I realize that I neglected to write you this letter while you were still alive. Totally my bad. Please accept my apologies for this oversight; there is enough belief in the system to know that somewhere, somehow, someway you are going to read this overdue thank you and not return it unopened.
Your syndicated column appeared in the area newspaper that the Sullivan Family received in its flower bed or wet lawn or rock garden (anywhere but the porch) every morning: The Abilene-Reporter News. The only part of the paper I would read was the sports section because, back then, sports sections covered more local athletic events. I knew who quarterbacked the Cooper Cougars and the Abilene High Eagles as well as the Sweetwater Mustangs and my hometown, the Snyder Tigers. I knew those quarterbacks' parents' names, if they were in the National Honor Society, and how much they weighed. I read line scores for basketball, the box scores for baseball, as well as golf's leaderboards (always skimming for Arnold's finish).
It was somewhere during the junior high years that your writing entered my arena. My mother (my mother of five children aging from 0-12) was often at her wit's end by the end of the day. As it turned out, that was the name of your column. You gave my mother a voice! Now she could laugh at herself instead of losing what was left of her mind when it came to matters of laundry, cooking, child-rearing, and her favorite: housecleaning. When you wrote, "My idea of housework is to sweep the room with a glance," I could just see my mother's shoulders relax and hear a soft sigh. After that, Mother would just stare into the living room piled with kids on the sofa or sprawled on the floor mesmerized by The Three Stooges, Lost in Space, or Mighty Mouse. We got it. Mom was in a zone, surveying her domain, and feeling much better about this new method of tidying up. Overall, we were happy that our mother had found peace, even though her glance became a trance at times, and we would have to get Shane to stand on the bar stool and snap his little fingers at her to bring her back from wherever she had gone. (probably a lawn chair in the garage, with a margarita, crossword puzzle, and five books).
Mom would not be the only one appreciative of your column's sound advice. We voted recently at a mini-family reunion held online and agreed unanimously that "No one has ever died from sleeping in an unmade bed." We used that line......once. Dad just wasn't as amused as Mother.
You were a writer, a mother, a wife and you were funny--but even humor had its balance. It would not be until years later that I understood that "it takes a lot of courage to show your dreams to someone else."
I think I'm writing to tell you thanks now because you made our mother laugh. Even as a child, there was something safe and reassuring about hearing her get tickled--sometimes hysterically and sometimes muffled with a smile, on days she was really tired. She was really tired. A lot.
Mother will celebrate her 85th birthday soon. Her children still usually make their beds. Her grandchildren, who knows? But, their Nana/MaMaw could care less. She knows what matters, and I feel certain she knew in the 1960s and 1970s--she just felt compelled to do what housewives did then often just to keep up appearances. Somehow, a clean home equated to being a good mother. (Not that a clean home means someone is NOT a good mother, and Lillie would be the first to attest).
What you were trying to accomplish all those years ago worked. You reassured mothers that their identities went beyond clean linens and dustless window sills. You granted them clearance to spend more time being the comforter, the mediator, the audience, the healer of hearts, the sounding board, and the believer of dreams. Our mother took you to heart--times five--as she performed those tasks so effortlessly though it took a great deal of strength to be Mother to Scotty, Sue Jane, Sara, Shane, and Sabrina.
Beginning in 1954 until she gave birth for the last time in 1966, Mother (and Dad) wanted to bring five little Sullivans into this world. Each time was different; and, yet each the same. "Giving birth is little more than a set of muscular contractions granting passage of a child. Then the mother is born." You were right about that--our mother was born anew each and every visit to Root Memorial Hospital.
Her children plan to have her around for many more years--as far as we're concerned, she's on a lifetime warranty. We take her in for the occasional tune-ups to get her running smoothly. A few minor repairs here and there, but overall she's wearing the mileage well. The day will come though, and Mother has already given permission for humor to be present when we say good-bye, yet another indicator that you, Mrs. Bombeck, used your talents well.
At that appointed time, it will only be fitting that our mother be honored the way you wanted to be remembered:
"When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left and I could say, I used everything that you gave me."
for Mother and Erma, my maternal heroes
