Read Online Plain Wisdom by Cindy Woodsmall - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Cindy Woodsmall
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that we butchered to sell.
But what stands out most in my mind is her love for her work. Whether baking, sewing, quilting, gardening, or “playing” in her flower beds, she truly enjoyed working and still does. At seventy years old, she has raised seven children and had double knee replacements yet still runs the bake shop by herself.
As a young girl, I lacked the ambition my mother has. I’d avoid work wherever and whenever possible. But somewhere along the line, my mother managed to instill a work ethic in me—one I hope to pass on to the next generation.
I see my mother in myself when I feel a sense of satisfaction in a jobaccomplished. I also see a younger version of myself in my children when their motivation doesn’t match mine.
I’m sure it took discipline for my mother to become such a hard worker, and I have to admit that challenge continues for me as well as for my younger children. But it encourages me to see that my adult children have become quite industrious, and they are now teaching their own families to love work and to value accomplishing a goal.
From Cindy
I remember my mom dripping with perspiration as she picked blackberries and canned them in summer. I can still smell the rich soil as she planted her large vegetable garden in spring. And I remember how tan her hands were from hanging laundry on the line all year round. Whether we lived on a small farm in the Northeast or in rural Alabama or a few miles outside of Washington DC, Mom worked diligently and had specific goals for every season.
My dad left for work before daylight and often arrived home after dark, even in the summer months. He had projects mapped out for every weekend—painting a clapboard house; wallpapering a kitchen; building a barn, shed, or garage; or using the rototiller on a piece of ground that had never been tilled before.
Because he and Mom bought houses cheap, fixed them up, and sold them for a profit, their idea of home didn’t fit the image I longed for—the one I saw on television or read about in books.
Neither Mom nor Dad graduated from high school, and both had grown up very poor.
Every year when school began, my mom took me shopping and bought me two or three outfits to go with my mostly homemade clothes. By the time I was in middle school, I hated the clothes she’d sewn for me on her machine and often tried to talk her into buying me more clothes.
One afternoon she was at her sewing machine, which fit into a cornernext to her bed. I heard the familiar whirring sound, and then I heard her gasp, “Oh no!”
I went to see what was up. She was sitting at her machine with a pair of my dad’s pants.
“Mom?”
Her eyes were filled with tears. “I can’t patch them again. They’re too threadbare.” She wiggled a finger through the gaping hole.
“Buy him another pair.”
She shook her head. “I can’t, but he has to have at least two pairs of pants—one to wash, one to wear.”
Two pairs?
Why would my dad have only two pairs of pants? I went to their closet and opened it. There were four shirts and a jacket but no pants. Realization trickled in as I studied the room. A freshly mended sheet lay neatly folded in the stack of items she’d been repairing. I’d teased her and Dad the night before about the ridiculousness of repairing sheets time and again. They’d laughed with me.
Suddenly I saw their life differently. She didn’t sew clothes, pick blackberries, tend gardens, and can foods because it brought her pleasure—although doing those things always seemed to fill her with joy. She and Dad didn’t buy old homes and work every weekend fixing them up because it was fun.
I didn’t know what to say to her or what to do. I’d not been happy a few nights earlier when I’d been allowed only two pairs of shoes for school—everyday ones and sneakers for gym class.
At that moment I began to see into the secret things they hadn’t told me, and I saw the value of their sacrifice in order to
But what stands out most in my mind is her love for her work. Whether baking, sewing, quilting, gardening, or “playing” in her flower beds, she truly enjoyed working and still does. At seventy years old, she has raised seven children and had double knee replacements yet still runs the bake shop by herself.
As a young girl, I lacked the ambition my mother has. I’d avoid work wherever and whenever possible. But somewhere along the line, my mother managed to instill a work ethic in me—one I hope to pass on to the next generation.
I see my mother in myself when I feel a sense of satisfaction in a jobaccomplished. I also see a younger version of myself in my children when their motivation doesn’t match mine.
I’m sure it took discipline for my mother to become such a hard worker, and I have to admit that challenge continues for me as well as for my younger children. But it encourages me to see that my adult children have become quite industrious, and they are now teaching their own families to love work and to value accomplishing a goal.
From Cindy
I remember my mom dripping with perspiration as she picked blackberries and canned them in summer. I can still smell the rich soil as she planted her large vegetable garden in spring. And I remember how tan her hands were from hanging laundry on the line all year round. Whether we lived on a small farm in the Northeast or in rural Alabama or a few miles outside of Washington DC, Mom worked diligently and had specific goals for every season.
My dad left for work before daylight and often arrived home after dark, even in the summer months. He had projects mapped out for every weekend—painting a clapboard house; wallpapering a kitchen; building a barn, shed, or garage; or using the rototiller on a piece of ground that had never been tilled before.
Because he and Mom bought houses cheap, fixed them up, and sold them for a profit, their idea of home didn’t fit the image I longed for—the one I saw on television or read about in books.
Neither Mom nor Dad graduated from high school, and both had grown up very poor.
Every year when school began, my mom took me shopping and bought me two or three outfits to go with my mostly homemade clothes. By the time I was in middle school, I hated the clothes she’d sewn for me on her machine and often tried to talk her into buying me more clothes.
One afternoon she was at her sewing machine, which fit into a cornernext to her bed. I heard the familiar whirring sound, and then I heard her gasp, “Oh no!”
I went to see what was up. She was sitting at her machine with a pair of my dad’s pants.
“Mom?”
Her eyes were filled with tears. “I can’t patch them again. They’re too threadbare.” She wiggled a finger through the gaping hole.
“Buy him another pair.”
She shook her head. “I can’t, but he has to have at least two pairs of pants—one to wash, one to wear.”
Two pairs?
Why would my dad have only two pairs of pants? I went to their closet and opened it. There were four shirts and a jacket but no pants. Realization trickled in as I studied the room. A freshly mended sheet lay neatly folded in the stack of items she’d been repairing. I’d teased her and Dad the night before about the ridiculousness of repairing sheets time and again. They’d laughed with me.
Suddenly I saw their life differently. She didn’t sew clothes, pick blackberries, tend gardens, and can foods because it brought her pleasure—although doing those things always seemed to fill her with joy. She and Dad didn’t buy old homes and work every weekend fixing them up because it was fun.
I didn’t know what to say to her or what to do. I’d not been happy a few nights earlier when I’d been allowed only two pairs of shoes for school—everyday ones and sneakers for gym class.
At that moment I began to see into the secret things they hadn’t told me, and I saw the value of their sacrifice in order to
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