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Note: [SHERRY WRIGHT.FTW]
MY BEST FRIEND
Mother was born May 5, 1920 in a bedroom of a small frame house on Dora Street in Sedan, Kansas; approximately 20 years later I was born at the same location. Rose Emma (Emogene Rosalie, a name that for obvious reasons, she never used) was the "middle" of three daughters born to Frank and Nellie Glenn. The sisters were as different as day and night in both appearance and demeanor. From what I was told and incidents I observed later, my mother could have written the book on "middle child syndrome". As an adult she was 5'5" and never larger than a size 8, however, as grandmother was quick to point out, she viewed her as large and gawky, especially when compared to her two petite 5'1" siblings. Instead of telling mother her red hair was beautiful grandmother approached it as a birth defect that would be difficult, if not impossible, to overcome. According to her redheads' could only wear a few shades of brown: anything with color would only bring attention to the affliction.
Similar to the fictional Cinderella, in spite of constant criticism, mother was a cheerleader, homecoming queen, played drums in the high school band, was popular and made excellent grades. Mother adored her family and with great tenacity struggled for her approval until grandmother's death.
She was independent and freethinking long before the term "liberated woman" was coined. She was wise enough to marry a man who was comfortable with his own masculinity and not threatened that she considered herself to be much more than "the little woman". Theirs was a love and partnership that lasted 35 years. Both with quick tempers and sharp tongues, arguments were fleetingly over and forgotten as soon as they both had their say. Mostly I remember laughter, humor and love.
A "stay at home" mom, she kept a spotless, well-organized home. She was an artist in many ways with the ability to look at an item of clothing in a store, come home, make a pattern and within days it would be part of my wardrobe. She was always the first to volunteer to lead a Girl Scout troop, chaperone school field trips or chauffeur a carload of kids to and from activities. Over my frequent protests, she attended every school open house and PTA meeting.
My parents intentionally spoiled me; however, I was expected to be a good student, well mannered and polite; praised when I was but disciplined when I was not. Mother was nurturing and sensitive regarding her role in developing my sense of self-worth. If I decided I hated something about my appearance, intelligence or personality she would immediately counter with how and why what I considered a flaw was in fact an attribute. Could she have known that 40 years later women would be paying big bucks to have collagen shot into their lips? If a boy broke my heart she sat on the side of my bed while I cried, listened to my tale of woe and soon had me convinced the boy was lucky I ever liked him in the first place.
By the time I was in intermediate school daddy's work involved his being out of town 3 weeks a month, frequently too far away to come home weekends. Mother accepted this change with the same positive attitude exhibited every time we got transferred. She would talk of how proud she was that he had been promoted, never mentioning how hard it was to move so many times, make new friends and raise me.
When I was in the 9th grade a strange thing happened. While everyone was asleep I was abducted by aliens and replaced by the "bad seed", sometimes referred to as a teenager. By the middle of my sophomore year, I skipped school more frequently than I attended and my grades were barely passing. Discipline tactics such as reasoning, grounding, meeting with teachers, withdrawal of privileges were all attempted, without success. I still have no idea why I became so rebellious but mother was my primary target. Just when I thought I had her whipped she made a world class comeback. She told me we needed to talk. With eyes rolled back and heavy sighs I flopped in a chair, crossed my arms and glared, waiting to hear what her new futile plan entailed. A moment later the blood slowly began to drain from my face. Not only could I not drive my car to school (a privilege previously revoked), I could not ride with my friends. She intended to drive me to school, let me off at the front door and watch while I entered and checked in with the principal's office. For lunch she would return to the same point, pick me up, feed me and drop me off again. At the end of the day she expected me to exit the school and immediately get in the car. We would then go home, eat, do homework, bathe and go to bed. This routine was to be repeated daily until the end of the school year, at which time I would be eligible for my first parole hearing. Telling her she was ruining my life and embarrassing me beyond the point that I would ever recover appeared to be just what she wanted to hear. She further explained that she realized I could be "very creative" and if, I managed to work around this plan, she had a backup. Simply put, she was willing to spend the day at school walking me to and from each of my classes. It was made quite clear that even if I hated her and it killed us both, I would at least finish high school. Since mother was not known to make idle threats, thus ended my Rebel Without a Cause era.
Without attempting to look or act younger, but because of her humor and personality, she developed camaraderie with my friends. The boys all had crushes and the girls found her easy to talk to and understanding of their problems. When they complained about their parents she reminded them parents almost always try to do what is right for their kids and that it's always easier to be understanding with children that are not your own. She pointed out that there were times when she made decisions that made me hate her, but that unpopular decisions were frequently part of being a parent. She told them, as she had told me, that no one is born knowing how to be a parent and that all you can do is the very best you know how. Giving advice in the 1950's was doubtless not as complicated as it would be now, but I know that mine was not the only young life mother nurtured.
She was always my friend, but that never interfered and was secondary to being my mother. She seemed to know how and when to separate the two. After becoming an adult I knew there were many things I did that she did not approve of, but she recognized times changed and was neither critical or judgmental of my lifestyle. I was raised to be independent and self sufficient, but I always knew I had a place to go and two people who loved me unconditionally.
The arrival of 1972 found our family peaceful and content. Daddy had continued advancing in his job, no longer traveled and was making more money than he ever had. They made their final move before daddy would retire to Perryton; a small community located in the Texas panhandle. They had many close friends, my life was together and they had a grandson that the sun rose and set on. They were looking forward to buying a retirement home on a lake where daddy could fish; they could play golf together, enjoy each other, family and friends.
However, that spring our lives would be forever changed. Mother was diagnosed with cancer. Until that time I had never realized that daddy relied on her strength and support as much as I had over the years. For the first time in my life I saw him come face to face with a situation he was powerless to change or make better. His grief and despair was overwhelming.
Mother lived her life with wisdom, tenacity, wit and courage. During her illness it was she who provided comfort, humor and encouragement to daddy and I. The last display of her unselfish love was to prepare us for her death. On December 12, 1973 my mother, best friend and biggest supporter died of cancer at the age of 53. A day does not pass that I am not reminded of her in some way. She is a frequent visitor to my dreams, still watching over me.
10/31/2000
Sherry Wright Poole
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