Lessons learned from my mother and wife

The first time it became apparent to me that thoughtful women were fully realizing that they were not being treated as well as men came in 1962. I would have been about 10 years old and my mother had taken me to the movie “Lawrence of Arabia.” I thought it to be an epic production, but on the way home my mother, speaking more to herself and not necessarily to her young, idiot son, said, “There were no women in the movie.” And again, “There were no women in the movie.”

I can’t say that my mother was some sort of ardent feminist but by the time she passed away at a relatively young age she seemed to be well on her way. How could she not? She was bright and maybe more importantly, she noticed things, and she gave those things meaning. For a time she would dress and act the part of a homeless woman for any group or club that would have her. She wanted others to fully understand homelessness, to realize that homelessness, particularly for women, was just as prevalent in small Iowa towns as it is in big cities. And just as onerous. Her courage was not passed down to me, but hopefully, I learned from it, and maybe still do. Most of what I know comes not from classrooms but from people like my mother, my wife, and my current friends.

Next to the chair where I do my writing is a slender, black leather case containing an open-hole, silver Artley flute from about 1967. On a recent rainy day I dusted off the case, put the flute together, and played a bit. Back in the day, it was considered a pretty high-end instrument. Made by hand in Elkhart, Indiana it needs new pads and Lord knows what else, but it still plays. The flute belonged to my late wife, a flute she played through college. I could play a little, but I didn’t have anywhere near her talent. She was, of course, first chair. There was something comforting about putting my fingers and lips where hers spent so many hours. Didn’t bring her back but she was certainly in the room for a little while, likely thinking her husband a fool for dwelling on his yesterdays.

Raining again now as I write this, water washing down a window by my chair, causing the glass to look opaque. These are not good days for those of us who tend toward melancholy and depression. You may understand. Causes me to hang out in the past entirely too much. Fifty-five years ago this month I was approaching the end of high school, before moving onto a small college I could neither afford nor fully appreciate. It was in college where I picked up the flute. My choir director had a PhD in flute performance and he also had a son who wanted to be in his junior high school jazz band. His son played oboe, or some such, which didn’t exactly work in a jazz band, however, they needed a bass player. Dad offered me some flute lessons in exchange for me giving his son lessons on bass guitar. Best kind of education.

Also 55 years ago a new group called the “Carpenters” released a song that would dramatically change popular music, one called “Close to You.” I can vividly recall that summer, working, saving money for school, riding in my buddy’s car as we went from job site to job site, roofing barns, the Carpenters coming out of his car radio, and us singing along. What mother in her right mind would allow her 18-year-old son to climb around on high barns, with no ropes, no harnesses? My mother, of course, allowing me to fly on my own, learning as I went along, loathing exams, enjoying the doing. It’s funny the memories triggered by a bit of music or an old flute. Glad to still have them. Hang on to yours. On rainy days they’ll come in handy.

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County. The Dubuque Telegraph Herald has published a 60-page magazine of Kurt’s columns. The magazine can be purchased here