A Son’s Tribute

 

My mother is an angel.

Not in the spiritual sense but in the more important sense; she was put on this earth to help others.

She would be the last to say she is an angel. She is very humble and thinks of herself as not very bright or knowledgeable.

She is an angel.

Everyone she has ever known who has suffered through personal tragedy especially the death of a person they loved will agree. Just like an angel she arrives. When needed, her angel words bring comfort. There is no limit to her angel time. She comes to listen, to make sure you know you are not alone. She wants you to know that things will be better. She understands the loss you are feeling. She checks in on you.

My mom has courage.

She does what she believes is right, even though it is difficult for her. She is not one to tell people off, but she will eventually tell them when she believes they are wrong.

Lately her chosen method has been audiotape. In a very gentle clam voice she makes the case for doing what is right. She lets her children have it, gently, but you know she feels change is needed.

Angels stick by you forever, looking just over your shoulder, even when they are shorter than you, whispering reminders. Growing up, it was a running conversation that I can still hear  “You boys need to…” whether it was chores, working in the field, changing clothes or doing homework.

As we grew older the conversations from mom were less frequent. I think she was angeling my sisters and brothers. Sometimes on trips home from college the conversations took place on a Saturday morning. She was always moving, working cleaning. We had debates while she dusted. Today I think she kept moving because I would generate such emotional energy she had to use it or explode at me. Her beliefs were always clear whether she agreed with me or not. Most of the time we did not agree.

Sometimes I have to admit I would say things to get a rise out of her. She was quite sensitive about religon and her beliefs. She still is. Angels are like that, strong in their faith.

However angels are not zealots. They know their mission is to connect with those they guard. You can’t connect with someone if they turn you off, so she always stays connected.

I learned about the difficult world of the great depression through her eyes. The destitute circumstances and poverty of a family of 16 children (14 survived to adulthood) living in the most economicically difficult time in America. Tom Brokaw labeled them “The Greatest Generation”.  The generation accomplished much, but what makes them great in my eyes are the gifts of courage and hope given by individuals like Mom and Dad and passed on to us.

My grandparents farmed with horses and my parents walked to the country school. They lived on Grandpa James Ryan’s farm outside of Rock Falls. It was located just down Route 40  (old route 88) and south of Star Road (Rt 172). The school they attended was Banes School. The school was just east of route 40. It has been converted into a home. There were such poor crops and little income they ate left over cornbread and wore work overalls to school. About 1934, my grandparents lost the Ryan farm and the family moved to the Clark farm near the current Whiteside County airport.

During the winter of 1936 they were snowed in from January 22 through February 20. That summer, the hottest summer on record,  they slept outside at night. The crops failed, the horses died and still they managed to survive. They read by kerosene lamp, as there was no electricity in the rural areas. They all suffered, but the family was close. They all worked. My mom developed strength of character that would carry her through many more difficult times.

She left high school just before her senior year when her family moved from the Mansfield farm outside of Rock Falls.

Mom was needed at home to help her mother care for the boys who would stay home and help Grandpa Roy work the 800 acre Uttly farm in Erie. Only younger siblings would finish high school.

Mom didn’t consider herself a strong student and may have thought quitting was the best. Changing high schools was a dramatic thing in my years, and perhaps she didn’t want to start over.  I am sure her obligation to the family was the greater reason. Mom would stay at home because that was what was needed. The country was at war and her family needed her.

World War Two thundered on. Mom watched as her brothers left for the army. The youngest were not drafted. They were needed at home to provide the crops and care for the livestock needed to win the war. Such was the case with my Dad.

Dad was stubborn and in his 20’s and the clash of cultures from the old country to the new didn’t make for a warm father-son relationship. Perhaps the loss of his wife in 1943 made Grandpa Camille bitter. However, being stubborn is a Laleman family trait. A Laleman is never wrong, making life with one difficult. Dad and his sister Ann farmed the 400 acre Seaholm farm between Erie and Prophetstown.

