Betty Wheaton
I’m very grateful to have shared many years with my mom. She gave me a wonderful childhood, freedom to grow up trying new things, encouraging me to be the best person I could be. I always loved her, but – as I grew to adulthood – I learned to admire her more and more.
Her dad didn’t think girls should go to college. She wanted to go to a four-year university, but that wasn’t possible. She earned a full scholarship to Cottey College in Nevada, Missouri, a two-year liberal arts college, where she proceeded to take ALL THE CLASSES for the two year certification, finishing in ONE YEAR everything except a one-hour course for gym that wasn’t offered until the next year. That was the end of her formal education, but nowhere near the end of her learning.
She was a voracious reader. She built a vocabulary that was stunning. She honed it by working the New York Times Crossword Puzzle every Sunday. She shared her private journal of her favorite poetry with me, and we would read them to each other. When I, at the age of 4 or 5, sat in the middle of our living room looking at everyone else in the house doing something with books, newspapers, and comics and said, “I wish to HELL I could read,” she stopped the crossword puzzle, ignored my bad language, and proceeded to teach me.
She could stand up and speak at meetings with no preparation, saying what she thought, making persuasive arguments to support her opinions beautifully. I SO admired her ability to do that. She didn’t shake in her shoes, as I would have, but presented her views logically. If someone responded to her in an ugly fashion on a controversial subject, her words grew longer as she got angry. She told people off in a manner so articulate they didn’t know they had been insulted – in fine fashion – until later. She brought that to an art form.
My dad had his own one-man advertising agency in Tulsa, working from our home, doing radio spots for various clients. When his secretary suddenly quit, my mom stepped in, handling calls, radio spot placements and schedules, and typing a written record of the spots he created. She also did the bookkeeping and tax prep for him. On the more personal side, she used her incredible ability as a seamstress to modify every single shirt he wore, every suit jacket, every sweater for him. (One arm was shorter than the other with an almost useless hand due to a fall off a horse when he was 3.) She did this so quietly that it was years before I realized that not all mothers or wives did this.
I’m lucky to have grown up with love, guided by a role model to try to be the best I can be. I can feel her, from time to time, looking down at me, cheering me on, particularly when I’m doing something outside my comfort zone, trying something new.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I miss you every day.
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