A Letter to Mom

Dear Mom,

I think of you all the time. I wish you could know my family today, though their exploits would probably scare you. It’s such a different world, especially for women.

I realize now that your ideas were shaped by your mother—Victorian notions of what women should and should not do. I’m sure you shaped the ideas of your four girls, though we ventured farther than you. I imagine it’s always been that way.

You saw women get the vote, but you never learned to drive. You saw hemlines rise and ideas of modesty change. We have seen even more.

You had a son, nephews, and future sons-in-law in the battles of World War II. We have not yet had the third world war, but our country has more enemies today, and there are new, devious ways of hurting us.

You lived through harder times, but I think your family was always a comfort. We were probably a worry, too—because mothers always worry. You missed us when we left. In later life you often said we could always come home, that it would be nice if we all lived together.

You lived a long life, and as the baby of your family, you experienced many deaths. Sometimes I am afraid I will live as long as Aunt Ruth. You said she lived to be 100 but “didn’t know a thing.” No one wants that. You were so good, nearly to the end. Even then, you were the best patient.

How lucky we were to have you. I’m so glad you lived with us in those last years. I was beginning to write stories then, though I hadn’t finished anything.

In my earliest years you gave me a love of stories, and I wish you could have read the Mountain Women Series. There’s a lot of you in those books—your words, your ideas and ideals. Readers appreciate those things, so I thank you for that legacy.

You would be pleased to know that I’ve taken up crochet. When I’m not writing, I do it for relaxation, and it makes me think of you. My aging hands also remind me of yours, and I imagine they handle the yarn and hook the same way.

I know you never thought much of yourself, so you would be surprised that everyone remembers you as the dearest, sweetest lady. And beautiful. (I can hear you laughing.)

I hope that somehow you know these things and they make you happy.

Here’s the poem by Leigh Hunt that always makes me think of you:

Jenny kiss’d me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,
Say that health and wealth have miss’d me,
Say I’m growing old, but add,
Jenny kiss’d me.

Love,

Your Daughter