By Garland O. Goodwin

For Mother’s Day, I have written a bit about my mother, a lot about her mother, so now I want to celebrate the mother I married. When no children came naturally, Fran suggested that we adopt some. I was happy to play with other people’s kids, as I had done all my life up to that point. But she told me that all she ever really wanted was children of her own, so I made an appointment with the Edna Gladney Home in Fort Worth. (We lived in Arlington, Texas, then.)

 

After some interviews, in which Fran thought my answers would make placement of any baby with us very unlikely, we settled down for a projected six-month wait. That same week they called and said we could pick up our baby “tomorrow.” Mad scramble to borrow a crib, buy diapers etc, take off from my work, and present ourselves as prospective new parents.

 

The caseworker placed a tiny person in my left hand in my lap, and I put my right hand on his head so he would not topple onto the floor. He was the survivor of twins; the other little boy lived only three or four days. They took a photo and we took our baby boy home. We named him Thomas for men on both sides of our families, and Andrew for the San Diego gynecologist who had worked to help us become parents naturally. We later learned that the doctor’s name was Andrew Thomas Roskos when we took our Thomas by his office to visit.

 

Fran had essentially raised her three younger brothers because her mother worked full-time, so she already had a lot of experience with little boys. We were offered another boy, but I held out for a girl, and we soon got Sharon to complete our family. My work took us to California, Texas, Washington and Virginia, so we have lived on both coasts as well as in between.

Fran has made every house a home for us over the years. Her steadfast love binds us all—from four very different gene pools—into a family. Hers was the voice of calm and wisdom when the yelling started. She asks little and gives much. My grandfather Rippy had advised me to seek a wife that would be “a help-meet, not just a help-eat,” but I had no idea when I fell victim to her sweet smile and dancing eyes that Fran could cook, too.

She makes great loaves of plain bread, banana nut loaf, a much-sought-after breakfast casserole, deliciously different cole slaw— to mention just a few of her signature dishes. She welcomes “strays” to our table at Thanksgiving and Christmas— actually, any time the kids or I wanted to bring someone home to eat with us.

Fran has flown an airplane solo, but does not drive cars. She is a crack shot with a rifle and has won ribbons at state fairs for her creative needlework. She worked in church nurseries for so many years that she is Aunt Fran to dozens of kids all over the country, and now to their kids.

When Tom Moore remarked that Fran and I seemed to have a good marriage, I replied that “it’s all her fault.” I waited for him to recover, then added that, “She can get along with anybody,” and further that, “she’s done most of the getting along.” I believe that our children, now grown up with children of their own, agree that she is a genial and loving Mom. We are all thankful that she raised us!