May 10, 2024 • 10 mins
On this episode of Our American Stories, Dennis Peterson of South Carolina shares the story of his crafty mother, and Winter Prosapio of Texas shares a story about motherhood.
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Speaker 1 (00:10):
And we returned to our American Stories Mother's Day special.
Up next two stories. The first one you'll hear is
from Dennis Petersen, an author from South Carolina, and the
second you'll hear is from Texas humor columnist Winter Persepio
on motherhood. Here's Dennis with his story on his crafty mother.
Speaker 2 (00:33):
Growing up in the fifties and sixties in the farmlands
north of Knoxville, Tennessee, I quickly discovered that my parents
were penny pincers. My father's income as a brickmason was
often dependent on the weather, and rearing three children required thrift.
Part of their thrift involved my mother's sowing many of
(00:54):
her own and my sister's clothes, making quilts, and crafting
various items to supplement the family income. Although as a
boy I never got hands on experience with any of
those activities, I witnessed them firsthand. I frequented many cloth
shops with mother, and was familiar with McCall's buttery and
(01:16):
simplicity patterns. Only once do I recall mothers creating something
that did not look good. During the late sixties, when
plaids were the rage, she decided that she would sew
my father a sport coat. She found an appropriate pattern
(01:37):
and selected a nice gray and brown plaid material. Then
she worried with that thing more than with any other
garment she'd ever attempted, trying to get all of the
lines and checks to match at the seams. Several times,
she resorted to a seam ripper and started all over.
Finally satisfied with it, she repeatedly pressed the and the
(02:00):
lapels to give them a sharp crease and make them
lie flat. It didn't work. Although thoroughly dissatisfied with the result,
she showed it to my father. He tried it on,
stood in front of the full length mirror, examining it,
and then declared it a fine looking sport coat. Mother
(02:20):
knew that it wasn't. I could tell that it wasn't,
and deep inside, I think that Daddy, who knew men's
clothing and wore heartshaftener in mark suits, knew that the
plaid sport coat did not meet the standard. But Daddy,
always sensitive to mother's feelings, never said anything but good
things about that hideous sport coat, and he wore it often.
(02:45):
Mother never attempted another one. Mother also enjoyed quilting, Whenever
I saw Daddy collapsing the dining room table and pushing
it into the living room, I knew that he was
about to set up the quilting frame and Mother was
going to have a quilting bee. She invited her mother
(03:06):
and sisters and some of her old high school girlfriends
to our home to help her. They sat around the
frame and quilted and talked and sipped tea or coffee
all day long. After everyone left and our family finished supper,
Mother gave my father a guided tour around the frame,
pointing out what each person had done. She could tell
(03:29):
who had done each section by the size, shape, and
tightness of the stitching. Almost a perfectionist, she sometimes sat
late into the evening redoing some of the work that
didn't meet her standard. Later in life, Mother became quite
skilled at making many different Macroma items, from coin purses
and wreath shaped blouse pins to Christmas tree ornaments and
(03:52):
plant hangers, which she sold at craft shows. The empty
bedrooms in the old home place became warehouse space for ours,
all different shapes, sizes, and colors of Macroma cordage. My
wife and I still have some of the red and
white macrom candy canes that she made and gave us
to hang on our Christmas tree. Sometimes Mother's fingers hurt
(04:15):
from hours spent on her handiwork, but her labors gave
her the personal satisfaction of having made something of beauty
and utility for someone else. Her efforts helped clothe her
and my sister and even my father, and saved money.
If she made a little money from some of her efforts,
that was good too.
Speaker 1 (04:39):
And a special thanks to Dennis Peterson for that story.
And now we turned to Winter Persapio's story. Winter is
an author from Texas, and today she brings us a
motherhood moment. Here's her story, entitled Curls.
Speaker 3 (04:57):
It takes a full twenty minutes to call through her
cur I sedate the riot of hair with handfuls of
slick conditioner and sit just outside the tub on her
yellow footstool, comb me through the long black strands that
spring back into ringlets after every pole. I never imagined
I'd have patience for this before I had children. When
(05:19):
I think back to my life before my daughters arrived,
I can't remember doing anything quite so methodical as smothering.
Nothing has ever been as demanding of skills I didn't possess.
I've never faced so many moments when I was at
the end of my rope where I was driven to
shouting at another human being at my own child, only
to apologize later, much too late, much too little. The
(05:44):
comb catches in the thick ness of twists and turns,
and I pull her hair slightly. She rarely protests when
this happens. Genetics must tie the curly hair gene with
the tough scalp one. This genetic combination did not include
the gene that extends graciousness with curious strangers. However, her
naturally curly hair draws compliments. Everywhere she goes. Strangers come
(06:07):
up to her with hands extended, trying to touch the
spirals framing her tiny face and black eyes. Only a
few get away with it. Most times she warns them
off with a staunch no touch, her arms criss crossing
her head in a protective shield. Still strangers reach for
the curls in restaurants, on sidewalks, in doctor's offices. I'm
(06:29):
lucky I can touch them. Every day we sit in
the quiet bathroom. She's focused on her floating toys. I
on untangling, smoothing, I've become such a different person since
I had children. I've become quieter, more careful, more aware
of small moments. I'm acutely aware of the chasm between
(06:52):
my friends who don't have children and my friends who do.
