This is the truest piece I’ve ever written about my mother. Today is her birthday. She would have been 99. I miss her.
This is a picture of my mother in 1939, taken two months after giving birth to her first child, my big brother John. One wonders how she could be so slim and so stylish.
Her expression tells me that she agreed to hold the fish. It wasn’t her idea. But she likely caught it. She knew how to fish. She knew how to do things.
She grew up somewhat well-to-do in a small town in Michigan. Her father owned a lumber yard and was a community leader. Her mother ordered groceries over the phone and had the dressmaker come to the house. My mother had two brothers and a sister and a growing up life that was good, even through the Depression when they had to grow their own food in the backyard and learn to make their own clothes. My mother could make potato soup to feed an army…
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