In Memoriam

My mother grew up in Litchfield, in southern Illinois, the second of five children.  She was a child of the depression, and, like others of that generation, it forever colored her life. 

Her father, James, started working in the coal mines at age 14, served in WWI, and  believed in the tenets of the unions.  My mother thought he should have worried a little bit more about putting food on the table. 

Her mother, Ruth, worked at the Brown Shoe Factory, did beautiful handwork, and loved to garden so much that she had to “cook on the high burner” to have dinner on the table in time to suit her husband. 

Part of what Tom Brokaw called “The Greatest Generation,”  my mother married her high school sweetheart, Glenn, in 1944, when my dad was home on leave from the Army.  After the war, they moved to Champaign so that he could attend the University on the GI Bill.  They were married for 62 years, and my dad said, “That wasn’t long enough.”

I was just two when they built their own home, relying on the help of family and friends.  I grew up during those “Leave it to Beaver” years, but, instead of June Cleaver, my mother was “Ethyl” to her friend Jane’s “Lucy.”  Only once did they ever have a real falling out.  They did not speak for perhaps two hours, before “Lucy” came to our door bearing a broomstick with a white flag attached. 

But we all know that real life was much more complicated than that depicted in the sit-coms on television. My mother suffered for decades with near debilitating agoraphobia.  However that never affected her ability to provide a home rich in love for my dad and I and all her extended family.  She never ceased trying to conquer the disease and finally did after many decades with the help of a newly-developed medication.

My mother was known by other names in addition to “Ethyl.”  She was named “Sweetie” by Mark, her nephew, when he was quite young.  The nickname stuck because it was so appropriate.  She generously knitted numerous baby blankets and  more than 150 Christmas stockings for family and friends.  For many years, she and I made Christmas cookies by the thousands, something the neighbors especially anticipated.  But most of all, my mother was generous with hugs and kisses, whether welcomed or not! 
   
 My dad often called my mother “Patty Perfect,” as she strove to do things perfectly and usually succeeded.  Quite an accomplishment for a mere mortal.  Only recently did I realize that when something unexpectedly went wrong, my mother was quick to assign blame to someone else.  My dad and I were easy targets. 
    
A “Disciple of Christ.”  That was another of my mother’s names.  As a child she walked with her family to church every Sunday and upon the move to Champaign, she and my dad joined the Disciples church there.  She loved her church family and enjoyed being with it through worship, women’s circle, and book club.  She made so many golden glow Jello salads for church-served funeral dinners, that every Easter when she made it for our family, she just told us she was serving “funeral salad.”
 
Yes, she was known by many names: daughter, sister, beloved wife, mother.  But, best of all, she has always and will forever be a child of God.  She is at peace.  She is home.  All is well.