The Mother's Day Gift
By Joan Sutula

     It was a beautiful spring day in early May when I picked up my two little daughters from my mother's house.  I was a single working mother and Mom was kind enough to baby-sit for me.  Putting a roof over my children's heads and food on the table were major expenses and ones I worked very hard to cover.  The bare essentials were the focus of my paycheck.
     Clothes, gas money, and an occasional repair of our car left little for discretionary spending.  Thankfully, I had a wonderful mother who was always there for us.
     As we were driving home Debbie, my six-year-old kindergartner, asked if we could go shopping for a Mother's Day present for Grandma.  I was tired and had many things to do at home, so I told her I'd think about it, and maybe in the morning we would.  Both Debbie and her four-year-old sister Cindy decided that was a definite plan and they were very excited about it.
     After putting the girls to bed that night, I sat down and went over my budget.  Putting money aside for the rent, gas for the car, and new shoes Cindy needed, I had fifteen dollars for food till the next payday in two weeks.  Grandma's present would have to come out of the food money.
     The girls were up bright and early the next morning and willingly helped me clean and dust - the usual Saturday chores.  The talk centered on what gift we should get for Gram.  I tried to explain that we didn't have much money to spend so we would have to shop carefully, but Cindy was so excited she had a list a mile long.
     After lunch we drove to town.  I had decided that the only place we might find something I could afford was at the "Five and Dime."  Of course, this being Debbie and Cindy's favorite store, I immediately made a hit with them.  We walked through the store, carefully going up each aisle looking at anything that might be appropriate.  Cindy thought Grandma might like a pair of shoes too, (we'd found her a pair of blue tennies for $1.99) but Debbie saw a white straw handbag she said would be, "Just perfect for Grandma to take to church!"  Again I explained that we only had a few dollars to spend so we would have to look further.
     After going past most of the counters, we came to the back of the store and were ready to turn down the last aisle when Debbie stopped and pulled me over to a display of small potted plants.  "Mom," she said, tugging on my arm.  "Look, we could get Grandma a plant!" Cindy started to jump up and down with excitement.  "Can we?" she asked.  "Grandma loves flowers!"  They were right.  Mom had a beautiful flower garden and had vases of cut flowers in the house all summer.  There was a large selection of plants in 2" pots for 50¢.  We could even pick out a pretty, little pot and some potting soil and plant it for her.  That decision made, we now had to select just the right one.  They finally settled on one with shiny green leaves with white variegations - a philodendron.
     That was a special Mother's Day.  Both the girls helped re-pot the little plant and eagerly told their grandmother all about it.  Grandma was pleased and placed it on her kitchen windowsill over her sink, "Where I can watch it grow while I do the dishes!" she told them.
     The little plant thrived under Mom's caring hands and my sister and I got many a cutting from it over the years.  Time sped by and the girls grew up to be lovely young women, married, and had babies of their own.
     One day when Debbie and Cindy stopped by to visit, Deb spotted my philodendron that was hanging and twining all around my kitchen window.  "Mom, is that plant new?" she asked.  Both girls wanted to know what kind of plant it was and where I bought it.  I explained that you just had to break off a short stem from one and place it in a glass of water and let it root.  Grandma always had several glasses with philodendron rooting in them, sitting on her kitchen windowsill.  Didn't they remember that they had given Grandma that philodendron for Mother's Day all those years ago?
     "You're kidding," they both said in wide-eyed wonder.  "You mean this is all from that same little plant?"  I assured them it was and suggested they go ask Grandma for some cuttings and start their own plants.
     Later that day, Cindy called to let me know she and Debbie had gone to visit Grandma and both of them now had several pots with philodendron planted in them.  "Grandma had loads of them, most of them with real long roots," she said.  "And Mom, did you know that she still has the original plant Debbie and I gave her for that Mother's Day when we were little?"
     It was just a little Mother's Day gift - very inexpensive gift at that, but now forty years later, we see the beauty of it.  A philodendron is like a human family.  You break off a little stem from the mother plant and re-root it somewhere else.  And it grows and spreads in its own unique pattern which still somehow resembles the plant from which it came.  As our family goes its different ways, the philodendron we all have has become a symbol for us of how connected we all are.  Through its silent daily reminders, the philodendron has brought us closer together as a family.
     Mom is now living here in my home and yes, she still possesses a descendent of that one little plant bought from the "Five and Dime" by two children for a long ago Mother's Day gift.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Reluctant Den Leader
By Francoise Inman

     Running late again, I rushed into the Cub Scouts parents' meeting.  With windblown hair, as a result of my brief dash from the car to the church basement, I hurriedly took a seat, noting the surplus of empty chairs.  At least, I wasn't the only one running behind, I told myself with ample relief.
     The Cubmaster checked his watch, and with a barely audible sigh, started the meeting.  I continued to look around, stunned to count only five or six other parents present, despite the fact that our pack had at least fifty boys.  As the Cubmaster explained the challenges that the group faced in the coming year, he pointed out that the empty chairs, which should have been filled with parent volunteers, were our biggest obstacles.
     Several of the dens were lacking parent leaders and with the summer coming to a close, it became unlikely that someone would step in and commit an entire year of Tuesday nights to help guide a group of young boys through the requirements needed to earn their badges.
     As he spoke, I felt a rising sense of guilt mounting within me.  After all, even I had tried to evade helping out with the Tiger Cubs the previous year.  Wasn't I looking forward to leaving my seven-year-old in the care of a competent adult while I ran errands?  Wasn't I the one who conveniently "forgot" to bake a couple of cakes for the annual fund-raiser and found excuses not to man the yard sale table?  I quickly came to realize that the problem wasn't just about empty chairs; it was also about people like me who were unwilling to sacrifice some of their time to a worthy cause.
     Before I could change my mind, I raised my hand to volunteer as den leader to guide the Wolf den through its first formal year of scouting.  Although I knew next to nothing about teaching a group of noisy, exuberant and restless second-graders, I was determined to make it work.
     My first den meeting was as chaotic and noisy as the first day of a county fair.  The boys were too excited to sit still.  The craft I had chosen was too complicated and ran over the allotted time.  I spent a great deal of my time apologizing to the parents for my ineptitude as a den leader.  What have I gotten myself into? I wondered, composing a letter of resignation in my head.
     Much to my surprise, the boys actually enjoyed themselves.  They even invited their friends to join our den, and before long, our ranks swelled from four boys to ten.  My son was thrilled to have his mom as den leader; it gave him bragging rights on the playground.  I was having as much fun as the boys and had no idea that I'd be so popular.
     As I walked through the school's parking lot, it was rare when one of "my" boys didn't call out a greeting or stop me for a quick hug and a story to share.  It almost became a contest among them to see who would spot me first.  They would talk with me about the little things going on in their lives - whether it was a loose tooth ready to wiggle its way out or a special event coming up.  They'd tell me about their homework and their latest Playstation victories.  They'd complain about little brothers, sisters and neighborhood bullies.  I'd ruffle their hair, ask questions and listen to their answers before hugging them as they scampered back to their teachers or parents.
     As I watched them dash away with that curious half-run, half-skip gait that little boys are notorious for, I thought of the empty chairs at that meeting and those who would never know this joy.  I thought of those who wouldn't receive quick, warm hugs from little boys with peanut-butter breath, and those who would miss out on gap-toothed smiles and long-winded stories full of little joys and mini-tragedies.  After all, I gave those boys only one hour of my time every week, but they rewarded me with their hearts.