Mildred Inez Hall (Cato) 1911-1997

“I remember those happy days, and often wish I could speak into the ears of the dead 

the gratitude which was due them in life, 

and so ill returned.” 

William H. Davies, The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp (1908)

Remembering Ma

When I was born, my father was barely 17 years old. For this and other reasons, I was brought home from the hospital not to the home of my parents, but to the home of my maternal grandparents, who I called, “Ma” and “Pa,” after the tradition of their Arkansas heritage.

I lived on and off with my maternal grandparents, Chap and Inez Cato, from the day I was born until I was in my teens. In future posts, I hope to write memories of each of these ancestors, 
for the benefit of my family.

Today, I am remembering Ma.
I am remembering her, because at 3 a.m. this morning,
I heard her call my name, clear as a bell.
“Deborah!” she called.
And when I answered her, “What?!” 
my own voice awakened me.

It was a sweet reminder 
that she still is watching over me,
and continues to be an influence in my life.

So who was this woman who had such an influence on all our lives?
I think if I could use one phrase to describe Ma, 
it would be
“Unconditional Love.”

For reasons known only to God and perhaps her,
Ma married into and birthed a group of very dysfunctional people. 

I think she came to be our teacher, to help us progress.
She was like a diamond among a bin of coal,
placed there to show us what we could become.

The example of her faith, strength, 

and love was what many of us have clung to,
and she has often been the life preserver 

that has floated us to the safety
 of one shore or another.

Ma never judged anyone… ever.
If someone began to gossip about this person or that person, 
her answer would always be,
“Never judge anyone 
until you’ve walked in their moccasins.”

Among the souls in her immediate family were alcoholics, drug addicts, prostitutes, and thieves.
It makes one wonder where those genes came from!?
Certainly not from her!

But she did not judge.

She merely followed the Galilean’s example 
of providing for their needs first,
and then when they were fed and clothed, 

gently encouraging them back to the fold.

She didn’t try to figure out what went wrong.

She didn’t struggle 
with whether or not they deserved help.

She didn’t even take stock to see 
if she could afford to help them.

She simply extended her hand 
and pulled them into her arms,
showing them how much they meant to her 
and how important they were.

She didn’t preach long sermons or nag.
Her lessons were in her actions.

And though she didn’t often buck 
my grandfather’s wishes 

when it came to their relationship
– he was definitely the head of the marriage! –
when it came to anyone in need,
he knew his best course of action was 
to simply step back 

and let her do her thing.

She helped all of us.
And I mean all of us.

She bought and delivered groceries 

when the cupboards were (literally) bare
because her only son drank away his paycheck,
leaving his young wife home alone with 5 hungry mouths and no food.

She washed baby diapers when this daughter-in-law
 had no laundry detergent

 or washing machine. 

She made sure we all had shoes and treated each child as her favorite. 

Ma’s front door and refrigerator door were always unlocked and open.
When you’d visit, her first words were always, 
“Are you hungry?”
Then she’d get busy making a big pan 
of biscuits and gravy,
or pull a big old chocolate cake out of the fridge.

On Sundays she’d pick us all up and take us to Sunday School at the Armona Methodist Church, where I learned to read and play the piano. 
Every one of the cousins will remember this church. 
It was a big part of our lives and upbringing.

It looks stark now, 
but there used to be a great big maple tree in front,
 where the men gathered after church to smoke, 
and the children played tag. 
We cousins would race up to the bell tower 
to ring the bell for Sunday School, 
laughing and pushing each other out of the way, 
so happy to be there!

We’d go to Sunday School class in the little social hall next door, 

where Annie and Georgina would teach us songs 

like “Be Careful Little Hands What You Do!” 

or "The Wise Man Built His House Upon the Rock."

We’d eat cookies and drink punch, 

then sit beside Ma during the church service, 

amazed at the strength of her voice
 during the hymn singing! 

It was a tiny church, 

white with beautiful stained glass windows, 

and a scent I can still discern when I close my eyes, 

a particular blend of cedar woodwork, 
home-grown altar flowers, 

and wood-smoke from the old stove in the side room 

that heated services in winters past.

Most of us were born, baptized, married,
or memorialized in that little Methodist Church.

I have a photo of one of the earliest congregations 
I can remember.

