Mom Power

by Rick Brown

Most weekdays I accompany my four-year-old grandson, Conner, to a very happy place. It’s located on the campus of Sierra Hill School in Meadow Vista.

Well, usually it is a happy place. But one never knows when a preschooler may erupt with some irrational complaint like itchy socks or a certain color on a backpack.

At the door wonderful Mrs. Sierra Barnard greets each child with a hug, a fist bump or a “high five.” No fool, Conner opts for all three greetings.

I huddle among the other grandparents and parents until the kiddos are ensconced within the nurturing confines of the classroom. We grandparents stroll back to our cars with the casualness only a retiree can understand. The younger folk, usually moms, have a much different, and more difficult agenda awaiting them. Some with squirrely babies/toddlers on their hips maneuver through the day with heroic patience, wise judgement and pure grit. One cannot help but be impressed with the energy and fortitude they display as they plow through that challenge called parenthood.

This school yard observation renews my admiration for my daughter-in laws as well as my wife, Jackie. Sleepless nights, baby feedings and tiredness associated with toddler chasing seem long ago. But the preschool drop-offs bring it all back.

Back in the day, as enlightened guys, we contemporary dads did our share, but our efforts were no match to the work of our wives.

Sunday, May 11 we will be celebrating another Mother’s Day – a good time to think about moms.

That commemoration goes back to West Virginia, resident Anna Jarvis in the early 20^th Century. Her efforts spread nationwide, and by 1914 President Woodrow Wilson officially declared the second Sunday in May as national Mother’s Day. The date evokes admiration and appreciation for those “Moms” in our lives.

I share that admiration. Indeed, it takes on a personal significance when reflecting on my own mother, Gladys Katherine Brown. Despite being a third child, definitely unplanned and a late arrival, I never doubted the love she held for me.

It might be assumed my appearance on the planet was a result of a cozy, Wisconsin night in December. Nine months later at age 39, Gladys delivered her third son after a long August day of walking at the County Fair. That blessed event must have been a bit of a shock to the family since the average age of childbirth was around 27 in 1947. Adding to the sense of the unforeseen, my father, Harold, was 46.

At age three we moved to the Valley of the Heart’s Delight, Santa Clara, California where my father’s printing skills would be utilized at Murison Label Company in San Jose. More importantly, our mother’s health issues prompted the move.

The great weather and expansive agriculture provided an enchanting life for young boys to explore, especially my older brothers who were to hop on bikes and traverse the surroundings on almost a daily basis. There were three major creeks, the Guadalupe River and endless salt flats in the South Bay. Youth employment meant fruit picking or working at canneries. Recreation meant exploring riparian zones, rail yards and an occasional hobo camp. And for my brothers there was the attraction to hunting.

My mother donned the role of “a mother of boys” with saint-like patience. She helped us “gut” and “pluck” our chickens, tolerated our fascination with firecrackers as well as cherry bombs and cast a blind eye when we created a labyrinth of underground tunnels in empty lots. In her view of parenthood, such tolerance was what one did with sons.

Gladys Katherine Brown among the family’s chickens

A good part of that support involved preparing and cooking the wild game my brothers brought home. Freshly hunted quail, dove, ducks, even coots donned our dining table thanks to Mom.

She also tolerated the idea of my eldest brother starting a taxidermy practice in his bedroom as a 16-year-old. Soon squirrel and fox hides adorned the walls as well as stuffed pheasants and Mallard ducks. The pungent odor of formaldehyde permeated through the house as he practiced his craft. That 16-year-old would later become a nationally recognized wildlife biologist who authored 23 books and 120 scientific papers as an adjunct biology professor at Arizona State University.

Brother David displaying his dove hunting bounty

Mom’s easy-going tolerance halted when it came to neighborhood girls. In her world view, the local vixens were mythical sirens hell bent on corrupting her sons. Thus, the reading of diaries was fair game and steam-opening letters from young ladies standard practice.

At this stage in life, her preoccupation about alluring temptations is a bit laughable, and I prefer to think of her fiery support for her boys as well as the indoctrination that each of us had a destiny to do something grand.

That fierce support took on many forms. Once, while exploring the Leslie Salt Flats in the South Bay my brother and I were brought into the Sunnyvale Police Department for trespassing. In addition to the detention, we were confined to a room with an elderly drunk. Not only did the Sunnyvale Chief of Police get an ear full, but our mother contacted the Department of Interior to investigate the legality of Leslie Salt leasing public land and deteriorating the ecosystem of the Bay. One night a nice man from the Interior Department came to our house with numerous maps to follow up on our mother’s complaint.

Being a 12-year-old, I had no idea if the investigation did any good, but I was left with the impression that Gladys would go to great lengths to defend the safety and integrity of her boys

Today the Don Edwards San Francisco National Wildlife Refuge incorporates many of those Leslie Salt flats within its 30,000 acres. Additionally, major efforts have been conducted to restore precious wetlands that were once salt flats. The refuge is open to hunting as well as sightseeing. I doubt Gladys Brown had much to do with this reform, but I am sure she was on the right side of history.

A boy’s life in Santa Clara Valley, 1950’s

Gladys also took on local authorities like the fire marshal who caught my brother and me making tin can rockets that shot into the sky thanks to a healthy supply of firecrackers. Right outside our front yard, poor Fire Marshall Rogers weathered a barrage of heated insults after confiscating our cache of illegal fireworks. Our mother rhetorically asked if he did not have anything better to do than harass boys having good, clean fun.

Sometimes that parental support went a bit too far as when she sat in my Little League dugout and asked the coach why I was not getting more playing time.

Truly beautiful gestures of kindness often balanced these acts of hot-tempered support. When my father’s job was replaced by offset printing, my mother cashed in her precious Kennedy half dollars so I could purchase a prom ticket. She also lightened up on the sexual surveillance a bit as when she found an issue of Playboy in my room. When confronted with her outrage I noted that the interview section included Arthur Schlesinger, a Kennedy adviser. I countered that if Kennedy were reading the magazine, why not me? Ok, a bit of semantic Jujitsu, but it worked. She laughed and asked if she could read the magazine when I was through.

At age 59 in 1968, my mother died on an operating table in Santa Clara County Hospital. The procedure being part of an experiment in heart valve replacement. The details of that fateful surgery are for another time.

That tragic event was a long time ago. Fortunately, my almost daily observation of motherhood rekindles a loving admiration for my mother and all “moms”. An appreciation that transcends time.

Thank you, Anna Jarvis. Mother’s Day – what a great idea.