I've leaved the canyon, never sinsing the moment my feet
were in the air, only a few closest friends jumping
with us as honorary aunts and uncles. Now I understand
why I never saw people once they had their children,
why they stopped calling, how they disappeared into thin air.
(07:15):
I recognized the way the strange wild space grew between
us with every step their children took toward solids, toward school,
toward adolescence, toward leaving, toward never really being gone. Across
the vast chasm, I see my childless friends moving on
quickly as I sit here, Still sit here, time turning
(07:37):
in on itself so I can see both ends of it,
beginnings and endings, all wrapping around my fingers. I risk
a higher starting point on her head, thinking I've worked
out most of the knots, but it's no good. I'm
back to the thick tangle, prying the teeth of the
comb with it. She turns looking for something. The cloth
(07:59):
has slipped back in the tub. I hand it to
her wordlessly. She takes it without a glance and returns
to her cups that need filling. My father, a veteran
of many wives, always said he would never marry a
woman who hadn't had children. They are too selfish, she said.
And I wondered, as a single woman in those days,
(08:20):
how selfish I was. When he married a woman with
three young daughters, my stepsisters, I wondered if he would
be able to share her with them. I leaned back
for a moment, feeling the dull burn in my back
and cleaning the calm out. The fine black hair, slick
with the conditioner, but still twisting coats my fingers as
(08:43):
I brush them off onto a paper towel stretched out,
A single curl is long enough to reach her waist,
yet it will bounce back to her shoulder when it's dry.
I've never had her hair cut, nervous that the metal
will somehow break the bonds of this miracle flowing from
her crown. Before they were born, I never really noticed
(09:09):
children before now, when I meet them as I'm out
on my own in an office, when someone brings her
son in a store. When four year olds bounds into
my path, I stop purposely. I kneel before them, look
into their eyes and say hello. They smile, usually recognizing
(09:29):
some universal quality I've gained, or maybe I just look silly,
crouching like a frog. All the tangles are out, and
I take great pleasure in running the comb through her
hair again and again, separating strands into perfect spirals. She
looks up at me, Ah done, no, never, yes, baby, all.
Speaker 4 (09:58):
Done, And what a beautiful piece of writing. She didn't
know or see children before she had her own. She
talked about that chasm between well, people who have kids
and people who don't, and what a chasm it is.
(10:18):
Went to Persapio's story about herself, her motherhood moments, the
most precious moments, and.
Speaker 1 (10:26):
Her own in the end growth in patience and love.
Another motherhood story, Another mother's story. Here on our American
Stories
And we returned to our American Stories Mother's Day special.
Up next two stories. The first one you'll hear is
from Dennis Petersen, an author from South Carolina, and the
second you'll hear is from Texas humor columnist Winter Persepio
on motherhood. Here's Dennis with his story on his crafty mother.
Speaker 2 (00:33):
Growing up in the fifties and sixties in the farmlands
north of Knoxville, Tennessee, I quickly discovered that my parents
were penny pincers. My father's income as a brickmason was
often dependent on the weather, and rearing three children required thrift.
Part of their thrift involved my mother's sowing many of
(00:54):
her own and my sister's clothes, making quilts, and crafting
various items to supplement the family income. Although as a
boy I never got hands on experience with any of
those activities, I witnessed them firsthand. I frequented many cloth
shops with mother, and was familiar with McCall's buttery and
(01:16):
simplicity patterns. Only once do I recall mothers creating something
that did not look good. During the late sixties, when
plaids were the rage, she decided that she would sew
my father a sport coat. She found an appropriate pattern
(01:37):
and selected a nice gray and brown plaid material. Then
she worried with that thing more than with any other
garment she'd ever attempted, trying to get all of the
lines and checks to match at the seams. Several times,
she resorted to a seam ripper and started all over.
Finally satisfied with it, she repeatedly pressed the and the
(02:00):
lapels to give them a sharp crease and make them
lie flat. It didn't work. Although thoroughly dissatisfied with the result,
she showed it to my father. He tried it on,
stood in front of the full length mirror, examining it,
and then declared it a fine looking sport coat. Mother
(02:20):
knew that it wasn't. I could tell that it wasn't,
and deep inside, I think that Daddy, who knew men's
clothing and wore heartshaftener in mark suits, knew that the
plaid sport coat did not meet the standard. But Daddy,
always sensitive to mother's feelings, never said anything but good
things about that hideous sport coat, and he wore it often.
