'We can never out-give our mother.' Columnist Kirk Neely shares poetry for Mother’s Day

My mother loved to read, and she enjoyed stories and poetry. Four years after Mama died in 2001, I heard, for the first time, a poem by Billy Collins.

Billy Collins was born in New York City on March 22, 1941. He served as the United States Poet Laureate from 2001 to 2003 and the New York State Poet Laureate from 2004 to 2006. His other honors and awards include the Mark Twain Prize for Humor in Poetry and fellowships from the New York Foundation for the Arts, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the Guggenheim Foundation.

The poem reminded me of my mother. At the time, I wished I had been able to share it with her before her death. These lines brought to mind the Mother’s Day I literally spent my last dime to give Mama a 10-cent packet of sewing needles. And I recalled the Mother’s Day she received a pair of baseball shoes exactly my size.

The truth is we can never out-give our mother.

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Here is the poem.

• • •

"The Lanyard"

By Billy Collins

The other day I was ricocheting slowly

off the blue walls of this room,

moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,

from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,

when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary

where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist

could send one into the past more suddenly—

a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp

by a deep Adirondack lake

learning how to braid long thin plastic strips

into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard

or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,

but that did not keep me from crossing

strand over strand again and again

until I had made a boxy

red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,

and I gave her a lanyard.

She nursed me in many a sick room,

lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,

laid cold face cloths on my forehead,

and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,

and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.

Here are thousands of meals, she said,

and here is clothing and a good education.

And here is your lanyard, I replied,

which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,

strong legs, bones and teeth,

and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,

and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.

And here, I wish to say to her now,

is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,

but the rueful admission that when she took

the two-tone lanyard from my hand,

I was as sure as a boy could be

that this useless, worthless thing I wove

out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

“The Lanyard” from The Trouble With Poetry: and Other Poems by Billy Collins, copyright © 2005 by Billy Collins.

• • •

On this Mother’s Day, I share a story about my mother.

Zachary Taylor Hutson fought in the Wilderness Campaign with Robert E. Lee during the Civil War. When the War ended, Z.T. Hutson was mustered out of the Confederate Army. He took a train south to Spartanburg. From there, he walked all the way to his family farm in Barnwell County. He made the 130-mile journey, hobbling on a wounded leg and suffering from tuberculosis. The trek took a whole week.

In time, Z.T. and his wife, Simpie, had two sons, Willie and Joe. Willie eventually took responsibility for the farm. He served as a representative from Barnwell County to the State Legislature. Joe, the younger son, left Barnwell County and moved to the Upstate, where he attended Getsinger Business School. There he met Belle Haynsworth from Darlington.

After their marriage, Joe and Belle lived in Spartanburg. They were the parents of five sons and one daughter. Joe changed the spelling of his name from Hutson to Hudson.

After his first wife died, Willie married Mollie Woodward. Her father was Robert E. Lee Woodward. Willie gained a stepdaughter from Mollie’s first marriage. Willie and Mollie had four sons and then a daughter, Louise.

When little Louise was only six weeks old, her mother, Mollie, died.

Joe and Belle traveled from Spartanburg to Barnwell County for the funeral. Following the burial in the Mt. Calvary Baptist Church cemetery, Willie handed his infant daughter across Mollie’s grave to his sister-in-law, Belle.

Willie told Joe and Belle, “I don’t b’lieve I can raise this little girl on a farm with these four boys. I’d like for you to take her with you to Spartanburg. I’d ‘preciate it if you’d rear her as your own.”

That baby girl was my mother. Her aunt and uncle adopted her. Because her adoptive parents and birth father were closely related, she always regarded both families as hers. She was the youngest of twelve children in the two families combined. She had a good relationship with all of these older brothers and sisters from both families throughout her life. She thought of both Willie and Joe as her daddies, calling them Little Daddy and Big Daddy.

I knew my grandmother, Belle Hudson, as Granny. In her Last Will and Testament, Granny included these words, “And to my niece Louise, whom I have always regarded as my daughter, my desire is that she share and share alike with my other children.”

My mother wept tears of joy.

Granny’s estate was very modest. Her love for her family was extravagant.

My mother’s inheritance was not wealth. It was acceptance and a sense of belonging.

My mother knew, perhaps better than most, that all children are gifts from God. She knew that every child needs to be accepted and loved unconditionally. As the oldest of her eight children, I will never be able to thank her enough, not with sewing needles, baseball shoes, or even a lanyard.

As a poet, I am certainly no match for Billy Collins. Nevertheless, here is a poem I wrote after my mother’s death.

• • •

"Flowers for My Mother"

Mommy, I brought you flowers

For Mother’s Day today,

Dandelions and violets

from the backyard where I play.

Thank you for your tender care,

warm cookies, and cold juice,

Stories from the Bible

and tales of Mother Goose.

Mama, I brought you flowers.

Happy Mother’s Day to you.

They’re zinnias from the neighbor’s yard.

She never even knew.

Thank you for driving the station wagon

to school, and church, and the mall,

to music lessons, and the dentist,

but especially to baseball.

Mom, I brought you flowers.

I nearly forgot this year,

But Mother’s Day is Sunday.

I guess I won’t be here.

I don’t know what these flowers are.

I bought them in the grocery store.

I love you, Mom. I’ll see you later.

Thanks for letting me use the car.

Hi, Mom. I sent you flowers.

It’s our Mother’s Day gift to you.

Sorry we can’t be with you.

The roses will have to do.

We’ll be at the in-laws’ house this year,

maybe next year at your home.

I miss you, and I love you, Mom.

Sorry it’s been so long.

I brought flowers to my mother,

a pink geranium for her windowsill.

I hope she can enjoy it.

Somehow, I know she will.

She hasn’t been the same sweet mom

since we brought her here last June.

I know you’ll take good care of her.

I’ll be back again real soon.

Mama, I brought you flowers,

I put them in a vase.

They’re here beside your grave,

At your final resting place.

They’re just wildflowers from the roadside

I saw along the way.

I thought of you and picked them.

After all, it’s Mother’s Day.

Mama, I brought you flowers

for Mother’s Day today.

Somehow, I know they’re not enough

to say what I want to say.

Thank you for all you were and are -

so loving and so giving.

I love you, and I miss you, Mom.

Enjoy the flowers of heaven.

Kirk H. Neely

Mother’s Day 2001

• • •

The wisdom of Hebrew literature says of the virtuous woman, “Her children rise up and call her blessed.” (Proverbs 31:28)

On this Mother’s Day, I am grateful for my mother, for her faithfulness to God, and for her unfailing love.

What a blessing!

Thanks, Mama! Happy Mother’s Day. I love you.

Kirk H. Neely is a freelance writer, storyteller, teacher, pastoral counselor, and retired pastor. He can be reached at kirkhneely44@gmail.com. Over these past months, I have asked that we contribute to our local charitable agencies. Thank you for all you have done. Please continue with your kindness and generosity. This week, please volunteer or donate, as you are able, to Angels Charge Ministry, which helps mothers transition from incarceration to a new way of life. Angels Charge Ministry, 95 Ashley Street, Spartanburg, South Carolina 29307, (864) 529-5472. Thank you.

This article originally appeared on Herald-Journal: Columnist Kirk Neely shares poetry for Mother’s Day