By Lorry Myers
We were on official business that early spring night, when my mother was asked to go door to door and solicit donations for the March of Dimes. She didn’t let the supper dishes or loads of laundry get in the way. She didn’t say she was too busy or offer an excuse.
She simply said yes, she could do that.
We left right after dinner and it was just me and her, no one else was invited. Typically, I had to share my mother so being on my own with her was uncommon. It seemed there was always a
crowd…a toddler that needed soothing, a knee that needed kissing, or a question that needed answering. In a family with six children, someone always needed something and my mother was who they needed.
But that night, there was just two of us.
We knocked on doors and our neighbors would fetch their purses or reach for their wallets after Mom explained about the March of Dimes and what the organization did for children who desperately needed doctors and surgery and treatment that they could not obtain on their own. I stared at my mother in wonder when I heard the passion in her voice and the softness in her eyes as she described the babies that we would help with the money we collected.
These were not her children!
When our route was done, when all the doors were answered and the sun began slipping away, we turned toward home, my mother and I. She’d taken the weighted collection envelope from me and steered me to the center of the road where the street lights were slowly starting to bloom. Mom took my hand and we walked that way, swinging our arms between us. I thought we were quite a team because in our march for the March of Dimes we had received quarters and dollars and even written checks…more than mere dimes. We’d had a good night and I didn’t want to go home where five other children waited for my mother’s attention.
Just for a little while, she was all mine.
For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard.