I could name a number of good mothers here, as I have in the past. My own family is full of them as I think of my mother and mother-in-law who were the subject of another blog, my three sisters, along with my daughter and daughters-in-law who have done a fine job with my grandchildren. There are also those who choose a mother responsibility. Today I take a detour for someone who assumed a mother role for me in a challenging situation.
Our oldest son, and I had arrived in France to join Al (Walter to the Army) the week of Murray’s first birthday. Having been drafted only a few years before and with a couple of quirky things having happened to promised promotions, Al remained in the cellar of the ranking system. This put us in a regular competition to see whether the money or the month ran out first. He was serving as Chaplain’s Assistant (administrator in the civilian world) to Chaplain Coleman, the protestant post chaplain at SHAPE Headquarters. This is where Frances Coleman showed up.
Since she was the post chaplain’s wife, and I was his assistant’s wife, she took me under her wing, you might say much like a mother. She wanted to be sure I adjusted to the newness of Army life and to life in a foreign country. I am quite sure this was not an Army assignment since Al worked that job for a good part of his career, and I never had any other chaplain’s wife who was more than a friendly acquaintance.
She checked what I was reading. When I mentioned this really good biography, she said, “Oh, I never read anything that counts,” and promptly introduced me to Agatha Christie. When the Picasso exhibit showed up at the Louvre, she took me for a viewing and on to lunch in a little French bistro. Leftover milk from the chapel ladies’ group coffee was sent home with me for Murray. I could go on, but the sum of it is that she successfully eased my way into a world far different than the one in North Mississippi where I grew up.
We stayed in contact with the Colemans even as the Army sent us our separate ways as long as they lived. They still come up regularly in supper time conversation. You see, when she replaced some of her dishes, she gave me a set of what must have been four flat soup bowls. They still serve that purpose though we are down to three, but are also good for one dish meals like taco salad or rice topped with stir fry. Al frequently asks as he sets the table, “Do we need plates or the Coleman bowls?” We both smile because it’s more than a name. It’s a memory.