Evelyn Ruth

My mother had me when she was 40 years old. I hate the expression, back in those days, but really back in those days being 40 was a high-risk pregnancy. For my mother I think it probably felt like a death sentence, in more ways than one. 

She had lived a life of adventure. She followed my dad and his military career all over the world. She met cannibals in the Philippines, clearly that went in her favor and she wasn’t Sunday Supper. She set up camp 33 times over and over again at each of his duty stations.

In my memories of her, nothing seemed impossible. One of her favorite stories is how when she and my father were stationed in GAWD knows where, she managed to come home from the PX with the General’s turkey for her own Thanksgiving’s guests. That was the same year that she had cut the bread and left it in the rafters to dry and the ants had taken claim. She simply moved forward, ants and all, and told the guests it was heavily peppered. Seriously, my mother was what we might say today, a ball buster. 

When my father’s military career ended they moved to a farm in western PA with my grandparents. The large farm house was equipped with two kitchens, two separate living spaces, and one thin wall between. 

As my mom’s adventurous worldly life came to a screeching halt, getting pregnant was yet one more step away from a life she had grown accustomed to. Needless to say, I’m not sure being a mother of a young child again was on her list of priorities. 

But because she was my mom, and the woman that she was, she picked herself up and threw herself into her new world. She became Martha Stewart before anyone even knew what that name was synonymous with. She baked. I can’t even begin to count the amount of times I would walk through our dining room and there would be dozens of warm, out-of-the-oven bread filling the air with the aroma of butter and yeast. It  warmed the room so much the windows would steam up, like our own miniature boulangerie. Her garden was filled with every vegetable imaginable that she would later can and “put” up for the winter. Filling our basement with the bounty from her efforts. Her cooking, which happened in a postage size kitchen I might add, had hints of all her world travels, pieces from the orient, or from Europe, she brought it all with her. Then there were the craft and sewing projects. Her sewing was that of a master tailor. 

When I reflect back on all that she did to make our world good, I often wonder how hard it must have been for her to make the sacrifices that she did. She did it because she loved my father and she loved her children. That’s what moms do. 

It’s not always easy to see that from a child’s eye. I hope that I can measure up someday in my children’s eyes to my mom’s legacy.

Happy Mother’s Day