From the Relief Society Magazine, January 1918 –

Mother Takes Up the New Year’s Burden

By By Diana Parrish

At the last moment mother was prevented from going to the theatre with father.

“Mrs. Wilson has another violent attack and Jessie is down stairs waiting for me to go with her now,” she explained to him.

Mother was out of breath from climbing the stairs and out of patience with people who had relapses on New Year’s Eve.

“But mother, we’ve counted on this for two weeks. It’s one of the best plays of the season and it’s New Year’s eve and everybody’s celebrating. Surely there must be someone with nothing in particular to do who could go to Mrs. Wilson’s instead of you,” protested father, impatiently.

Mother hesitated a moment. Then she said, “I would love to go, of course, but we mustn’t think too much of our own pleasure and forget other people’s suffering. You telephone Aunt Margery to go with you, I’m sure she can and I’ll change into a house-dress.”

Mother began to unfasten her pretty, black lace blouse, new for the occasion. New Year’s Eve — a good play — a handsome blouse — instead, Mrs. Wilson.

Arriving at her neighbor’s, mother found that it had not been Mrs. Wilson’s heart at all, as she had been led to believe, but an attack of gastritis brought on by overeating, in spite of doctor’s orders. Mother found Airs. Wilson doubled up in bed, holding her heart and groaning like the mourners at an Irish wake. Mrs. Wilson loved to groan and during forty-five years of practice had become most expert. Mother tried to soothe her at which show of Sympathy she took such encouragement that her groans became shrieks which delighted her own ears and filled her listeners with terror.

“My heart, my poor heart,” she wailed.

Little Jessie stood by her mother’s side frozen with horror.

“Who’ll take care of my children when I’m g-go-gone?” moaned the stricken lady. “Oh, oh, oh-a-ow !”

Jessie’s fear melted a little as a sudden thought struck her.

“Perhaps it was them oysters you et, ma,” she suggested faintly.

Mrs. Wilson moaned louder.

“Or, maybe, the bananas and cream on top of ’em,” went on her child stubbornly.

At that Mrs. Wilson gave vent to a frightful yell and rolled across the bed to where the child stood.

“Ain’t you ashamed to torture your poor ma when she is suffering so?” she shrieked, making a frenzied lunge at her off-spring who dodged it with skill born of much practice.

At the mention of oysters and bananas mother made her own calculations, and after two hours of well applied remedies succeeded in getting relief for the stricken lady and then watched her while she moaned herself softly to sleep.

Is it any wonder then, that when mother dragged herself wearily home at eleven o’clock she was totally disanimated!

“What a sordid thing life is,” she reflected. She sank wearily into a chair by the hearth. “So much sickness, so much meanness, so much ugliness. Here it is New Year’s Eve, and everything ought to be bright and joyous. Here I am facing another year of this sort of thing. After all is it worth while to try to go on ?”

Even the glowing coals of the fire failed to inspirit her. Her feet ached, her back ached and her head fairly throbbed. Mother’s mind ran on to other sad details of life. “All my children away, some married, some at school, and some in training camps. Oh, this war, this awful, awful war — and the sufferers over there — where does it all lead to? What will the New Year bring us to?”

Mother could not restrain her tears. She lay back in her chair and wept. Before long she fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

Now I don’t know who it is that helps us when we are discouraged and downhearted. It may be our good angel, it may be the spirits of departed relatives and friends, or it may be just little fairies who are looking after us mortals as we go blundering through this school of life. At any rate ,some little kindly sprite came to Mother’s assistance at this moment. In a happy dream, she took her on a swift journey and showed her things that she was not aware were happening.

First she took her to Fannie’s, her ‘daughter-in-law. Fannie was telling her own mother what a wonderful time they had all had at Mother’s on Christmas.

“It wasn’t so much the gifts or the dinner, or any one thing that I can mention. It was chiefly the spirit. Mother’s spirit, a kindliness, a hospitality, and a good will that made us all happy.”

“Do you hear that?” the little sprite whispered in Mother’s ear. “It was your influence that made them happy.” The little sprite’s eyes sparkled as she led the way to Geraldine’s, the other daughter-in-law.

“It’s my ambition to have a family like Mother’s,” Geraldine was telling her guests. “It would be the pride of my life. I —”

The little sprite danced on, catching hold of Mother’s arm and carrying her on. too. “I mustn’t let you hear too much. If you heard all the good things they say about you, it might make you conceited ”

The little sprite laughed merrily and led mother back to Mrs. Wilson’s room. She was stirring from her sleep.

