A Son Discovers His Deceased Mother's Hidden Talent—Poetry

On this episode of Our American Stories, Texas boys don’t write poetry, and certainly don’t cry. Roger Latham did, though, after discovering a poem written by his deceased mother. Here's Roger with the story...and the poem. 

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:20):
This is Lee h.

Speaker 2 (00:21):
Habibe, and this is our American stories. And our next
storyteller is from Fort Worth, Texas. He moved us with
his story. The real Santa Roger Latham is back along
with his daughter Candy.

Speaker 1 (00:33):
Let's take a listen.

Speaker 3 (00:35):
A number of years ago, as I sat in my office,
my father entered and handed me six small, notepad sized pages.
Thought you might like to read these, he said. Although
I did not know at the time, it might have
been a good thing. If he had provided a handful
of tissues, I'd need them. The words on the page

(01:00):
written in pencil, I recognized that once my mother's distinctive,
flowing cursive. I knew it well because she had faithfully
written to me for all of my three years defending
America from raging Germans. It was nineteen sixty seven, so
it could easily have been Vietnam. These pages held a

(01:23):
blank verse poem. I began to read. It was easy
to realize it as the musings of a middle aged
woman with a soul deeper than the deepest sea. When
I finished, my cheeks were streaked with saline. I'd never
known my mother to have such depth. Then it hit me,

(01:49):
I too write words in rhyme, retrieved from the deep place,
fathom below the surface of self. I smiled to think
of the unexpected genetic gift my mother had provided. Too
often I'd pushed such thoughts aside. Texas boys don't write poetry,

(02:11):
and certainly don't cry. The piece was never meant to
be published, I imagined my mother wrote it on some
sunny spring day, with the windows allowing sweet smell of
honeysuckle to kiss her soul. It was never presented to

(02:32):
a larger audience until her memorial service in the year
two thousand. I did the eulogy no problem, but if
I attempted to read the poem, it was an indisputable fact.
I'd seem a blubbering fool.

Speaker 1 (02:51):
So my son.

Speaker 3 (02:52):
Stepped in and read hands. As his presentation ended, I
noticed midst the assembled other folks also in tears. Following
you will hear my daughter read hands, her face and
he sauna mimic are grandmother's perfectly.

Speaker 4 (03:13):
Hands by Gladys Latham. I glanced the other day at
my hands. I was ashamed at what I saw. The
nails were worn short and unpolished, the fingertips were rough,
the skin spotted and tanned. Then suddenly they reminded me
of a pair of hands out of my past, and

(03:36):
I smiled. These hands I last remembered as being still
and quiet, folded over a quiet breast, in eternal stillness
and much deserved rest. They had not been the hands
of a great artist or world renowned sculptor, nor had

(03:56):
they set immortal music on paper or penned lovely poetry.
But their work had been as beautiful and as immortal
as if they belonged to such studied and talented mortals.
These hands had had the blessed privilege of cuddling tiny,

(04:17):
downy heads to breast for food, the pleasure of scrubbing
pink ears and hands. They had changed mountains of diapers
and scrubbed tons of little clothes by hand. They had
buttoned thousands of buttons that somehow never seemed to stay
buttoned through long and tedious hours. Tucked plats, gathered ruffles, frills, laces,

(04:45):
and embroidery had been applied to dainty dresses and suits
with infinite love and care. These hands had baked glamorous
birthday cakes, each done with special care and importance, rolls, pies, cakes,
and cookies these hands make were the tastiest masterpieces ever

(05:08):
produced on earth. With unsurpassed devotion and tenderness, these hands
had soothed the brows fevered with measles, whooping cough, mumps,
and flu, and wiped a thousand noses. They had bandaged
hundreds of little toes with professional skill and neatness, and

(05:30):
wiped away the tears of fear and pain. These were
the hands that had plucked the peach tree switch to
administer discipline, never in anger, always in love. Then when
the terrified screams of nightmares of little ones came in
the night, there was always quieting love. These hands had

(05:55):
held the family Bible during family prayer and dressed a
large portion of the Sunday school enrollment on Sunday morning.
They had known the emptiness of burying a tiny first
born son. These the hands of a sculpture. Yes, for

(06:17):
they had taken five small mounds of red God given
clay and molded five lovely, strong bodies. The hands of
an artist. Yes, for with the tenderness of love, sacrifice,
and devotion, they painted the picture of love and kindness

(06:40):
on the hearts and soul. Then the shame of my
work worn hands vanished, for they had reminded me of
the hands of my mother.

Speaker 2 (06:53):
And a special thanks to Roger Latham and his daughter
Candy for sharing that beautiful poem with us.

Speaker 1 (06:59):
My Mother's hands a terrific job.

Speaker 2 (07:01):
Also on the production by Greg Engler on Our American Stories.

Speaker 1 (07:30):
Lee h Habib Here again.

Speaker 2 (07:31):
Our American Stories tries to tell the stories of America's
past and present to Americans, and we want to hear
your stories too.

Speaker 1 (07:39):
There's some of our favorites. Send them to us.

Speaker 2 (07:42):
Go to Ouramerican Stories dot com and click the your
Stories tab. Again, please go to Alamerican Stories dot com
and click

Speaker 1 (07:52):
The your Stories tab.