The clash of the cultures could not last. Living with his gruff Belgian father who ruled the home with grunts and Belgian Flemish was too much for him to accept. He enlisted in the army. Two weeks before he was to report for service, his father went to the draft board and said he was needed on the farm. His older brother was serving in Europe. The draft board agreed and Dad returned to farm. He told his father he wanted his own house, regular wages,  and that he wanted to marry. His father agreed to rent him a small house and Dad agreed to run the farm alone. They were married a few weeks later.

She would be married to this young first generation Belgian American. Her older sister had waited for years to be married. Her parents could not afford two weddings and two receptions. Her sister received the church wedding and reception. She and Dad were married in a church, but the reception was at the farm. Her parents could not afford a wedding cake, so her sisters combined their money to buy one for her. The wedding photo of the couple and the cake has a barn in the background.  She was not yet 20 years old.

She was the Irish girl that never felt accepted by his Belgian father and siblings. Dad was the youngest male and obligated by tradition to stay on the family farm and help his father. He was tender and loving in contrast to his father. Working for his father was not what he wanted or what she wanted, but it was their obligation and they tried to make the best of it. By the fall, they were again in conflict with Grandpa. Uncle Frank was home from the war and interested in making up for time lost. The war ended and his brother returned to farm as well. He felt no obligation to work or be responsible after the time he spent in the war. He had served his country and now he wanted to have a good time. There were two Laleman sons working the farm with their unappeasable father.

Finally they had enough. His brother took their car and didn’t return. Dad couldn’t get to Grandpa’s to do the chores. Another augment raged.

Dad and Mom found a job as a farm hand for Gladys and Doc Cartwright in Milledgeville. They left Grandpa and Frank. Like the flight to Egypt, they left Grandpa’s home on short notice to escape to a new life. Having spent her entire life close to her family and home, my Mom moved away. As a new mother she faced uncertain times and no security. They were hired hands. While living in Milledgeville, Ron was born in Morrison in January 1946.

She was strong and prayed. Their new employers saw the quality of their character and they became life long friends.

Grandpa was left alone on the large farm. His oldest son lived away and worked in the city. His next oldest was back from the army and not willing to work. The girls had families and farms of their own. After pleading by Grandpa’s oldest son, Felix, Dad and Mom agreed to return that spring to farm with Frank. . Grandpa Laleman agreed to new terms of living. The birth of his red haired grandson brought much praise from his Belgian-speaking grandfather. He was the first-born grandson and his hair was Belgian (or Irish) red. However, Grandpa continued to rule the farm and would not tolerate a son questioning authority. His grandson’s mother was Irish and she didn’t speak the language. She was quiet and didn’t stand up to him. But like all angels she was strong.

Then the river flooded the farm.

They worked all that spring to clean up the mess. Still old culture doesn’t die and the new life returned to the old life. Perhaps the landlord had also had enough, or feared the young brothers as tenants, or wanted more profit. He rented to others. The Laleman brothers moved out to farm another place outside of Prophetstown. Grandpa would move in with his daughter and sell off what ever he owned.

My Mom was from the deeply religious family; Frank’s wife ran a bar. The brothers were both Laleman’s. The partnership was doomed from the outset. My parents moved from the large farmhouse to the small tenant house down the road. It was infested with rats and mice, and her sisters and brothers came to help clean the house for the growing family. She became my Mom in December 1947. Before the end of the decade they had moved to separate farms. For the first time Mom with two sons had her own home.

The Springhill farm was productive and the landlord wanted to sell to them. Steve was born, and they wanted to have a place of their own, but lacked the down payment. Dad returned to his father to borrow money. Probably this was one of the most difficult times in his life. He had to lower his pride and ask for help.

The help was not available. His older sister and her husband had asked first for help buying a farm. Grandpa could not or would not help both. She prayed and yet it was not to be. They had to move again as the farm was sold to others.

It would be the next place where she and Dad would raise their family. The farm was poor quality, but it was large enough for a family. The house was big and drafty and hard to heat; the sandy soil seeped through the windows carried by the constant wind. Four children would be born while they lived there. The two oldest would leave for college from there, and one would leave for the army. This was where she would teach the lessons of her life to her children. This is where respect and hard work were taught. This is where the culture of the youth of 30’s depression, which would question little, would clash with the youth of the 60’s who would question everything. This was where the next generation of willful Lalemans would fail to listen to the last generation of Lalemans. This is where the Saturday dust and debate events would occur. This was where she would be shocked by what was said to her and yet never let go of her beliefs or her composure. This was her home.

