+JMJ+ Today my mother would have been one hundred years old. She was born in 1922, a few years before the Great Depression, into what would today be considered a large family. Her parents were poor but generous and would let passing strangers do odd jobs for good home-cooked meals at the kitchen table.
One day a man came by looking to work for food and my little grandmother (she was even shorter than me and I stand only five feet) took him in and began to prepare some food, didn’t even ask him to work first. But he had other ideas. When she turned her back, he took her large iron skillet and hit her over the head with deadly force, then stole what was surely her tiny bit of household money. They didn’t have much. I don’t know what he was thinking, robbing such poor people and murdering to do it.
My mother was seven when her mother was taken from her with such violence. She had one younger sister and some older siblings. They all had to take on more adult roles from that horrible day onward. My mother had to stand on a stool and take her turn at the stove. I guess it was no wonder that she would resent housework later in her life, though I never really thought about that aspect of it until I wrote that just now. She didn’t have a childhood and the trauma of those young years left her with scars that we couldn’t see but we all felt them.
Her life wasn’t all dark. I know I may have made it sound that way, but it wasn’t. And we had a lot of joy in our house while I was growing up. She was an artist and though I didn’t get her talent for the visual arts, I did get her love of music. Well, Dad loved music, too, but he didn’t branch out as much as she did. (He was stuck on the Big Band stuff, which I like, too, but not only Big Bands. I mean, I like In the Mood as much as the next gal, but come on, I do like lots of other tunes and styles and even eras.)
All of this to say, I’m thinking of you tonight, Mom, I think of you often. And I pray for you, too, though I know there’s a good chance you didn’t have to spend much time in Purgatory, considering what all you went through while you were here on earth. I hope you know that I love you and I always will. I hope we’ll be together again one day, and that you’re together with all your sisters and your brother, and your father and your mother. Happy 100th birthday, Mom. I miss you.
Thanks for visiting the blog and reading. I pray that you and I will stay holy and virtuous, and may we become who the Lord intends us to be: SAINTS. Pray for me, and know that I pray for you. God bless you and may His Peace be with you now and always. +JMJ+
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Image: Rose and candle from Pixabay. (I was going to include a photo of Mom but I just realized that all the photos are in the guest bedroom which has all the stuff from the back bedroom in it now, a result of the—very humble—home studio project. Guess the next big project on an ever growing list is to clean out the guest room and finally begin scanning that drawerful of family photos.)