I started school in 1979. Up until that point I’d lived in the sheltering bubble of family and friends that all kids of that era enjoyed. I suppose preschools and such existed. Maybe there were Mother’s Morning Out programs? I have no idea, because I had always had Mamaw, and that was my baseline for any days not spent in my parents’ home.
My mother was what we called back then a “hairdresser.” Nowadays she’d be deemed a “stylist” or a “hair professional.” Mom had quit school in the 10th grade and made her way to Beauty School (I don’t think they are called that anymore, either). When she married my father at 18, she had already built up a loyal clientele at a local salon. She went to part-time work when I was born five years later, but filled that gap by buying a massive antique beauty salon station at an estate sale, installing it in our basement, and offering in-home services. I can offer a hundred commentaries on many of my mom’s mental health issues and relational shortcomings, but know this: the woman was an absolute wizard with hair. She was the one people sought out when someone else had botched the color, gotten the cut all wrong, or “gommed it all up,” as she’d say. The women (and later, men) who came to her became fiercely loyal. If she had a business now, in the age of social media, I have no doubt she’d had a massive following. The woman could do hair. And she enjoyed it.
What she didn’t enjoy quite so much was being a mother. That’s where the sticky mental health and relational issues come into play, and it gets messy. My mother tried mightily. I’ll never say she didn’t. But the 1970s and -80s weren’t the 2020s, and the kind of help she would have been able to receive today was too far out of reach to change the course of her life, or my own. What was close to hand was Mamaw.
Mamaw was Mom’s mother-in-law. They were physical opposites; Mom was 5’2” and petite until her early 30s, when she started struggling with her weight. I didn’t get my body type from my mom. Instead I inherited Mamaw’s. She was 5’9” and thick, arms strong from decades of farm work and middle soft from a continuous supply of biscuits. Mamaw was a Missionary Baptist. Mom had been raised Baptist, but converted to Catholicism before I was born. They’re about tied in my mind as cooks, but Mom would win in the cake department, while Mamaw took the prize for fried chicken. Aside from my father, they had nothing else in common. Except for me.
Mamaw was a young grandmother. She had just turned 41 when I was born. As I shared earlier, she had lived her whole life laboring to fulfill what she saw as her God-ordained priority: to be her husband’s helpmeet, to raise and nurture her children, to keep her home, to serve in her church and community, and to be part of Jesus’ command to preach the Gospel to all nations. She understood her calling to extend generationally and never grumbled about being built-in childcare for her working daughters-in-law. In fact, later she’d raise another granddaughter, a great-grandchild and her foster sister’s son. Mamaw simply accepted that being surrounded by children her whole life was part and parcel of the role she’d been given, and welcomed us in to her world.
I stayed with Mamaw and Papaw for days on end. This wasn’t daycare, unless you had your own bedroom at daycare, with separate clothes and toys. It was shared custody by today’s standards. Before I started school and had to be counted present at the local school, I could stay for weeks on end with my grandparents. My parents didn’t mind. It not only allowed my mom to work, it gave my parents the chance to live a child-free lifestyle and that suited them just fine.
Mamaw was a master at including a child in the work of her days. And that’s the bubble I enjoyed before heading to school— time spent under the wing of a woman whose joy in life was to embrace God’s design for her. It was more than formative. It set me apart. I’d learn soon enough that the background I had been given was unique for a person of my generation; the tides had turned against stay-at-home moms, and most of my peers were daycare babies who became latch key kids. You can see it clearly in the battle women my age had to fight to gain homemaking skills, and the lack of those same skills we were able to pass on to our own daughters.
In my next post, I’ll share the specifics of what a day with Mamaw included, from her intense tutorials on sorting clothes before “worshing,” down to the importance of keeping a little hour back for yourself before heading into the evening. I think we all have a lot to learn from how she ordered her days!
In Christ,
Heather
What a beautiful poignant account of part of your growing up! In what state did you grow up? Somewhere in the south?? Looking forward to Part 2
Thank you for sharing your background in so much detail.
I just read this Amy Carmichael quote this morning and perhaps your Mamaw knew this truth: "Blessed are the single-hearted, for they shall enjoy much peace. If you refuse to be hurried and pressed, if you stay your soul on God, nothing can keep you from that clearness of spirit which is life and peace." I love this. I believe my DH knows this single-heartedness, which causes me a bit of frustration from time to time.