It Reflects on the Mother

 D. E. Larsen, DVM

The room was crowded. So much so that we kids were relegated to the floor or to a corner of the couch if we were lucky enough to find one open.

These old houses were built for large families, but only for one generation of large families. Mom fit in the middle of ten kids, and I was leading the trailing third of thirty cousins. The room was crowded.

Thanksgiving dinner in 1955 had been a massive event, with card tables scattered to every corner of the great room of Uncle Dutch’s house. Counting kids, there were maybe fifty people for dinner. The women filled the kitchen, and there were many trips to and from the main table before the word was given for everyone to get set down.

I had an olive on every finger when I headed to the far corner of the assigned kid’s table. The kid’s tables were arranged according to age. The younger you were, the further away from the adult table you were seated.

 Now, everyone was just sitting around talking. A few of the men were scavenging the last of the pumpkin pie.

The rain was the main topic right now. It was pouring down, and Robert said they were talking about five inches of rain on the radio earlier. I didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded like a lot of rain.

“We are going to have to head home,” Robert said. “With this much rain, if the creek doesn’t flood us in, the slides on our road will keep us here. And I don’t think there are enough beds for everyone. I guess David and Gary can sleep in the haymow.”

I knew he was kidding me, but I didn’t want to get stuck here. When Catching Creek flooded, it was usually several days before the water went down.

As soon as Robert and Lila left, the topic turned to their neighbor’s high school daughter. She had been sent away to have a baby. Most of the adults agreed with that process.

“It is better to just do it and not spend a lot of time discussing it in the community,” Mom had said.

“It reflects on the mother!” someone said. I am not sure who.

I could see Mom twist in her chair and wring her hands. She always did that when she did like something that was being said. I knew she hated those words. But, more importantly, she always said, “If you don’t have something good to say, you don’t say anything at all.”

Mom got up and started moving the last of the dishes to the kitchen. That signaled to everyone that the discussion was closed. It was time to go home.

With the house reasonably returned to normal, everyone started out the door. There was a long pause on the porch as the torrential rain continued. It was finally our turn to run to the car. We were soaked when we got there.

When we crossed the bridge over Catching Creek, the water was starting to lap at the underside of the bridge.

“I will be over the road in another hour,” Dad said. 

“It’s a good time to be leaving,” Mom said. “Robert was right. We would have all been stuck there for several days. We probably would have had to boil the horse’s oats for it all over.”

“Why didn’t you say something when they said it reflected on the mother?” Dad asked Mom.

“Oh, it makes me so mad when they always have to blame the mother for everything,” Mom said. “But I didn’t have anything to say that I wouldn’t have regretted having said it.”

The 1955 Thanksgiving flood in southwestern Oregon was a major storm. The flooding had been the worst in most of the memories at the time. Uncle Duke lost his barn in the storm. We made it home, just in time to be flooded in with no electricity for nearly a week. 

The good thing was we got out of school for an extended Thanksgiving break.

***

I always assumed that the baby was born fine. I don’t know because, true to her words, it was never spoken of again in our house.

I learned Mom’s lessons well and seldom say anything unfavorable in public. I try hard at times to follow her example, at least.

I would find it took nearly another thirty years before I reached the adult’s table at the family dinners. People pass away, and families scatter across this great state and country.

Today, the neighbor kids came home from school and were playing outside. One boy, who is about ten, is obnoxiously loud. When we are inside, we can’t hear him. But he consistently drives me inside when I am sitting on the deck. 

I can’t imagine how a teacher could control this kid in a classroom. I glanced out the window today when they had an apparent crash on a bicycle in the street. This kid was really acting out, throwing his bike around and making a racket.

“I think it probably reflects on his mother,” I said to Sandy.

She just smiled.

Photo is a family photo from 1949. It illustrates how people made due at family gatherings.