Ramblin’ Road: My deaf mother passed along gift

by Phyllis McCrossin

Those who knew our mother knew her as a classy, wise Christian woman. What few people knew was Mom was incredibly deaf. A childhood fever left her with 20 percent hearing in one ear and completely deaf in the other.

Growing up, Mom was somehow able to hide it from her family because she learned to read lips. It wasn’t until she had to take a physical to work at the Willow Run airport during World War II and the nurse said to her, “You are deaf, aren’t you?” that Mom realized maybe it did not go completely unnoticed.

Mom’s lack of hearing did not entirely escape my older sisters and me either. As we were growing up, we learned that if you didn’t turn your back to mumble a disparaging remark directed toward her she knew exactly what you were saying. But few, if any, of her friends knew just how deaf Mom was. (Her hearing aids she got when I was a young teen did help).

It still came as a surprise to me when her friends from church were incredulous when I told them how deaf Mom was.

A couple of years while having coffee with the “church ladies” from the Reformed Church our family attended when we lived in Hamilton, the subject of Mom’s deafness came up. “Your Mom was such a great woman. And when you talked to her she always paid such close attention to what you were saying,” one of the ladies said to me. Yup. Because Mom was reading your lips. Oh, she could probably hear what you were saying, the lip reading re-enforced she was getting it accurately.

Mom had a fun-loving streak in her, too. And she wasn’t always reverent. I recall a Sunday evening church service in the middle of summer, probably in the late 1960s. It was hot. The hot, sticky, humid summer that is pretty normal for Michigan. That evening she decided it was too hot for nylons and opted for a summer dress and sandals.

This was the late 1960s. In Hamilton. In church. Women did not yet own pant suits. Or jeans. I think of Mom’s four sisters she was the only one who had shed a dress for Bermuda shorts during the week. But there was Mom, bare-legged and comfortable in church on a Sunday evening. Sacrilege.

As was the custom, clusters of people gathered after the service outside the church before heading to their cars. Mom caught three old biddies talking about her. (She read their lips). They were aghast that she had shunned nylon stockings for bare legs and (gasp) was wearing sandals. Mom was quite steamed.

As we left the parking lot that evening, Mom hung her leg out the car window and yelled and the offensive (offending) women, “I painted my toenails too.” It was the first time (and unfortunately not the last) that I realized not all “Christians” were non-judgmental of others. I applaud my mother for letting them know what jerks they were.

Genetically speaking, we inherit genes from both our parents. The classy, wise genes passed me by. The “screw you” hang your leg out the window gene, however was doubled. From my father, I inherited the “see injustice and seethe in anger” gene. Couple that with the hang your leg out the window gene and you’ve got one pissed-off older woman who speaks her mind.

For years I was able to keep the combination under control. And that is partially because as a journalist it seemed prudent to keep my opinions to myself, lest I be accused of being biased. A true journalist will still do that. But people can’t seem to understand the difference between news and editorial and everyone gets lumped into one big “fake news” pie.

But I’m retired now and I don’t have to be politically correct. So for all those who want to talk about my absence of nylons, my sandals and my political views – I paint my toenails too.

Read between the lines.