Looking back now I can see that Mama taught us compassion, fairness and respect for all. She allowed us to freely roam the area around our little community with simple rules: do our chores beforehand and be home by dinnertime. From my bedroom I awoke to the sounds of her preparing breakfast before we rode the bus to school. The breakfast room looked out over the side yard where we could watch all varieties of birds at the birdfeeders year-round. That room was not only a place to enjoy meals and family, she made it a learning and fun place for storytelling, projects and games. She kept up with the bookmobile schedules or drove us to libraries in Florence or Lake City. She planned for most days activities that gave us an eye for details, neatness and orderliness with an appreciation of art, exploring and collecting. There are so many things that Mama instilled in us that influenced who we are today.


WOBBLY

Until I was around 10 years old my mother would tuck me into bed every night. I remember having store-bought stuffed animals, but my favorite was Wobbly, a simple flat-faced head-only doll she had made along with clothes, curtains and our family’s other sewing needs. Wobbly was made of soft green scrap cloth, button eyes and nose with rickrack mouth. Wobbly’s hair was made of ball fringe trim that constantly jiggled when he spoke. My mother was the voice of Wobbly, it was not her normal voice, it was instead slightly high-pitched but still very tender. The dialogue started with Wobbly asking me simple questions about that day:  what I did, what I learned, what I would do tomorrow. . . .Wobbly never rushed or judged, only asked how things were and then patiently listened. Those moments were the perfect prelude for prayer time when I would bless as many persons as I could remember and finish with “and everybody in the whole wide world."  Looking back, I assume she tucked my two sisters into bed as well. It was our special time together, the world slowed down and I would fall asleep with Wobbly before Mama left my bedside.


My Mama loved to give parties. She especially liked planning a birthday party for a member of the family. She had 4 sisters. Many of their milestone birthdays were celebrated with a gathering planned by Mama. There was always a theme. There were always games that matched the theme or featured the honoree in some way. If you were not the honored guest, you would soon realize that there was no way you were going to win the game. The “Birthday Boy or Girl” would always win. Treasure Hunts were Mama’s specialty. A trail of clues would be followed back and forth until you reached the end and found a cache of gifts. Sometimes older siblings were recruited to help with the search and were rewarded when they found a gift with their name on it at the end of the hunt. 

When we were growing up, our favorite of Mama’s games was Package Pass. Everyone stood in a circle while music was played. A package was passed around the circle. As long as the music played, you had to keep passing the package to the person next to you. When the music stopped, you could try to open the package. As the music resumed, you continued to pass the package. There was always layer after layer of paper, ribbon, string and tape. Whoever was holding the package when it was finally unwrapped, got the prize.  One year, Mama took the game to a whole new level by making sure that every player got a prize. As gifts were unwrapped and players dropped out of the circle, she kept adding packages to be passed. By the end of the game, everyone was laughing hysterically and the room was knee-deep in trash.

Mama enjoyed making gifts fashioned from currency to celebrate special birthdays. Money trees, money leis and bouquets of roses made out of money were just a few. The total value of these creations would always add up to your age, which was usually a double-digit number with a zero at the end. Some recipients took these creations apart right away so they could spend the money. Others saved them, never wanting to forget all the time and effort Mama had used to make this personal gift. I saved the “roses” Mama made for my 50th birthday and gave them to my granddaughter Emma when she turned 18.

Mama was an expert birthday cake maker. Her decorated cakes were so special and always a surprise. They were an extra gift she created just for you. I remember a doll cake, one shaped like a piano, a schoolhouse, a circus train and many more. My favorite was the hanging basket cake she made for my 16th birthday. I found it hanging from a tree outside the breakfast room window when I got home from school. 

These are just a few of the ways my Mama spread her love around. Mama treated everyone she met with kindness and generosity. Just being with her made you feel special. Mama lived her life fully as a shining example for all of us to follow.


One day, just a couple of years ago, I asked Mama, "How does it feel, not to have your mother with you anymore?"  She said, "Well, it doesn't feel that different. Because she's still with me." My mother was a writer. She wrote for many years, alone and in the company of other writers. Writing was one way she kept her people with her.

TRADITION

O’er rooftops, the fiddle played on
to tell the truths of days long gone,
of old traditions kept
and all conditions met
obeyed from dusk to dawn.

Meals were at times set by others, not me.
All were present, clean from face to knee.
“Now eat all on your plate,”
or hear the sad fate
of the starving Chinese.  Agree?

Cranb’ry sauce with fowl; applesauce, pork.
Use butter knife for butter, not your fork.
Serve lamb with jelly green.
Cut to biting-size your bean.
Someone’s watching; it’s your father Yorke.

Christmas tree’s not ready ‘til it’s light.
The Santas were up late, fixing it right.
Then could the children see,
cry out with boisterous glee
at the beauty of the tree—some sight!

Haircuts were done, en masse to the four.
The youngest was first at the barber’s door.
Only once she said, “No.”
wondering why this was so.
Tradition won out; she wondered no more.

O’er rooftops, the fiddle plays more
to tell the truths from days of yore.
Traditions can be right
as we ponder at night
all the good memories we store.

—Alice B. Hanna, 2011


Mosaic

The pieces come together, from different geographical areas, from various cultures, from a diversity of backgrounds. Somehow the parts mesh together, each knowing and respecting the uniqueness of the other. The mosaic is formed, made stronger by these differences, and made beautiful by the mutual respect and love, one to another. Sharing this uncommon ground, a feeling of kinship is attained. So it is with family.  Unlike the art form, this mosaic is not static but is forever changing, forever gaining strength and a deeper sensibility with the addition of new pieces. The formation shifts, comfortable spaces are opened up as, one by one, the original mosaic is enlarged and enhanced.  It is better because of its flexibility. The light shines through. It is world without end. May it ever be so.
			—Alice B. Hanna, 2010


OBITUARIO

Alice Burgess Hanna

24 agosto, 1922 – 2 julio, 2018

Striffler-Hamby Mortuary - Columbus

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