“Jessie, Jessie! Where did Mrs. Bentley go?”

Jessie, poor child, enjoying thrilling adventures in dreamland, did not answer.

“She must have gone,” continued the chronic groaner. “Poor soul, it was a shame to get her over here on New Year’s Eve. I shouldn’t have et them oysters and bananas together. I’ll take ’em separate next time.”

The little sprite smiled into mother’s eyes without comment. She led the way to a soldier’s camp.

There were bonfires burning brightly and round each fire groups of stalwart young fellows sat shoulder to shoulder. There had been merry songs to begin with. “Goodbye Broadway, Hello France !” “We’ll be There,” “Hail, hail the gang’s all here,” and “On the Beach at Waikiki.” Then came the old favorite melodies, “Dixie,” “Suwanee River,” and “My Old Kentucky Home.”

“Guess the folks at home are havin’ a gay old time, tonight,” piped up a youthful voice. “New Year’s Eve, there’s some doin’s at our place.”

“Guess most of ’em are wondering what we’re doing. This is the first time I have been- away from home before, and I know my mother’s thinking of me mighty hard,” came from a long-legged youth who was looking soberly into the fire.

“Let’s give a rousing cheer for the folks at home, fellows — especially our mothers. We’re ungrateful dogs, and we seldom tell ’em how much they do for us and how much we love ’em.”

Mother took the little sprite’s hand. “It’s hard to see — but that sounds like Sid’s voice.”

As the little sprite nodded, there rose a mighty cheer. Afterwards there was silence. Then as the embers grew dimmer a soft tenor voice struck up the old home song, and the other boys joined in huskily:

“‘Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there is no place like home ;
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there
Which seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.

“Home, home, sweet, sweet home,
There is no place like home, there is no place like home.”

The little sprite beckoned to mother to follow her as the last note of the song sounded and “taps” vibrated over the camp.

“We have a long jump now,” she said. “Perhaps you’re too tired?”

Mother was feeling surprisingly revived and quite herself again. “No, no, I’m not tired. Let me see more.”

At length they came to a small village and entered a decrepit house in a wasted field. An old man lay on a sagging bed with a torn quilt pulled about him. A mother, with children clinging at her knee, sat with bowed head at a bare table.

“Oh, mother. I’m so hungry. Just a little bread,” pleaded a child of seven.

“S-s-s-h !” cautioned her ten-year-old sister. “We must give our bread to grandpa.”

“Me’s told, mummy —” the baby snuggled into his mother’s arms to try to keep warm.

“Look, someone is coming,” whispered the sprite.

At that moment a small lady carrying a big basket walked into the room. The occupants looked at her in stupefaction.

“Here are some presents for you,” said the newcomer. She opened the basket and took out bread, cheese, canned meat and a bright-pieced quilt. The children stared at the food with bulging eyes, and the little boy clutched at the bread. “Here’s a sweater for the baby and two dresses for the girls. I can bring you more things later.”

The woman at the table simply put down her head and sobbed.

“There, there, don’t cry. These things are all for you. We’re here to help you. Here’s the name of a lady in America who made these things for you and your children.

“Watch closely,” said the sprite, taking mother’s arm.

Mother looked at the quilt. It was her own. “Made by Marie Bentley.” Her name was also on the tag attached to the clothes, just as she had given it to the committee.

The woman finally raised her head and dried her eyes on her sleeve.

“Then, it’s true — they are coming to help us?” she asked breathlessly.

“Yes, it’s true. They are coming. They’re sending food and clothes, they’re building ships, they’re building air machines, they’re planting bigger crops, they’re training men, and in the spring they’ll —”

Mother had a confused notion of someone shaking her and calling her by name.

“Mother, Mother, wake up. It’s the New Year and all the bells are ringing. ‘Ring out the old, Ring in the new !'”

“What, what,” stuttered mother.

“Poor dear, you are tired!” comforted father, lifting her from her chair. “But listen to the bells. ‘Ring out the old. Ring in the new.'”

“Yes. I’m awake. I hear them.” In spite of which statement Mother was still living in her dream.

“Ring in the new.” she thought. Then out loud she finished. “Yes, we’re coming, and we’ll see it through !”