February 8, 1926 - October 13, 2022
Mom is gone, resting now beside Dad. Both of them lived long, varied and productive lives. I’ve written about my dad in a previous blog (March 22, 2020), so this one will focus on my mother.
Two quite magical things happened in regards to my mother. One occurred after her death. My youngest brother and I were cleaning out Mom’s room in the long term care home where she’d spent her last few years, some of them with Dad. There were several photos of Mom at different stages of her life. We were familiar with most of them, but one we hadn’t seen before. Mom was about 19 and there was German cursive writing on the back, not easy to read. I struggled a bit but began to translate for my brother. Had to stop, got choked up. Roughly translated it read, “Is the time sometimes long, dearest then think of this, that far, far away a girl sits who cares for you, waits for the time when you will come.” At the time, I think Dad was still in prisoner of war camp in Canada. Our eventual parents hadn’t met in person, had started writing to each other through the German Red Cross, which connected young single men in the army with girls at home. Mom had sent him the picture. A glimpse into the past, into who my mother was before she had me or my brothers.
I have many memories of Mom from the time I was small in Germany. She’d get me up for school (I occasionally had to be there for 8:30 am), sometimes make me an eggnog and feed it to me. I wasn’t a morning person even then. Evenings I remember lying in bed while she moved around the apartment, and later the house we inhabited in Canada, all the while singing. Songs of her childhood, German folk songs. I still recall many of the words and tunes.
She had great courage because she and my father decided to leave family and friends to come to Canada, believing that life would be better there. My father went first to work on farms and save money so he could bring us over eventually. But Mom didn’t wait for that. She found out that the Canadian Council of Churches was sponsoring families to join husbands and fathers and she got us into that program. My grandfather, who lived with us and whom I loved dearly wasn’t happy with us going. I understand all the emotions on all sides much better now than I did then. It was 1955 and Mom had two small children to take on a train, then a boat across the Atlantic, then onto a Canadian train thousands of mile across country. To a farm where we lived for the summer in a bunkhouse.
We eventually moved to another, better farm, near Elrose and our family grew to three children. When I was in grade eight we moved to town, Dad got work in what was then the Golden Years Lodge and Mom eventually worked there too. The times were not so easy, money was tight; my teens led to some clashes as isn’t uncommon. Still she sang, cooked, looked after her children and sewed — clothes for herself and for me. She sewed my graduation dress (long); we wouldn’t have been able to afford to buy one ready made.
Mom sang in the church choir, took part in bible study groups. She left her job at the Golden Years Lodge to start an in-home daycare, and also ran a preschool program in the church basement. This fulfilled a dream she’d had as a young woman, of working with children.
Mom loved to read, as did Dad; they passed that love of books onto us, their children. The two of them talked a lot, argued sometimes, tried to pass on their wisdom as parents will. We, the three children, went on to our own lives. But she passed on her interest in sewing and knitting to me as well as cooking.
In her later years, Mom often said to me, “Don’t get old.” At the time, this annoyed me. I once retorted, “Should I die young?”
I’ve gained a better understanding of Mom as I’ve grown older, have experienced personally that aging brings challenges and frustrations. I know that’s what she really meant by that comment. I’m trying to stay positive, age as well as I can. I’m sad that she felt those frustrations and wasn’t able to find ways to be happier. Still, I saw that the first couple of years she and Dad spent in long term care were fairly positive. Mom enjoyed taking part in the activities. Her dementia eventually grew worse, but I found ways to connect with her. She reverted to German often and I could speak German to her. I could play her German music. I could just sit with her.
The other magical thing about Mom happened just after we’d moved both my parents into long term care. Both my brothers and I were involved, though my youngest brother had to leave before we completely finished cleaning their seniors’ housing. It had been hard for me. I’d lived the closest to my parents for a while, drove out to visit them. But as my mom aged she became more difficult, harder to get along with, more prone to be critical, saying negative things. Probably the beginnings of the dementia that a few years later took over. I wasn’t feeling very positive about my mom at that point. Then I found a letter that Mom had written to me while I was in Outlook Hospital with appendicitis in August, 1955. My father worked for a farmer near Hawarden and we lived on the farm there. In the hospital, it was taking a while for reasons I don’t understand for them to operate. I seem to remember that they weren’t sure if it was appendicitis at first. Anyway the letter started “Liebes Reginchen,” and contained lots of other endearments and pet names. She told me to be brave and said that if I was still in the hospital by Sunday she would come. She also wrote that my brother kept asking where ‘Gine’ was. She wrote about the simple things of their days - rain, my brother eating an egg, my father milking the cow, herself catching two mice. She said that if I had pain I should tell the doctor so he would know what to do, and told me to do what the doctor said. The letter ended with love and kisses from Mama, Papa and my brother, along with a pencil scribble that was obviously from my brother, who I think was about two at the time.
So much love poured out of that letter to me that day as we stood in the partially cleaned house. I remembered that I had had a mother who loved me and that who she was now and the things she said and did couldn’t take that away.
I will remember the good times with Mom, will think of her often and reflect on what she passed on to me.
NOTE: The framed picture and the image on the mug above are of Danzig/Gdańsk, the city where Mom was born and lived until the war began.
