My Life: #5 My Mother, the Eskimo.

My mother's life was difficult growing up, living in a harsh, remote part of Labrador/Newfoundland. Her father fished by summer and trapped by winter.

MY MOTHER, THE ESKIMO.

Lelah M. Rumbolt | Phinney: My mother lived to be the prime age of 83, and she resided in Linn Grove, Iowa up to a couple of years before her death (March 26, 2010), at which time she lived in an assisted care apartment in Sioux Rapids, Iowa.

My mother was known for being one of the most beautiful women in her village, possibly in her country. I grew up watching men relentlessly cower to her beauty. However, I knew her from the inside out.

My mom was born in Battle Harbor, Labrador on January 29, 1927, to John and Abigail (Sutton) Rumbolt. She was from a split bloodline, Rumbolt, French and Sutton, Labradorean Inuit (Eskimo).  In Canada, the term Eskimo is considered a bad expression of heritage.  In America, it is like calling African Americans “Negros,” thus she never used the term to describe her bloodline.  The term Eskimo is basically the same title we use here in America as Native American.

Her life was very difficult growing up, living in a harsh, remote part of Labrador/Newfoundland.  Her father fished by summer and trapped by winter.  She came from a large family of 13 brothers and sisters, each required to “pull their weight” in providing for the family.  Due to this intense lifestyle, my mother became a hard-working survivor.  In fact, I cannot remember my mother complaining about hard times, which our family had plenty of through the years.

Her childhood and lineage are a bit of a mystery to me and my siblings.  She did not share details beyond where she grew up.  In fact, I have not met any of my relatives on my mother’s side outside of a cousin who looked me up when they were in the States. From the stories she told me, my mother suffered great hardship. Even though this is an assumption, it was almost as if she married my father as a ticket out of her harsh environment, never to look back.  Although, much later in her life, one of my sisters took her back to Newfoundland to visit her mother and relatives.  My cousin said these relatives treated Mom’s visit as a “prodigal” returning home.  They were kind and openly accepting of her, but most of the family considered it odd that she would stay away for so long.  Whatever her reasons were, I am certain that her return visit brought a great deal of healing. 

As I was growing up, I had many memories of my mother being under a great deal of stress with little complaining.  Being the wife of a military man and being alone to raise six children must have been a major source of this stress.  It appeared that her primary mode of dealing with life was through denial and being a survivor.

The Boy Who Became a Counselor

Once I arrived at the age of 12, for whatever reason, my mother began to “download” on me for hours at a time.  I am certain this is where I gained many of my natural counseling skills, but nonetheless, I sat and listened to her pain.  Since I had this keen insight into my father at a very early age, I believe she considered me a safe place to “dump” all her pain inflicted by the harshness of his PTSD.

My mother was forced to bear many conflicts as my father attempted to deal with his PTSD.  He suffered from excessive use of alcohol. When he wasn’t drinking, he was the “life of the party” and the great guy he was.  Although once the drinking turned to unresolved conflict, boy, watch out – he was a man to be feared.  The only time I actually feared my dad was when his drinking got out of control, at which time I would hide in my secret hiding place; the house’s roof.  My mother would joke about how I spent more time sleeping on the house’s roof than in my bed.  I think she was right.  I then would wait until the conflict was over; I would quickly find my father and help him to bed, clean up the mess with my mother, and organize his studio to make things easier for him to work the next time he was in his “sanctuary.”  To this day, when I am overwhelmed with stress, I begin cleaning and putting things in order – hum, wonder where that comes from.

When I became a teenager, my pattern changed.  Once his alcohol got the best of him, I began standing up to him. I intuitively knew I was safe because I believed he knew I was for him and not against him.  As a result of this, the conflicts he suffered subsided in my teen years – outside of a few unexpected traumatic ones.  However, there was one night in particular that stands out to me.  After slipping into his PTSD, he began speaking to me in Japanese. I knew instantly we were in for some trouble. He went and got his shotgun.  This event turned into a “cat and mouse” game, him the cat and me the mouse.  This evening went from bad to worse.  I knew I had to get this “cat and mouse” game to move to the outside.  We both crawled around on our bellies for a couple of hours.  Me hiding behind bushes and objects with him pointing the gun in the direction he had thought I was, consistently calling me out in Japanese.  At one point, I was sneaking around a big lilac bush and found my face staring down the barrel of his gun.  Thank God he was too delusional to see me, I backed out, and he passed out and later woke up with his son helping him to his feet.  

My mother was always baffled as to my compassion for my father.  Honestly, I must say, I figured out early on that this was not my dad acting like this but rather some force that would take over him.  I have a truckload of memories of looking through his “PTSD eyes” and seeing my real dad, and I think my father knew this.  My mother also knew that I would not run from the conflict and leave her hanging.  Little did she realize that I learned this from her.  I have zero memories of my mother cowering and backing down from any conflict. She was amazing in my eyes.  She always stayed faithfully engaged until my father reached the “calm of the storm.”  She would then rely on her “little Joseph” (me) to help her clean things up.  I am certain that this is why today I can stare into the eyes of an enraged gangster who might be threatening me and not back down from the conflict.  Thus, the Lord would send me these kinds of hurting men (men who think their men because they hurt people) to disciple them out of their fleshly habit of using threats to generate fear and fear to generate control. Thanks to my mother, and father, I have become a discipler who refuses to cower under any circumstance.

On a lighter side, since I was a “mama’s boy,” I remained faithful in defending my mother for the remaining days of her life. I understood my mother. She understood me. We both understood my father. And as a result, we both witnessed my father receiving Jesus Christ as his savior before passing on into eternal life. I have many stories to tell you. Most of them involve a mother who intuitively knew her son would become an immovable preacher of the Word of God.

Without question, I believe our Lord allowed my mother to survive extreme hardship during her “Eskimo” childhood. Without that, I doubt I would view my mother as an immovable figure of Truth.    

Next, “Mama’s Boy.”