One quilt hung across the room of the log cabin. That was all the privacy Mama got while she was in labor. Aunt Elsie entertained Will, Jack and Minnie; tried to take their minds off the moans and eventual screams of agony erupting from Mama. At age 8, Will was old enough to remember this saga from when Minnie was born. He only occasionally glanced at the quilt, and not until the very end.
Jack and Minnie, only 4 and 2 respectively, needed almost constant reassurance that what Mama was going through was natural and what the Good Lord intended. Papa didn’t care if it was natural or not. He couldn’t take the feelings of helplessness and the stress of the whole ordeal . As with most men, he could kill and gut a bobcat, ride mile after frigid mile on horseback, track a bear’s trail across the terrain, but an infant coming into the world caused him to tuck his tail between his legs and retreat to the barn.
Only the women stayed nearby: MeMaw, Aunt Julia and Ida Sue. They fetched water to sip, sponged away sweat, helped Mama sit up when she needed to bellow, and prayed. Mama had felt the first stirrings of labor this morning. Now it was close to one o’clock the next day and I was about to make my appearance.
Based on previous experience, Papa could hear from the barn that the time was near. He exited the barn and stood just outside its door. It was an utterly bone-chilling night in mid-December. There had been yet another snow storm a few days earlier. Glistening snow lay undisturbed for miles around. Here in the clearing, the landscape was as smooth and slick as porcelain. Even though it was the middle of the night, the full moon illuminated the whiteness so Papa could see MeMaw’s wagon against the split rail fence near the horse corral.
Papa stretched his neck and back, trying to alleviate the stress of the day. He studied the night sky with a practiced eye: velvet blackness, punctuated only by iridescent stars, seemingly close enough to grasp; a clear bone-white circle of moon with the slightest hint of filminess around its edges, the dark spots on its surface as visible as the blisters on his own hands.
Suddenly, Papa was aware of silence; a silence so intense he could hear the breathing of the horses two stalls away. His heart skipped a beat and then started racing. He lit out for the cabin, fearing the worst. As he reached the door, he heard one of God’s greatest gifts, a healthy newborn cry.
Papa entered the cabin and cautiously peeked around the quilt. Mama was lying back on a pillow, drenched in perspiration, flushed and exhausted, but looking serene as she held me in a little warm bundle of blankets.
The women looked over at Papa. “You’ve got yourself a beautiful baby girl,” MeMaw said, a broad grin plastered across her face.
It was a story I would hear over and over, and always cherish. The night my Papa and the moon awaited my entrance into the world.
1 comment:
My favorite was the description of the moon. That is exactly what I've seen. This post reminds me of the quote, "Crying doesn't indicate that you are weak. Since birth it has always been a sign to indicate that you are alive."
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