My Mother Sang to Me

by

Gerry Niskern

Today’s young mothers sing to their baby while it is still in the womb as a way of bonding.  Looking  back, I have a feeling my mother was way ahead of her time. My earliest memories are of her singing to me.   Her voice wasn’t anything special, even a little creaky at times, yet when I heard her warbling I knew that all was well.

Mom sang while she was hoeing in the garden as I trudged behind her down the rows of beanstalks.  The old songs like “Daisy, Daisy, Give Me Your Answer True” and the lyrics that always made me giggle,  “Ka, ka, ka Katie, beautiful Katie, I’ll be waiting at the ka, ka, ka, kitchen door” were in her hit parade of tunes.

She sang while she peddled her treadle sewing machine mending our dresses. She might break out into “When you wore a tulip and I wore a big red rose” when she was churning; patiently letting me take a turn when I was a toddler and could barely reach the plunger.

While making cottage cheese or kneading bread mom gave us her rendition of  “I’m Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage.”  I sensed it had something to do with the fact that she would rather have been outside working.

Sitting and rocking to and fro on the porch swing in the evening after a hard day’s work, my mother turned to hymns. “Come to the church in the Wildwood, come to the church in the vale,” had the right rhythm for the creaking swing. I always thought if I concentrated hard enough I would see that “little brown church in the dale.”

My parents started out across the United States seeking the dry climate of Arizona, in the wartime summer of 1942.  Sometimes on the long August journey before air conditioning was available in cars, tempers flared and a foot fight broke out between us kids in the back seat.   Dad’s hand left the steering wheel and swatted randomly over the backseat, trying to connect with the culprit. That’s when mom would say, “Let’s all sing.”

“No, you sing mom, sing Redwing”…we begged. As the words “There once was an Indian maid, a shy little village maid”…came floating from the front seat, our young girls hearts melted while hearing the love story once more and peace prevailed.

Before long, Dad was picking up soldiers hitching a ride home on leave. Many a songfest was enhanced by a deep male voice joining the girl sopranos from the back seat. The young men provided great “raspberry” sound effects when we belted out “Dur Fuhrer’s Face”

The war dragged on, and later my sister had a sweetheart in the service. Mom joined her in “Always…I’ll be loving you always” or “Till the End of Time” at dishwashing time.

My mother taught me many things about honesty, hard work and putting family first.  But I also grew up with the assurance that you could get through almost anything with a good song.

I’m reminded of an old poem. Its last line goes something like this; perhaps you know it?  “ I’m richer than the child who was left a fortune of silver and gold, because…my mother sang to me!”