Mom and Dad welcomed everyone. The kitchen table was the favorite place for my aunts and uncles to visit. My parents were not party people and rarely left home for entertainment. What made them special was their willingness to give time to others. They would listen to others in good and difficult times. It was at these tables I learned to talk “farm” and to listen to how people expressed their feelings.

My Mom has a gift for listening. She also has a gift for gently giving advice without seeming to tell one what to do. She believes strongly, but does not preach.

Dad would discover he had a serious heart condition. In the early 60’s he almost died from a weak heart. He could lift only 5 pounds, much too weak to farm. She was scared and prayed. She had her boys to help and they did. She wanted an education for them and did not ask them to stay home. When the time for college came, she and Dad said they could not help with money. The lessons learned from hard work on the farm were put to work as my brother and I obtained off farm jobs to pay our way through college. After a time Dad got stronger, and later, we went off to college. She prayed he would survive and that God would take care of them.

As with all angels, she, on occasion, had to steer the course of a life. In each case she intervened when needed. Our changing beliefs, desire to drink and have fun and focus on rights rather than our obligations, generated “the letter”. Each of us in time was given the direction she felt we needed. Although she felt her education was inferior, she knew we needed her guidance toward a life based on values. She was right, but we didn’t know it at the time. We did, however, respect that she had told us. Some parents want to tell their children everything and never let them grow up. Some parents want their children to like them and let them enjoy life. My Mom wanted us to be good people and she told us when we needed to be told.

My Mom had the courage to make the difficult decision, which is the last step of parenting. She told us when it was time to go. Like a bird pushing a fledging from the nest, she knew when we had to leave or we could never become adults. For each of us this was difficult and we did not take it well. We thought it would be tough doing our own laundry and paying rent. Imagine how hard it was on her to push away a son. Each of us, in his own way, later on tried to thank her for that time. It was a time we needed to become adults and she had the courage to say so.

Twenty years after they moved to Geneseo the opportunity for a quality farm arrived. It would be good land with wonderful buildings and a modern house. It would be their dream, but hiding behind that dream was a nightmare. It came with a landlord who was of low character, and who so angered my Dad that he could not stand to be in his presence. An argument with this person ended with the last words spoken by my father.

It was in her 28^th year of marriage that she received her next mission in life. One wonders why misfortune happens. We often say “Why me”. She lost her husband when she was only 48 years old. She had four children still at home; the youngest was only 12. She had no education, no job and no farm to sell. They had no saving except for the equipment they used to farm. She was lost and she prayed. Even angels need to talk to God now and then. When she was alone, she talked to my deceased father and this helped calm her and decide what she was to do.

The lessons of the difficult decades of the 30’s and 40’s led her to know there was hope. Her faith provided her comfort and her courage carried her through. She found a home, a job and a life in town. She found what it takes to survive as single mother. She learned what was needed to comfort others in time of death as she sought her own comfort.

She found another husband who also suffered the loss of a spouse. The two of them started a new life that was less difficult financially, but added more children to guide. For the first time, she traveled and had a winter home, but she did not stop improving the lives of those struck by loss.

Ever since the death of my father she has fulfilled her mission in life with regularity. She visits and calls parents when they lose a child. She checks on the wives after they lose a husband. She calls and writes to husbands who lose wives.

Whether death comes as a horrific accident and sudden loss or through the gradual decline of one’s health, she is there to comfort. Angels never go off duty, and she is vigilant in her mission. Through the tragic loss of her first husband she has learned to help others. Her faith in God and her talent for listening make her perfect comfort for those lost in tragedy. The number of people she has comforted is probably staggering, but she would never pause to count them.

So an angel received her wings from heartbreak. Her wings are invisible, but they are there. As a result of her pain and difficulty in life she has found how to lift up others. She experienced deep love by two husbands and uncounted people who know her as Betty.

Often as an educator I am asked who influenced me to become a teacher; who was my most influential teacher. Mine is an angel.