My life has been richer for other mothers — women whose lifelines crossed mine at an early age. Most of them were friends’ parents, heroic women who endured innumerable sleepovers and aspiring-folksinger phases, and taught us campfire cooking, the Girl Scout way.
They mentored us in Sunday School, humored us through first loves and pretended not to know if four girls furtively slipped the family car in neutral and pushed it out of the driveway for a clandestine 4 a.m. doughnut run. Alongside my beloved mother, they were living lessons in benevolence, decency and forbearance, in responsibility and judgment.
Some of them have gone on without us. Nellie Hydrick passed away this past January. If I had a “second mom” growing up, she would have to be it. Her daughters, Janice and Debra, were my dear friends. The Hydricks lived in “the country.” Mind you, it was Yorkville Road in Columbus, and not so far from my own house as the crow flies. But with its wondrous expanse of land and beckoning woods — and a vegetable garden — it was “country” to this girl.
There came a time when Janice decided I needed toughening up; she assigned tasks in aid of the mission. I believe forging a trail was called for, and there may have been something about picking tomatoes, or some equally earthy chore. I’m pretty sure it gave Ms. Nellie plenty of eye-rolling amusement. Janice, a poet even then, wrote “Ode to a City Girl” for the occasion. Decades later, a worn copy lives on in a scrapbook at the bottom of my closet.
At that house in the country, we three girls huddled under quilts on cold nights, erupting in giggles and ghost stories. We sat down to home cooking with Ms. Nellie and Mr. Bill, and washed dishes afterward, once churning the suds with a hand-held egg beater as we sang along to Roger Miller’s hit “Dang Me.” Other days might find us crooning with Leslie Gore, Connie Francis or Eddie Arnold, other records on the family’s stereo.
After little brother Ray Hydrick came along, Ms. Nellie even gave us our first chance at babysitting, in spite of our youth. And I can only hope Ray remains blissfully unaware of my part in any of it.
The family eventually moved to the city, to a new subdivision. I was too young, I think, to wonder if it was bittersweet for Ms. Nellie and Mr. Bill to leave that place on Yorkville. I do now.
Time raced on, teenagedom bloomed and Nellie Hydrick remained a steady presence at my bow, helping with youth group scavenger hunts, chaperoning trips, encouraging when it was needed, disciplining when it was deserved. Always loving her family, and always part of my extended one. I hope that wonderful woman got a chuckle at the irony when I married and moved to “the country” myself, where my prior training came in handy.
I see it more clearly with each passing year: The Nellie Hydricks, Betty Nations and Lella Reeds of our childhoods form a circle of sorts around our parents, reinforcing the good stuff, when it works as it should.
Other mothers, they play a role in who we become, even if it’s only apparent in hindsight. I’m grateful for the good women in my life. They have been my “village” … the one it takes to raise a child.
Jan Swoope is the Lifestyles Editor for The Commercial Dispatch.
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