Memories of Mom
Alice Lucas Hutson - April 14, 1928-May 14, 2011
Dear Readers,
Today, Mom would have been 97 years old.
Mom loved life and she loved to laugh. She loved her heritage. Most of all, she loved her family.
Below are few memories that are forever stitched into the fabric of my heart …
It was Friday afternoon when I got the call from my sister, Kit.
“Hey Cork, I think you need to come see Mom.”
“Today, now”?
“Yes”.
Not said, but implied in that one word answer was, “If you don’t it will be too late”.
Charleston was a couple of hours away and I was driving in the opposite direction for my Navy Reserve drill weekend at Ft. Gordon, near Augusta.
After a call to my Reserve Unit Chief to relay the news, I turned around and headed for the coast.
I wondered whether Mom would be conscious or even alive when I got there. Would I get to speak to her, look into her eyes, and maybe even see a smile hinting at her once infectious laugh at least one more time?
Two hours was plenty of time to reflect on her life and the people she impacted.
Growing up in the 50s & 60s, life in the Lowcountry of South Carolina was very Mayberryish.
Our family was typical of that era.
Dad was the power company substation manager for Colleton and surrounding counties. He worked long hours.
I know many today think that women were “oppressed” during that time as they primarily were “homemakers” and never had the “opportunity to work”.
Mom would have fiercely disputed that train of thought.
With five children ranging across a span of 11 years, a household to oversee, and community responsibilities, she was in her element.
Mom was known as a gifted “green thumb”, a talent she developed early on. She could make anything grow.
Later, after we all had flown the coup, she employed this skill in a “real job” at Abide-a-While, a local gardening center, where she was a favorite with the customers.
She never once expressed being unfulfilled because she stayed home while we were at home. In her mind, that was her life’s calling and work.
We lived on Honeysuckle Lane, a one block street in the small town of Walterboro, until I was almost thirteen. On our short street alone, there were nearly 20 kids. Many times, mom would treat scrapes, bruises, and bee stings on any kid that needed it.
Besides High School football, little league baseball was the biggest thing in town. almost all the boys played and the bleachers were always packed with parents and school kids.
Mom was our biggest cheerleader and fan.
Though I’d like to think I was a star athlete, I was mediocre at best. I hit only one home run in the years that I played and even that was a comedy of outfield errors that resulted in an infield home run.
That didn’t stop Mom.
As I was rounding third base on the way to home plate, I heard her yell, “That’s my son, that’s my son”.
I was proud and mortified at the same time.
Anyone close to her knew Mom was a stickler for proper etiquette. How we spoke, what we wore, and the way we treated others were things that were extremely important to her.
Respect authority (anyone older than us).
Always address adults with Mr. or Mrs/Ms. and their last name (not their first name).
Don’t wear a hat in the house and particularly not at the table.
Never end a sentence with a preposition, such as “where is so and so at”. She would always come back with “behind the at”.
Nowadays, we chuckle and joke that “Grandmama” would be rolling over in her grave” at the way things are today.
As kids, Mom would make sure that we were in church every single Sunday as well as for many other activities. Besides being a base for religious instruction, the church was the social hub for much of our town. This played a big part for me later in life.
Mom was always gracious and long-suffering, but she never tolerated disrespect.
We moved to Mt. Pleasant, a little coastal village close to Charleston, when I was a month shy of thirteen.
The middle of the seventh grade is not a really good time for a kid to move from everything familiar. I’m sure my siblings felt the same at their respective ages.
As a teenager, I was caught up in the social and cultural unrest in the late 60s and early 70s. I know that much of my rebellious behavior hurt Mom terribly, but she never let on. She knew I was trying to “find my way”.
That “way” led me to join the Navy. Most of my time was spent overseas.
Mom was faithful to write regularly and once when I was in Germany, she even sent a whole sour cream pound cake (my favorite at the time) in the mail for my birthday. It arrived intact, thankfully.
When it came to girlfriends, Mom was not shy about offering her opinions. So, when I told her the very night I met my wife for the first time that I had found the one I was going to marry, she was not surprised when she saw my seriousness.
Though her face and voice would light up when I would visit or call, the last couple of years before she passed were sort of a slow withdrawal from life. Right to the end, however, she always greeted me with “Hey Dahlin” in her distinct Lowcountry accent.
We would have very simple repetitive conversations. Those became fewer toward the end.
When I arrived later that afternoon, I went straight to their little apartment in the Sandpiper Retirement Community.
Mom was in a Hospice-provided hospital bed with Dad and my sister and brothers by her side. She had her eyes closed. Her breathing was sporadic, but she was still alive.
I leaned over her and quietly said, “Mom, it’s Corky. I’m here.”
I wasn’t sure what to expect, but she opened her eyes and she looked directly at me.
I said, “Mom, I love you.”
The very faintest of a closed-mouth smile appeared on her lips, as if she was waiting on me before passing on into eternity. Then she closed her eyes, as far as I know, for the very last time.
Early the next morning we got the call that she was gone.
I’m not sure exactly how, but somewhere along the line, she acquired the nickname, “Big Al”. For some, it stuck. But for me and my siblings, she was and will always be Mom.
Miss you always, Mom. I loved being your son.
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She sounds like a wonderful lady, Cork. Treasure those memories and pass them on every chance you get. I fear that we are losing too much of that history as families simply don't converse and communicate the way we once did. Our past generations passed on legacies and lessons that simply cannot be found staring at a screen.
I had the great honor, and it was a great honor, of meeting your parents in the way back. A wonderful tribute to your mom on her birthday.