I'm in the upper right corner. 
Ma and Pa are in the front right row. 

I can see Pearl, Marie Rogers, 
Adam and Loretta, and Georgina. 

Other faces are familiar but I can't recall the names. 

I think that is Denise and Jim, both beloved cousins,

both gone home, on the porch.

The community there was strong. 

The people in the little town of Armona had been friends, relatives, 

or neighbors back in "the old country," 
of Missouri and Arkansas. 

Families were intertwined like ivy on a chimney. 

They traveled to California together, 
had grown up together, 

and many had attended that church from childhood 

through their 80s and 90s. 

Some, like my 95 year old Aunt Vena, 

still attended when she could get a ride,

until she was moved into a nursing facility.

Oh, but the Armona Methodist Church is another story for another time...

Ma and Pa loved their grandchildren, 

and each new grandchild 
was treated as a blessed gift! 

Ma would sew baby layettes 
and throw a baby shower, 

knowing that the parents didn’t have the money to supply what was needed.

As we grew, she would make sure each of us 

had a complete new outfit (clothes and shoes) 
for Easter Sunday. 

If she didn’t have the money to buy the clothes, 

she’d get her sewing machine out 
and make them herself, 

sometimes from her own clothes. 

We'd show up for church clean-faced, 
spit shined and polished, 

our hair combed, our clothes ironed. 

And when school started, 
we were again outfitted with what we needed. 

As children, of course, 
we didn’t realize the sacrifice she was making for us. 

As an adult, I’m humbled 
by her graciousness and love.

For Christmas, 
we'd each get a pair of knitted slippers from Ma!

Christmas and Thanksgiving 
were wonderful family events! 

Everyone would flood to Ma and Pa's house. 

The house would smell so good! 

We'd arrive with a good appetite, 

because there would be a huge turkey in the oven, 

and a dinner with all the fixings. 

The many cousins would run and play, 

stealing olives and pickles from the table, 

while Ma and the other women got the food ready. 

Before we ate a bite, we were told to fold our hands and bow our heads. 

A blessing was said on the food, and thanks given for the bounty. 

It’s taken years for me to appreciate the importance of that consecration.

Ma always was sure to put up a Christmas Tree for the grandchildren. 

For many years it was an aluminum tree with a rotating gel light 

that shone different colors on the branches. 

I remember always having at least one gift under it. 

However, in all those years 

I don’t recall ever putting a gift under the tree for her. 

And that makes me sad…

Ma taught me many life skills that I continue to draw from. 

She taught me to knit, to crochet, to cook and sew, to clean a house, 

to iron a shirt, and to sing. 

She taught me to can peaches and pears, 
and to make jam. 

She taught me how to feed hogs and plant a garden. 

She taught me manners, 
how to write a thank-you note, 

how to say grace, and how to behave in company.

 She taught me how to pray and count my blessings. 

She also taught me about sacrifice, 
and how to love unconditionally, 

which I believe is the greatest lesson of all.

Ma’s kindness didn’t only extend to her family. 

She helped anyone she saw in need. 

We lived for a time near the railroad tracks, 

and often, travelers would knock on the door, hungry. 

She was so respectful of those downtrodden souls, calling each “sir.”

She never took stock to make sure 
there was enough food

 to feed her own family. 

She never worried 
about whether they looked dangerous. 

She never just handed them a bologna sandwich. 

Instead, she’d cook a big plate of bacon and eggs or biscuits and gravy, 

and serve them on a china plate, 

along with a cup of hot coffee and a napkin.

She treated each person
 as if they were the Christ she so loved.

She truly saw the Light in each.

Ma also knew exactly 
what these folks were going through. 

She had experienced rough times herself. 

Times when she had to chop cotton 
or pick fruit in the hot sun. 

Times she had to make-do with what she had and times she did without. 

Times she had to create something 

out of what other people thought was nothing. 

These experiences made her strong and gave her authority. 

Ma remembered a time 
when she and her family were travelers, 

coming to “this country” during the Dust Bowl era. 

They traveled 5 or 6 stuffed into a Model T, 

with all their belongings 
tied to the roof and the bumper. 

She and her parents, and then later, she and Pa, 

made many trips back and forth 

to bring friends and relatives out to safety.

