of the Town of Bunkie is charming. Perhaps I shall write my version of it some day.