Great mothers, up and down the street

As I grow older, I spend more time reveling in childhood memories, and as I do, I can’t help but think of all the great mothers on our street.
My earliest memory is lying on the kitchen counter on a summer morning. I was about two. The warm rays of sun came through the east window. My giant of a mother, Jewell Adams, had just wrapped me in a fresh diaper after rubbing Johnson & Johnson’s Baby Magic on my tush.
I was lying on my back, pondering the day I would be toilet trained with its commensurate freedoms and responsibilities.
It was such a pleasant thought that I kicked both legs and knocked the Baby Magic on the floor, shattering its glass bottle into a thousand pieces.
Mom was thrilled. You all know how she loves a mess. Yes, my own mother taught us all the importance of cleanliness.
As time passed, I collected scores of equally special memories of being a dumb kid on that street surrounded by at least a dozen mothers who all played key roles in not only my upbringing but the upbringing of every other kid on the block.
They were not so strict that we couldn’t get into at least some trouble—the kinds of trouble that won’t land you in reform school but teach you good judgment and common sense.
I know there was no written agreement among them, but somehow, they kept an eye out for us all, not just their own.
When my little sister was between two and three, she toddled out the front door, and 20 minutes later, the phone rang. It was Madge Anderson.
Madge: “Jewell, do you know where your daughter is?”
Mom: “I’m not sure, but she’s around somewhere.”
Madge: “Well, she’s up on my lawn without a stitch of clothing, and all my boys are gawking at her!”
Mom: “I’m sorry, but she was fully clothed when she left the house.”
Since then, my sister has never been seen in public without wearing clothes.
Thanks, Madge, for teaching all of us modesty in dress.
Next door were the Baileys: Jeff, Colleen, Kirk, and Suzanne. Jeff was the oldest and a mastermind at thinking up fun things for a pack of little boys to do.
One of the best things about the Baileys was their mom, Jolene, who understood that little boys needed freedom to grow up.
We spent one summer building an underground fort in their backyard with different rooms connected by tunnels. Jeff led both the design and construction. There was one room off by itself, and when I asked Jeff what it was, he said with a smile and wink, “It’s the lavatory.”
I responded, “Neato Jeff, should I get my chemistry set? What experiments are we going to do?”
Jeff replied, “It’s not a laboratory but a lavatory, two essential rooms, each serving a different purpose.” With a puzzled look, I could only say, “Oh.”
Then, there was the day we learned what a golf ball was made of. We cut through its stubborn white plastic case to reveal a mile or two of fine rubber band beneath it, which we immediately unrolled in a pile.
Jeff said, “Hey, let’s string as many strands as we can across the street and see if it slows cars down when they run into it.”
We strung the entire pile back and forth from the rearview mirror of my dad’s car on one side of the street to the fire hydrant on the other.
Our first victim was Annette Jameson, who became my eighth-grade English teacher a few years later.
The rubber blockade did nothing to slow her car, but when the bands snapped into tiny pieces, they flew inside her open windows, piling up on the seats and floor.
She slammed on her brakes and backed up to deliver a blistering rebuke, screaming that we were all juvenile delinquents on our way to being hardened criminals. Annette wasn’t a mother to any of us, but she taught us to think about the consequences of our actions.
John and Pearl Lewis lived on the other side of our house. Pearl was the neighborhood healer. She could handle anything but stopped short of injuries requiring a trip to the hospital. She knew what to do, from cuts and scrapes to sunburns to embedded ticks.
One of her favorite remedies was the well-known salve made from pinion pine sap. I remember going to her house once while she was making it.
On the stove was a big pot filled with chunks of mutton fat being rendered to make the base for the salve. I left wondering if the pine was only to make it smell good and if the mutton fat was the active ingredient. Among other things, Pearl taught us first aid.
Then there was Cub Scouts. I think every mother on the street took a turn at being a Den mother.
When it was Beth Young’s turn, she taught us to cook our supper in tin foil. Leaving my wrapped meal on the ground was where I learned my lesson; it soon became dinner for Dow’s puppy, and I had to settle for a hot dog. Beth taught us to look after our things.
Clyda Christensen taught us to carry a tune, and Echo Ney helped us advance in scout rank. Many more mothers were nearby who worked together to ensure we got the best start in life.
Today, only one of these women is left — my mom. I am forever grateful to her and all the others. The world is better because of you and those like you everywhere.