She Always Made It Work

There are some people who walk into a room and immediately become the center of attention.

My mom was never one of those people.

She was the person quietly making sure everything worked while everyone else enjoyed themselves. She was the one behind the scenes making sure there was food on the table, clean clothes in the closet, a plan for tomorrow, and somehow enough fun mixed in along the way that life never felt like one long to-do list. As a child, I thought everybody grew up with a mom like mine. It wasn't until I got older that I realized what I had witnessed every day was actually something pretty remarkable. While the rest of us were busy living our lives, Mom was somehow making sure life itself stayed stitched together.

Every morning, long before the rest of us were awake, I could hear the television downstairs. Mom was already up, which honestly still baffles me. Back then it was The 20 Minute Workout, and later Bodies in Motion. While the rest of us were still wrapped in blankets trying to negotiate with reality, Mom had already exercised, showered, fixed her hair, put on a little makeup, and started breakfast. By the time I wandered into the kitchen rubbing sleep from my eyes, she looked like she'd already lived an entire day. As a child, I thought this was normal behavior. As an adult, I find it deeply suspicious.

Looking back, though, I don't think it had anything to do with vanity. My mother simply believed in showing up for the day. Whether she was helping on the farm, running errands, heading to work, or spending the day at home, she took pride in herself. She believed in putting her best foot forward, and she did it consistently. To this day, I find myself doing the same thing. There are mornings when nobody but the dog is going to see me, and yet I still hear my mother's influence whispering in the background, reminding me that I'll feel better if I at least brush my hair and look like I've met myself before.

One of my favorite memories happened during a period when Mom was getting used to a new pair of contact lenses. Her eyes were incredibly sensitive to light, which meant she wore sunglasses almost everywhere she went. During the day, that made perfect sense. At night, it raised a few questions. Unfortunately for her, this happened at exactly the same time Corey Hart's I Wear My Sunglasses at Night was climbing the charts. Naturally, the song became her theme song. To this day, I cannot hear it without immediately picturing my mother walking through town in sunglasses after dark, completely unaware that she'd accidentally become the human version of an 80s music video.

The funny thing is that while Mom was incredibly responsible, she also knew how to have fun. I think part of that came from the fact that she had me when she was only twenty-one. Looking back now, she was still young enough to remember what it felt like to be a kid herself. She knew how to be practical, but she also knew how to enjoy life, and somehow she managed to do both without sacrificing either one. That's a balance I've come to admire more with every passing year because a lot of people lean so hard one direction that they forget about the other.

Some of my favorite memories started with what Mom called "running errands." Now, if you've ever lived in a small town, you already know that phrase can be interpreted very loosely. Sometimes we actually needed something. Other times it was simply an excuse to get out of the house together. We'd pile into the giant station wagon with the wood paneling down the side, roll all the windows down, crank up Def Leppard, and head into town. If you're old enough to remember dragging Main, you know exactly what came next. We'd slowly cruise up and down the same street we'd already driven three times, waving at the same people we'd seen fifteen minutes earlier and somehow finding this endlessly entertaining. Looking back, I can't explain why it was so much fun. I just know it was. Maybe it was the music. Maybe it was the freedom. Maybe it was simply being together.

More often than not, those adventures eventually led us to Waudby's.

If Hollywood ever needed to recreate my childhood, they'd need a pool table, a snow cone machine, a jukebox, and enough Aqua Net to permanently damage the atmosphere. Most Saturdays, if we found ourselves in town, there was a good chance we'd end up at Waudby's for at least part of the afternoon. Mom loved shooting pool, and so did I. The sound of pool balls cracking across the tables mixed with arcade noises and whatever 80s glam rock song happened to be playing created the soundtrack of countless Saturdays. Looking back now, I can still see the big hair, hear the guitar solos, and picture Mom lining up a shot while I stood nearby with a snow cone in my hand. At the time it felt completely ordinary. Now I realize those afternoons were gifts.

What makes those memories even sweeter is realizing everything my mother was doing behind the scenes while making life look effortless. She wasn't just raising kids. She was teaching us how to live. She taught me how to budget, how to save, how to think ahead, and how to stretch a dollar farther than I thought possible. She taught me how to sew, how to repair things instead of immediately replacing them, and how to appreciate quality over convenience. Looking back, she wasn't just teaching practical skills. She was teaching resourcefulness, and there is a difference.

Growing up around the farm meant there was always work to do. Gardens needed tending. Vegetables needed preserving. Fruit needed freezing. Chickens needed butchering. Meals needed planning. Mom and Grandma worked side by side through much of it, canning, freezing, preserving, processing, and preparing food for the seasons ahead. As kids, we all helped, although I suspect our enthusiasm levels varied depending on the task at hand. Looking back now, I realize those weren't just chores. They were life lessons disguised as chores. We were learning how to care for a household, how to prepare for the future, and how to create abundance from whatever was available.

The thing is, Mom never made any of it feel heavy.

We weren't constantly talking about what we couldn't afford.

We focused on what we could do.

Need clothes? Make them.

Need food? Grow it.

Need to make something last longer? Figure it out.

Need a fun afternoon? Grab your daughter, crank up Def Leppard, and head into town.

She had a way of making resourcefulness feel empowering instead of restrictive, and that's a lesson I've carried with me my entire life.

Of course, no story about my mother would be complete without mentioning her relationship with cleanliness. To this day, my mother and I have very different definitions of the word dirty. I'll walk into her house and hear her apologize because "the place is such a mess," and then spend the next several minutes trying to locate this alleged disaster. At this point, I'm convinced she can see dust at a molecular level. If there are two microscopic particles hiding behind a lamp in a guest room, she'll find them. The rest of us are left wondering whether we've missed something or if she's simply operating with senses the government hasn't discovered yet.

The funny thing is that what looked like perfectionism was really something much deeper. My mother cared. She cared about her home. She cared about the people in it. She cared about creating spaces that felt welcoming, comfortable, and cared for. Years later, when she came to work with me and eventually became our salon coordinator, that same gift followed her. Before long everyone knew her as Salon Mom. She kept things organized, made sure everything ran smoothly, and somehow managed to take care of clients, staff, and a thousand little details at the same time. Looking back, I think every business should come with a Salon Mom. Unfortunately, they only made one of mine.

The older I get, the more I realize my mother wasn't just teaching me how to run a household. She was teaching me how to build a life. She taught me that preparation creates peace. She taught me that taking care of yourself isn't selfish. She taught me that resourcefulness is often more valuable than money. She taught me that joy doesn't have to be expensive and that some of life's best memories happen on ordinary afternoons with a snow cone in one hand and a pool cue in the other.

Most of all, she taught me how to make things work.

Not in a glamorous way.

Not in a way that drew attention.

Just quietly, consistently, day after day.

And when I look around at my own life now, I realize I inherited far more from her than I ever understood at the time. Every time I organize a project, solve a problem, stretch a budget, tackle a challenge, pull myself together for the day, or turn an ordinary afternoon into an adventure, I catch a glimpse of my mother. The older I get, the more I realize that her greatest gift wasn't the spotless house, the organized schedules, the full freezer, or even the lessons she taught me.

Her greatest gift was showing me that a beautiful life isn't built from grand gestures.

It's built from a thousand ordinary things done with love.

And somehow, she always made it work.