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Happy Mother’s Day to each of you!
The story below is from one of those interviews. It is presented anonymously, though, as the desire was to keep the spotlight on all mothers and their individual lives, devotions, and sacrifices. ... As you read, take time to smell the roses.
Campfire Story:
“I grew up in a small town in western Oklahoma in the 1940s-50s. Youngest of eleven children. Seven boys and four girls. Dad died when I was eighteen months old. Two of my older brothers were in WWII. One in Germany and other in the Philippines. Oldest sister was a valedictorian. She also was in WWII, building airplanes as a ‘Rosie Riveter.’ During my younger days and early school, there were eight children still at the house.
We were poor. In those days, there was no government handouts. Mom, it seemed, never slept. She did laundry and ironed for others. No fancy clothes washers or dryers. Lots of heating water on a stove. Also, just clothes lines to dry. There was no end to this. Piles of clothes to wash and dry ones to ironed were all over our small house. Mom (and children) did whatever it took to survive.
I remember also walking hand-in-hand with mom downtown when I was young. We’d go to restaurants, where mom would wash its dishes. I’d stay with her in the kitchen clean up area. Then we’d go to another one or walk home after closing, seven to ten blocks, late at night. She did this no matter the temperature or weather. Where we lived, freezing and snow were possible.
My brothers and sisters who were still at home pitched in to help. Older ones would help with the younger ones. They’d also help in ways to offset costs, like working in the school cafeteria for their noon lunches. I did the same when I was big enough. Also, with a large family like ours, hand-me-down clothes and shoes happened lots, and each of us were eager to get them. Sometimes, we’d have to put cardboard in the bottom of the shoe if its sole had a hole in it.
A few other families who’d lost their dads like ours, lived in our town. Don’t remember our family or theirs living on self-pity. Our moms and their families did what was necessary to survive and reach for dreams.
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