At one point they were robbed of all their cash and most of their food 

except for some flour and sugar. 

She told about how the family survived 

by eating sugar sprinkled on bread. 

At night, they rolled out a big feather bed, 

and slept under the stars, 
in a pile under heavy wool quilts. 

They cooked on a fire and one cast-iron skillet. 

They patched their clothing until there was no cloth left un-patched.

My Aunt Vena told me there was a hole in the floor of the car where she sat. 

She could watch the road under her as they drove. 

When the kids had to use the toilet, 
Grandpa Ben wouldn’t stop… 

the kids would just squat over that hole 
and let it fly! 

She laughed so hard when she told me that story!

The family found themselves living in migrant camps 

or picking/chopping cotton until they could save enough to get a new start. 

So Ma understood hard times, 

and she never judged, not once, 

nor did she question someone's story. 

She simply fed them 
and treated them with respect.

Ma had a habit of picking up hitchhikers, 
especially if they were in uniform. 

This was a habit which caused some alarm. 

We’d say, “Ma! Those guys could be murderers!” 

But she’d just laugh and say, “Now you listen! That could be one of our boys trying to get home. Nothing’s gonna happen to us. 

Chap (my grandfather’s name), now you pull over!”

And Pa would pull over. 

And some rain-soaked soldier or sailor 
would hop in the car, 

unable to believe his good luck, 

often to be fed and given telephone change

 before driving him to his destination.

And she was right, nothing bad ever happened to us.

Ma understood pain and adversity. 

And she had a Will of Iron.

She felt there was nothing a person could not do if they put their mind to it.

Those of you who knew her may remember she walked with a very slight and funny little gait. 
That was from an old and very serious injury. 
When she was a young teen, 
the family had been visiting relatives 
in Arkansas. 
When it came time to head out, Ma was sent outside to round up the younger children, 

and to warm up the family’s Model T.

She got the kids in the car, 
and went to the front to crank it up. 

On those old cars, you stood in front, 

and turned a big crank on the bumper of the car 
to start it. 

One of the siblings hit the emergency brake 
by mistake. 

The car lurched forward and rolled over Ma, 

nearly severing both legs at the knees.

Grandpa Ben carried her into the house. 

The doctor was called, 

and the family was told 
it was likely she’d lose both legs, 

and it was certain she’d never walk again. 

She begged her father not to let them cut off her legs, 

and my grandfather relented, 
against the doctor’s strong encouragement. 

In those days, on a farm, gangrene could easily set in

 and it was very plausible 
she could lose her life to this injury. 

She said she’d rather die than lose her legs, 

and I guess she meant it.

She was left with those relatives for many months. 

The rest of her family returned to California. 

I’m told my Grandpa Ben 
had to replace the floor of that kitchen 

because Ma wore a hole right through the linoleum, 

dragging herself back and forth with a kitchen chair,

 learning to walk again. 

And she DID walk again.

I can remember looking at her knees as a child, thinking,

 “Wow, she sure does have ugly knees!” 

Now I realize those knees 
were a beautiful reminder of her strength 

and determination.

 And I'm sure part of their scars 
came from the many hours she spent kneeling,
praying for her family.

Ma wanted each of us to be 
the best person we could be.

She wanted us each to follow our bliss and be happy.

She used to tell me I was born in the wrong century 

because I loved old-time people, places, and activities.

She would be thrilled to have followed my treks through Spain.

But this is getting long now, 
and I have so many more stories to tell.

So I’ll give you all some rest.

One point I was trying to make here 
more than any other 

was the importance of telling people 
how much we love and appreciate them 
while they’re still alive.

This moment is all we truly have,

 and even though I know Ma is still with me in spirit, 

I wish I had told her how much I loved and appreciated her 

when she was still here in body. 

I wish I could tell her how sorry I am 
for the pain and sorrow I caused her. 

I wish I could crawl up onto her lap 
one more time 

and feel those strong arms around me, 

see her eyes light up, smell her perfume, 

and hear her distinctive laughter.

“Ma? I don’t know what to do…” I’d say to her.

“Love one another,” she’d answer,
 "Just love one another."

That’s the most important lesson my Ma 
tried to teach us all.

Unconditional Love.