(02:45):
Mother never attempted another one. Mother also enjoyed quilting, Whenever
I saw Daddy collapsing the dining room table and pushing
it into the living room, I knew that he was
about to set up the quilting frame and Mother was
going to have a quilting bee. She invited her mother
(03:06):
and sisters and some of her old high school girlfriends
to our home to help her. They sat around the
frame and quilted and talked and sipped tea or coffee
all day long. After everyone left and our family finished supper,
Mother gave my father a guided tour around the frame,
pointing out what each person had done. She could tell
(03:29):
who had done each section by the size, shape, and
tightness of the stitching. Almost a perfectionist, she sometimes sat
late into the evening redoing some of the work that
didn't meet her standard. Later in life, Mother became quite
skilled at making many different Macroma items, from coin purses
and wreath shaped blouse pins to Christmas tree ornaments and
(03:52):
plant hangers, which she sold at craft shows. The empty
bedrooms in the old home place became warehouse space for ours,
all different shapes, sizes, and colors of Macroma cordage. My
wife and I still have some of the red and
white macrom candy canes that she made and gave us
to hang on our Christmas tree. Sometimes Mother's fingers hurt
(04:15):
from hours spent on her handiwork, but her labors gave
her the personal satisfaction of having made something of beauty
and utility for someone else. Her efforts helped clothe her
and my sister and even my father, and saved money.
If she made a little money from some of her efforts,
that was good too.
Speaker 1 (04:39):
And a special thanks to Dennis Peterson for that story.
And now we turned to Winter Persapio's story. Winter is
an author from Texas, and today she brings us a
motherhood moment. Here's her story, entitled Curls.
Speaker 3 (04:57):
It takes a full twenty minutes to call through her
cur I sedate the riot of hair with handfuls of
slick conditioner and sit just outside the tub on her
yellow footstool, comb me through the long black strands that
spring back into ringlets after every pole. I never imagined
I'd have patience for this before I had children. When
(05:19):
I think back to my life before my daughters arrived,
I can't remember doing anything quite so methodical as smothering.
Nothing has ever been as demanding of skills I didn't possess.
I've never faced so many moments when I was at
the end of my rope where I was driven to
shouting at another human being at my own child, only
to apologize later, much too late, much too little. The
(05:44):
comb catches in the thick ness of twists and turns,
and I pull her hair slightly. She rarely protests when
this happens. Genetics must tie the curly hair gene with
the tough scalp one. This genetic combination did not include
the gene that extends graciousness with curious strangers. However, her
naturally curly hair draws compliments. Everywhere she goes. Strangers come
(06:07):
up to her with hands extended, trying to touch the
spirals framing her tiny face and black eyes. Only a
few get away with it. Most times she warns them
off with a staunch no touch, her arms criss crossing
her head in a protective shield. Still strangers reach for
the curls in restaurants, on sidewalks, in doctor's offices. I'm
(06:29):
lucky I can touch them. Every day we sit in
the quiet bathroom. She's focused on her floating toys. I
on untangling, smoothing, I've become such a different person since
I had children. I've become quieter, more careful, more aware
of small moments. I'm acutely aware of the chasm between
(06:52):
my friends who don't have children and my friends who do.
I've leaved the canyon, never sinsing the moment my feet
were in the air, only a few closest friends jumping
with us as honorary aunts and uncles. Now I understand
why I never saw people once they had their children,
why they stopped calling, how they disappeared into thin air.
(07:15):
I recognized the way the strange wild space grew between
us with every step their children took toward solids, toward school,
toward adolescence, toward leaving, toward never really being gone. Across
the vast chasm, I see my childless friends moving on
quickly as I sit here, Still sit here, time turning
(07:37):
in on itself so I can see both ends of it,
beginnings and endings, all wrapping around my fingers. I risk
a higher starting point on her head, thinking I've worked
out most of the knots, but it's no good. I'm
back to the thick tangle, prying the teeth of the
comb with it. She turns looking for something. The cloth
(07:59):
has slipped back in the tub. I hand it to
her wordlessly. She takes it without a glance and returns
to her cups that need filling. My father, a veteran
of many wives, always said he would never marry a
woman who hadn't had children. They are too selfish, she said.
And I wondered, as a single woman in those days,
(08:20):
how selfish I was. When he married a woman with
three young daughters, my stepsisters, I wondered if he would
be able to share her with them. I leaned back
for a moment, feeling the dull burn in my back
and cleaning the calm out. The fine black hair, slick
with the conditioner, but still twisting coats my fingers as
(08:43):
I brush them off onto a paper towel stretched out,
A single curl is long enough to reach her waist,
yet it will bounce back to her shoulder when it's dry.
I've never had her hair cut, nervous that the metal
will somehow break the bonds of this miracle flowing from
her crown. Before they were born, I never really noticed
(09:09):
children before now, when I meet them as I'm out
on my own in an office, when someone brings her
son in a store. When four year olds bounds into
my path, I stop purposely. I kneel before them, look
into their eyes and say hello. They smile, usually recognizing
(09:29):
some universal quality I've gained, or maybe I just look silly,
crouching like a frog. All the tangles are out, and
I take great pleasure in running the comb through her
hair again and again, separating strands into perfect spirals. She
looks up at me, Ah done, no, never, yes, baby, all.
Speaker 4 (09:58):
Done, And what a beautiful piece of writing. She didn't
know or see children before she had her own. She
talked about that chasm between well, people who have kids
and people who don't, and what a chasm it is.
(10:18):
Went to Persapio's story about herself, her motherhood moments, the
most precious moments, and.
Speaker 1 (10:26):
Her own in the end growth in patience and love.
Another motherhood story, Another mother's story. Here on our American
Stories
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