Roses for Mama by Janette Oke Read Free Book Online Page A

was knitting me mittens. Red ones. Remember? They were my very favorites—but I lost one and—I don’t know what happened to the other one.”
    “I guess you lost them both, huh?” teased Thomas.
    “I did not. I just lost one,” insisted Louise.
    “Derek?” encouraged Angela.
    Derek fidgeted with his fork, his eyes downcast. He swallowed a few times and eventually spoke. His voice was low and strained, as though speaking was difficult for him.
    “I remember Mama baking pie” was all he said.
    Angela struggled with the few words. She found it difficult to control her emotions. Poor Derek. He was suffering far more deeply than she had ever known.
    “Thomas, now you,” Angela managed to say.
    “Well, I’m going to share a memory of Papa,” said Thomas. “I remember how big Papa was.” Thomas stretched his hand in the air to emphasize his point. “I only reached about to the top of his boots—or that’s the way it seemed to me. I was so proud when I got as high as his pockets. He used to tuck penny candies in them when he went to town. I remember when I could reach candies on my own.”
    Angela wrote hurriedly, pressed to keep up with Thomas.
    “Your turn. Your turn,” her family finally was shouting.
    Angela chose to share one of Mama’s simple lessons.
    “I remember one day when I didn’t want to do the washing,” she began slowly. “There were lots of grimy clothes. Piles and piles, it seemed, and I thought I would never finish the wash. Mama said, ‘Angela, never let your task become a drudge. You are special. You are unique. No matter what your duty, no matter how distasteful you might find it, inside you can be whatever you decide to be. Outside, your hands might be soiled with daily toil—inside, your soul and spirit can be refined and elegant. You can be just as much a lady leaning over a tub of hot, sudsy water scrubbing farm-dirty socks as you can sitting on a velvet cushion, fanning yourself with a silk and ivory fan.’”
    “What did she mean?” whispered Sara.
    “Well,” responded Angela, “I think she was trying to tell us that work is necessary—but it is honorable. It is what you are—deep inside—not what you do that is important.”
    “You mean,” asked Sara, “I can pretend to be a grand lady while I’m washing the dishes?”
    “You don’t have to pretend,” answered Angela. “You can actually be one.”

Chapter Seven
    Growing
    Angela was pleased with the children’s excitement over the memory game. Sunday after Sunday they exchanged their stories. With their memories refreshed by the discussions, Louise and Sara were surprised at how many events even they could remember. And Derek always added his brief account.
    “Derek still isn’t saying much in our game time, is he?” Thomas mentioned one evening as he and Angela sat on the porch together.
    “Just a line—a brief sentence,” Angela responded. “I hadn’t realized how—how many deep hurts must be buried inside him.”
    “I guess he was right at the age where he needed Papa and Mama the most. And we—you and I—were so busy trying to keep body and soul together that we missed seeing what it was doing to him.”
    “Poor soul,” sighed Angela. “Thomas, do you think we are doing enough?”
    Thomas pondered the question. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I just don’t know. But I’m not sure what else we can do.”
    “Do you think the minister might be able to help him?”
    “Maybe. I just don’t know.”
    “He is so withdrawn—yet so strangely sweet. It’s as though—as though he lives in fear of—of causing someone pain or something. He tries so hard to be good. Yet he—he seems so reluctant to even talk about the folks. I’m not sure he even likes our game—though there have been times when I’ve thought I have seen some light in his eyes at a memory we have discussed.”
    “Well, for now I guess we’ll just continue as we are. I think—I think maybe he is enjoying the