'A Mother's Love': It's The Thought That Counts

You've probably heard the phrase, "It's the thought that counts."

That's been the theme of our holiday essay series this month.

The time for tree-trimming and scrambling to find the perfect gift has come and gone, but the sentiment remains.

We've been acknowledging all of the complicated feelings that come with this time of year with some personal essays from the KUOW staff.

The final essay comes from local Morning Edition host Angela King, as she recalls a particularly special Christmas — and the woman who made it possible.

A Mother's Love

As a child, my mother and I were always ready to walk. That's because we were poor; she couldn't afford a car most of the time. I think the most reliable one we had was a 1967 lemon yellow Chevy Impala. It came complete with custom dents from the previous owner — highly embarrassing for me as a child to roll up in around some of my wealthier friends whose parents could afford things like Mercedes and Jaguars.

The Impala worked, though, until it didn't.

It gave out, and there we were, walking again — to the store, to the bus stop, to the nearby hospital when I would suffer asthma attacks. Maybe I should say it was my mom doing most of the walking, carrying me as far as she could to the emergency room.

Because that's just what moms do.

One of my fondest memories happened when I was about 8 or 9. All I wanted for Christmas were some Bristle Blocks. My Gen Xers out there might know what those are; everybody else, Google it. Other than that, I had my mom, the center of my world.

The only thing that was missing was a Christmas tree. Unfortunately, we couldn't afford one that year, and as much as I wanted a tree, I didn't hound my mother about it. I got it. I knew what was going on. Deep down inside, though, I think it kind of bothered her that she couldn't get a Christmas tree, so I could hang the decorations while we watched "A Charlie Brown Christmas" together — and so she could tend to the more tedious tinsel duty.

So, there we were in the midst of the Christmas countdown, a few pre-wrapped presents but no tree to place them under. That was until Christmas Eve, when my mother walked into our small apartment with a four-foot-tall noble fir almost as tall as she was.

"Mom, where'd you get the tree?"

"From the tree lot a couple of miles down the street," she answered. "They're giving them away now."

"Yeah, but how did you get it here?"

"I carried it."

That was all she had to say, but the pride in her eyes and the subtle smile she cracked told me a completely different story. To this day, that same smile crosses my face when I see tree lots giving away their leftovers.

My mom says the best part about that Christmas was the fact that she only had to spend $8 to get me some Bristle Blocks.

For me, it was that tree and the confirmation of a mother's love — a little lady who didn't mind walking a couple of miles with a sap-covered stem in hand, putting it down at times, so she could re-grasp it, all so her little girl's Christmas would be complete.

Because that's just what moms do, right?