A Mother’s Life and Love

When Indiana is abloom in spring, my thoughts always turn to my late mother, Ruth. She was 84 when she passed away in April 2005. Her birthday fell in early May, very close to Mother’s Day. My sisters and I often combined her birthday and Mother’s Day celebrations when we were kids. To her credit, she never complained about us killing two birds with one stone. Mothers are like that. They give much of themselves to their children, and don’t expect a lot in return. (For more on that, read “The Giving Tree” by Shel Silverstein.)

I’m not here to paint a perfect picture of my mother. She was human and had her faults. I know some people don’t have great mothers. There were times I got mad and exasperated with mom, but I feel she did her best with the tools she had at her disposal.

My mother grew up poor in Washington, Indiana during the Great Depression. Her young life was scarred by her father’s addiction to alcohol. Her middle sister was born with a dislocated hip and spent years in and out of hospitals. My grandparents only had eighth grade education. Most in their economic bracket left school as soon as they could. Poor people didn’t have options for careers and college. They had to go to work to help support their families.

School was a bright spot in my mother’s life. She was a big reader and a skilled writer. She was a reporter for her home-town newspaper right out of high school. But she had bigger dreams. As WWII ramped up, she talked her best friend into moving to Indianapolis with her for better opportunities. They moved into “Meredith Manor,” a residential home for young working women, found jobs, danced at the USO with soldiers and both eventually met their husbands in Indianapolis. Mom was engaged to a soldier from Brooklyn, NY until my father (her boss at the time) came in and swept her off her feet. My parents had ten wonderful years together before my dad’s untimely death in a car accident in 1955.

Life changed dramatically then. My mother went from being an executive’s wife to a young widow with three little children to raise. Between 1951-1956, she lost her mother, husband and one of her two sisters. She was estranged from her father. “Single moms” were a rarity then. Shepherding three teenagers through the contentious culture shifts of the mid-late 1960’s was a difficult task for a woman alone. It took me having children of my own to realize how hard that was for her. She lived in a “man’s world” and a couple’s world back then. She struggled to find her place in it.

Education saved her. With the encouragement of the faculty and staff of Vincennes University and later of Indiana University Bloomington, mother eventually got a master’s degree in sociology. She had great women friends (mostly widow and divorcees) who helped her through the rough times, too.

One of my mother’s gifts to me was sharing her love of reading. Books have continued to teach me, to entertain me, and have opened my mind throughout my life. Although my mother’s gone, I try to pass on her love of reading by giving books as gifts to my children and grandchildren and reading aloud to the little ones. This year, I’m volunteering at my grandkids’ school, where one of my jobs is helping facilitate a fourth grade reading group. Happy birthday and happy Mother’s Day, mom! Thanks for your example and for the sacrifices you made for me during your lifetime. You were indeed my giving tree.