A Valentine to My Parents

Mary Margaret Pointer - b. September 15, 1924; d. February 13, 1981

Dad's Parachute: Although Mom's proclivity for eccentricity sometimes perplexed as well as entertained her children, she never failed to bestow flawless devotion onto them. When I announced my second pregnancy, my mother was not initially pleased. Her fear was that I would have as much difficulty with the second pregnancy as I did the first and she worried that because my husband and I lived in Chattanooga, Tennessee and she and my father lived in Dallas, she would not be with me if I needed her. As the months passed and it became obvious the baby and I were healthy, her anxiety eased but she was still nervous about the birth itself so planned to come to Chattanooga as soon as I went into labor. Although the pregnancy was easier than my first, the delivery was similar. My first-born had weighed in at 8 pounds-14 ounces, but the "lighter" weight of this baby at 8 pounds-4 ounces made little difference in the length and difficulty of my labor.

At 5:30 a.m. on October 17th, my water broke and my husband immediately called my mother to let her know the baby was on its way, then drove me to the hospital. Perhaps it was a blessing that in 1971 husbands were not allowed in the delivery room because when we hit the hospital door, my contractions were just two minutes apart and I was whisked away in a wheelchair while he keeled over and passed out in the middle of the hallway. I was on a mission and didn't look back, figuring someone would take care of the heap of husband left behind on the floor. We were in a hospital, after all! Fortunately, my four-year-old son was being watched by a neighborhood friend. With the two men in my life in good hands, I focused on the task at hand. I had work to do!

Once inside the Maternity Ward, I was prepped for delivery, but the contractions continued for another fourteen hours before I dilated enough for my baby to find her way into the world and into my arms. While I was busy grunting and groaning in the delivery room, Mom purchased tickets for Chattanooga at the Dallas-Ft. Worth airport. Her flight was delayed because of inclement weather and storms grounded her once again in Jackson, Mississippi. Stuck in Jackson, she called the hospital from a payphone in the airport. By that time, I had had my baby and exhausted, lay sleepily in my hospital bed when the phone on the table next to me rang. "Hello," I asked, perplexed at the late-night call. On the other end of the line, a voice cramped with tears, quivered with excited distress. "Hello! This is Mary Oberlin and I need to check on a patient by the name of Karen T ---. She was admitted this morning to have her baby."

"Mom?" I asked. All I heard in response was sobbing. "Mom? Is that you? Everything is okay! I had a baby girl, Mom! I am in my hospital room now."

"Oh, honey! You and the baby are okay? And here I am stuck in goddamned Podunk, Mississippi!" With that, we both started laughing.

The day I was released from the hospital, a nurse pushed me in a wheelchair toward the elevator and in my arms, I held my new baby girl wrapped in the pretty, soft blanket I had bought for the occasion. When the elevator doors opened, I was surprised to see Mom and little Frankie, both wide-eyed with excitement, waiting for me. The nurse wheeled me into the elevator and we all went down to the first floor together where my husband waited for us in the car. "Give your new sister your present, Frankie," Mom said. He stepped shyly toward my wheelchair, not sure what to think about his mother: who over the past months had mysteriously grown fat, who early three mornings ago disappeared into the wee dawn with his father, whose grandmother showed up and showered him with hugs, kisses, and toys and then took him to the hospital to find his mother in an elevator with a tiny baby. The event had already been carefully explained to him numerous times, but at four years old, the new animated television series Speed Racer held his attention and the prospect of having a sister or brother, especially one no larger than a milk bottle, didn't make much of an impression. Now, he was not only faced with this tiny bundle in his mother's arms, but felt unimaginable relief to see his mommy and know she was coming home. So, I can only be surmise that he decided the new member of the family was indeed welcome now that he knew he could have his mommy at home and things could return to normal. He felt safe again and Speed Racer was back on the agenda. With solemn decorum, he presented the small, plush doll with a sweet rubber face and covered in yellow mink-like fabric, but a small smile crept into his eyes when I gasped with pleasure at his gift for his sister. He was so proud that he had pleased me. My mother bought the doll in the hospital's gift shop, knowing how important it was to make Frankie feel like a part of the process of bringing home the new baby.

Two days later, Mom and I sat on the couch with Tina in my arms and Frankie, who played with the new toys his grandmother had brought him, at my feet. Mom opened her suitcase filled with Pampers, bibs, and onesies in pink, yellow, lilac, and mint green, all of which were trimmed with tiny ribbons and embroidered flowers. They were so beautiful.

"But Mom! Where are your clothes?" I asked.

"I was in such a hurry that I grabbed the suitcase with the baby things but forgot the bag with my clothing. All my clothes are still in Dallas. I guess I will have to wear your husband's clothes until I go home."

