A Son Discovers His Deceased Mother's Hidden Talent—Poetry

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So join us as we navigate the tangled web of Hollywood's secret history of sex, money, and murder. Subscribe now to Variety Confidential wherever you get your podcasts. This is Lee Habib and this is Our American Stories, the show where America is the star and the American people. To search for the Our American Stories podcast, go to the I heart radio app to Apple podcasts or wherever you get your podcasts. Our next storyteller is from Fort Worth, Texas. He moved us with his story, The Real Santa.

Roger Latham is back along with his daughter Candy to honor his mother. Let's take a listen. A number of years ago, as I sat in my office, my father entered and handed me six small notepad-sized pages. Thought you might like to read these, he said. Although I did not know at the time, it might have been a good thing if he had provided a handful of tissues.

I'd need them. The words on the page were written in pencil. I recognized at once my mother's distinctive flowing cursive. I knew it well because she had faithfully written to me for all of my three years defending America from raging Germans.

It was 1967, so it could easily have been Vietnam. These pages held a blank verse poem. I began to read. It was easy to realize it as the musings of a middle-aged woman with a soul deeper than the deepest sea.

When I finished, my cheeks were streaked with saline. I'd never known my mother to have such depth. Then it hit me. I, too, write words in rhyme, retrieved from the deep place fathomed below the surface of self. I smiled to think of the unexpected genetic gift my mother had provided.

Too often, I'd push such thoughts aside. Texas boys don't write poetry and certainly don't cry. The piece was never meant to be published. I imagined my mother wrote it on some sunny spring day with the windows allowing the sweet smell of honeysuckle to kiss her soul.

It was never presented to a larger audience until her memorial service in the year 2000. I did the eulogy, no problem. But if I attempted to read the poem, it was an indisputable fact I'd seem a blubbering fool. So my son stepped in and read, Hands. As his presentation ended, I noticed, amidst the assembled, other folks also in tears. Following, you will hear my daughter read, Hands.

Her face and persona mimic her grandmother's perfectly. Hands by Gladys Latham. I glanced the other day at my hands.

I was ashamed at what I saw. The nails were worn, short and unpolished. The fingertips were rough, the skin spotted and tanned. Then suddenly they reminded me of a pair of hands out of my past and I smiled. These hands I last remembered as being still and quiet, folded over a quiet breast in eternal stillness and much and much deserved rest.

They had not been the hands of a great artist or world-renowned sculptor, nor had they set immortal music on paper or penned lovely poetry, but their work had been as beautiful and as immortal as if they belonged to such studied and talented mortals. These hands had had the blessed privilege of cuddling tiny downy heads to breast for food, the pleasure of scrubbing pink ears and hands. They had changed mountains of diapers and scrubbed tons of little clothes by hand.

They had buttoned thousands of buttons that somehow never seemed to stay buttoned. Through long and tedious hours, tucked pleats gathered ruffles frills laces and embroidery had been applied to dainty dresses and suits with infinite love and care. These hands had baked glamorous birthday cakes, each done with special care and importance. Rolls, pies, cakes, and cookies, these hands make were the tastiest masterpieces ever produced on earth. With unsurpassed devotion and tenderness, these hands had soothed the brows fevered with measles, whooping cough, mumps, and flu, and wiped a thousand noses. They had bandaged hundreds of little toes with professional skill and neatness, and wiped away the tears of fear and pain. These were the hands that had plucked the peach tree switch to administer discipline, never in anger, always in love. Then when the terrified screams of nightmares of little ones came in the night, there was always quieting love. These hands had held the family bible during family prayer, and dressed a large portion of the sunday school enrollment on sunday morning.

They had known the emptiness of burying a tiny firstborn son. These the hands of a sculpture? Yes. For they had taken five small mounds of red, god-given clay, and molded five lovely strong bodies. The hands of an artist?

Yes. For with the tenderness of love, sacrifice, and devotion, they painted the picture of love and kindness on the hearts and soul. Then the shame of my work-worn hands vanished, for they had reminded me of the hands of my mother. And what a terrific story, Roger Latham. Thanks for the contribution, and thanks also to his daughter Candy for reading that beautiful poem, My Mother's Hands.

And that is indeed what mothers are, they're sculptors, but real-life ones. We continue with Our American Stories after these messages. Lee Habib here, the host of Our American Stories. Every day on this show we're bringing inspiring stories from across this great country. Stories from our big cities and small towns, but we truly can't do this show without you. Our stories are free to listen to, but they're not free to make. If you love what you hear, go to OurAmericanStories.com and click the donate button. Give a little, give a lot.

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