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| Contributed image A family portrait of the authors’ family includes, clockwise from upper left, Thomas Wilson Wilcox, Belinda Wilcox Ouellette, Mildred McIntyre Wilcox, Shetland sheepdog Kelcie and Lisa Wilcox. |
Mildred
By Lisa Wilcox
Staff Writer
Mildred was fabulous. She was my mother, the woman who played an integral role in shaping me into the person I am today. Whether she would be proud of that little tidbit, I do not know, but I certainly hope so. Mildred was someone to impress.
I refer to my mother as Mildred with the utmost love and respect. Mildred is a solid name, fitting to the woman she was.
Mildred was a contradiction. She wasn’t exactly fancy, but she wasn’t exactly plain either. She took tremendous pride and care with her dark brown hair, the product of a monthly “rinse” applied by her hairdresser. Each evening she gently covered the teased to the heavens hairdo in a pink bonnet made of a spongy material so as not to flatten the thick, carefully formed curls until her next weekly trip to the beauty shop.
Mildred’s sky blue eyes danced with mischief and sparked with anger. They could stop you cold in your tracks if you were doing something she didn’t approve of, and they could make you feel like you were worth a million dollars when they looked at you with adoration.
Her makeup consisted of only eyebrow pencil, rouge and lipstick. Her clothes were always crisp and clean, practical and never flowery or girly. My father simply adored her, worshipping the ground she and her pink sleeping bonnet walked on.
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| Contributed photo This photo of the late Mildred McIntyre Wilcox was taken in Merle Libby’s potato field, a farmer in Caribou, when she was in her mid-20s. Said her daughter Belinda Ouellette, “She never got to see this picture because it comes from a very old roll of film that was discovered just about 10 years ago, after her death. She looks like a potato picking pin-up girl!” |
If you didn’t want to honestly know what Mildred’s thoughts were on a subject, then it was best not to ask, because she would tell you, leaving no room for doubt. But, at the same time, her voice was soft and soothing, freely offering words of kindness and love.
Raised in virtual poverty with 13 other children, Mildred knew what it meant to have nothing. She was dead-set on her children never suffering the same fate. She and my father both worked hard to provide for my sister, Belinda, and I. And Mildred loved things. Her china cabinet displayed fancy dishes and cutesy trinkets. She drove a big, luxury car and always carried a stylish purse.
Mildred was an avid fisherman and would pick buckets full of field strawberries and fiddleheads. She puffed on Salem cigarettes and could play the guitar like a pro. Her singing voice would not qualify her as a finalist on any talent show, but it didn’t stop her from belting out Merle Haggard or Patsy Cline. The joy she got from singing along with her guitar made her voice sound like an angel’s.
When I tell Mildred stories — and there are many to be told — I sometimes worry that I make her sound like some sort of ogre. But she wasn’t. Not at all. Belinda and I were raised with old-fashioned discipline; there were consequences for our actions. We were to be respectful and polite, courteous and kind. But Mildred was confident in our abilities and set her expectations high, always encouraging us and proud of our accomplishments.
Though she’s been gone for 14 years, I catch a glimpse of Mildred every once in a while in the mirror. I hear her laugh at my antics and she whispers words of wisdom in my ear. I possess a balance between her and my father’s traits, but, in the end, I am Mildred’s daughter.
Mom and her magical moccasins
By Belinda Wilcox Ouellette
My mother’s favorite shoes were heel-less, medium tan moccasins, intricately decorated with tiny multi-colored beads. Whether she was dressed for church or clad in pedal pushers, those shoes were always the perfect choice for her. I loved to watch her walk across the floor in those moccasins; her stride whisper soft and easy.
Mom loved to go to Elvis Presley movies and I was never left behind. We would giggle as we got ready for the early evening show; standing together in the bathroom as Mom applied her lipstick. She would lean down and kiss me lightly on the lips. “There! Now you have on lipstick, too. Just like Mommy.” I was thrilled and careful not to rub the lavish color from my lips; at least until we settled down in the dark theatre, juggling our popcorn and drink. Just before we left the house, Mom would slip on her moccasins, often bending down to wipe off a spot of dirt or to run her hand over the micro beads.
She often wore the moccasins to church, her legs encased in nylon stockings. She would tap her toes in time with the beat of the church choir, clapping her hands and leaning toward my father, her head momentarily resting on his broad right shoulder. Those moccasins were also ideal for dancing around the floor while my dad held her close, his cheek against hers and his eyes slightly closed. My father worshipped her.
I would slip her moccasins on my own feet and we would laugh as I shuffled along a sometimes slippery floor; my hands stretched outward in a feeble attempt to maintain my balance. The moccasins were made just for her and she wore them for many, many years; storing them away only when rheumatoid arthritis turned her life, and ours, upside down.
After months of therapy and rounds of Gold shots for her arthritis, my mother reigned victorious and returned to work. Sugar beets were quickly becoming a profitable business in Aroostook County and during one of the driest and hottest summers I can recall, my mother and my aunt Edie went to work in the sugar beet fields; hoeing rows and rows of the plants under a relentless sun.
My father and I brought lunch to her one humid Saturday forenoon, and I watched her work there under that scorching sun, tired but determined. For the past few nights, she had mentioned her sore feet and Dad and I had massaged her heels and ankles; laughing as we tickled her toes. She told us that she needed better shoes to wear in the loose dirt; shoes that were comfortable and cool. I glanced down at her feet, wondering if she had decided to change her footwear. There, nearly buried in the dirt, were the moccasins; now gray with dust. Most of the beads had fallen off, more than likely scattered in the dry wind.
“Mom, you’re wearing your pretty moccasins,” I said.
She smiled at me, pausing to look down at her feet. “These old things? I needed something else to wear and these seem to work. I’m surprised you remember them, Bin.” I turned away from her, struggling to hide my tears. My mother’s lovely leather shoes were not designed for work; they were destined for magical events, Elvis Presley movies, lively gospel music, and dancing.
Belinda Wilcox Ouellette’s free-lance column “Life Lessons” appears weekly in the Aroostook Republican. She lives in Connor TWP with her husband Dale and their Goldendoodle Barney.