I quipped, "I don't think his clothes will fit you; they're too small." Mom's tears always streamed down her face when she laughed, and it was infectious. We both laughed until we cried and Frankie looked up at us in puzzlement.

"One last thing for my granddaughter," she declared and pulled a small square of tissue paper from her suitcase. She handed it to me and said, "I made this little bandana from a piece of your father's WWII parachute just before you were born. I want Tina to have it." The doll-sized, triangular bandana was trimmed in pink stitching and had pink ribbons dangling from two of its three corners for tying beneath the chin. Mom had saved this treasure for a future granddaughter.

Among the ancients, precognition wasn't considered unusual or a scam and women who had the gift of the knowing were considered blessed. With the advent of Christianity, Western civilization deemed this gift as witchcraft or sorcery and later, mental illness or a hoax. Regardless of what the source of the knowing may or may not be, my mother astonished me numerous times, seeming to understand or know things not readily apparent to anyone else. Moreover, when challenged over one of her "insights," she responded with such candor, and even surprise, upon learning the event had happened after she had knowledge of it that I realized she truly wasn't aware she had predicted it. Her response: Well, I heard it on the news before anyone else. Or this: The dates have been reported incorrectly. Regardless, she did not want to give the piece of parachute to anyone other than the daughter she waited for me to have.

The day after I came home from the hospital, Mom went shopping and bought herself a few items to wear while she stayed with us, never borrowing anything from her son-in-law's wardrobe as she had threatened. At the end of two weeks, baby Tina and I were rested and restored enough to be on our own and Mom prepared to leave for Dallas. Before she left, however, I wondered about the parachute bandana and pastel-colored onesies and asked her how she knew to bring them with her. How was she so sure I was going to have a girl? In 1971, the mother-to-be simply waited until the baby was born to discover its gender, the sonogram not becoming common for gender identity until the late 70s. "You told me!" she said. Even though my feeling that I was pregnant with a girl was powerful, I denied ever telling her so, wanting to be careful of "jinxing" myself. However, Mom insisted that in the same way I had announced my first baby would be a boy and he would have blond hair and blue eyes, I stood at the foot of her bed early one morning and predicted the new baby's gender. I insisted Mom imagined such a scenario, but she claimed I stood before her, my belly large and my long hair in braids and told her that baby was a girl. That never happened. First, I was unable to travel to Dallas after my belly grew large so my mother must have dreamt that I was in her house, standing at the foot of her bed. Secondly, I never braided my hair. But Mom insisted that is what happened; it was what she saw. Oddly, however, before I left the house for the hospital, I did quickly braid my hair to keep it out of my face during labor. But my mother, in a Mississippi airport, would not have known I had decided to do so and only saw me after I had the baby when my hair was no longer in braids. Although I did I predict the gender and appearances of both of my children. While pregnant with my first child, I had a dream. In it, I was with a small boy who had blond hair and the bluest of eyes. The vision was powerful, more a reality than a dream. When pregnant the second time, I felt connected to the universal feminine and immediately named the baby Christina. Doubt never pervaded. Perhaps having a sense of your unborn child isn't uncommon. Then again, perhaps the knowing runs deep.

Robert Edward Oberlin - b. February 15, 1924; d. May 18, 2016

My father was not demonstrative in his affection toward his three children, either verbally or physically. Simply put, he wasn't a warm and fuzzy kind of guy. However, the old adage that still water runs deep is apt in describing him and he showed his love in many other ways, some of which were profoundly moving.

My parents were married for 35 years. After my mother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer I stayed with my parents to care for her during the eight months of her illness, during which time I was witness to my father's devastating sadness as well as his incredible strength. He wanted to do anything and everything he could to ensure that she knew she was loved and cared for and wanted her to experience the best of whatever she could until the end. Witnessing his grief and his pain was as difficult to come to terms with as the loss of my mother because I knew he had to bear it and there was nothing I could do to help except be there for him. And yet, he carried on and I believe one of the reasons he could is that he still possessed deep reservoirs of love for his children and grandchildren. While his loss was great, it was not total.

My mother died on February 13, 1981. She was gone and our world was forever changed. The following evening, I sat on the couch in the den with my sister, pregnant with her first child and who had flown into New York from Atlanta. We stared at a television program that neither of us actually watched. As evening descended, the front door rattled and we could hear Dad in the entrance hall taking off and hanging up his coat. When he walked into the room, we attempted to put on calm, supportive faces for him, but it was difficult to hold back tears when he handed each of us a red, heart-shaped box filled with chocolates. Happy Valentines Day, girls, he said and smiled weakly. At that moment, I could not have loved him more. In spite of his own heart-ache, he thought of ours. I can't think of of a situation that could better describe the kind of guy he was. Deep down he loved. Nothing showy, nothing dramatic. Just honest-to-goodness love.