REMEMBERING JENNIE

July 12 was the anniversary of my mother’s 1895 birth, the year before Sigmund Freud published The Aetiology of Hysteria. The fifth child of seven in her immigrant Swedish family, she was the first born in the United States and the only one to finish High School. She searched Titles for the City of Bristol, Connecticut until the birth of my brother when, ‘of course,’ she gave it up because she was now a mother. Fifty years after her retirement her work was remembered in the Bristol Press. I believe her bouts of depression were related to Betty Friedan’s “problem that has no name.”

Jean, my cousin once removed (or something like that) shared this memory, “I can still clearly picture your proud looking Dad and meticulously dressed Mother walking down the aisle at Bethesda Lutheran on a Sunday morning,” That basically says it all. From the beginning when they dated in horse and buggy, the church was the center of their lives. On the days when mother wasn’t sitting by her bedroom’s upstairs window sewing or mending, watching for my homecoming, she was greeting me as I joined her at one of the women’s circle meetings.

Mother’s day was predictable: breakfast ready for us when we got up – orange juice, coffee, toast and cereal or eggs and, for me, a spoonful of cod liver oil followed by a chocolate candy kiss to kill the taste. Lunch ready for my father when he came home for his midday break from the office, followed by clean-up and a nap. She was bathed, refreshed (as if she needed it – always clothed in a pretty dress and apron) when he got home after work. So was I when I was little – toys stashed, hands washed, clothes tidied.

Hallie and I picked violets for our mothers on Mother’s Day. My father frequently picked Lillies of the Valley for her from his beautifully kept gardens. Mother picked herself up when she was needed, like the time we went to the 1939 World’s Fair, carrying our packed lunch, and enjoying it, even though she had a terrible cold. Or when she came for a week to help Lou and me with our firstborn, or home-schooled me when I missed three months of third grade, homebound with chicken box and then whooping cough. Or when she brought me food and treats the weekend I hibernated in their study, finishing my thesis.

Mother achieved the end in 1975, but she’s been looking back at me in the mirror regularly for some time.