Who can really describe their Mother?

By

Gerry Niskern

My mother was the sixth daughter of Austrian immigrants. The family then added four boys. Back then in large families, the burden of helping out at home fell to the youngest girl. She scrubbed clothes on the washboard, gathered loose coal in a gunny sack along the railroad track every day for the stove and often carried a fussy baby brother around on her hip.

As soon as mom was big enough she dragged the large wash tub into the kitchen and helped fill it with steaming water when she saw her dad come trudging up the street from the mine. She then stood by to wash his back, black with coal dust.

In between chores, she earned spending money by scrubbing floors for a neighbor lady and caddying at the local country club.

This mother of mine, who never had an Easter dress or a Christmas toy, was determined that her two daughters have it all. We had the hair ribbons and pretty dresses. We had the cute shoes and music lessons. We had the dolls and toys that she never had.  We had the birthday and Halloween  parties and ample time to play with friends.

Best of all, she had time to play with us. We played Rummy and Monopoly, hide and seek and croquet. She went sled riding and had snow ball fights with us in the winter.

And when her grandchildren came along, even while helping to run a business, she played harder. She took them hiking in the Arizona desert and strawberry picking at Glendale farms in the spring. At rodeo time Mom made sure she had little chairs lined up along Central Ave for the start of each parade, along with cocoa and donuts if it was a cold day.

When each grandkid turned four they received a pack of bubble gum with the announcement, “Now you are old enough to learn to blow bubbles.” And she insisted they could learn to whistle at four too.

But along with all the fun came ample doses of common sense and civility. The one cardinal rule from her parents was,”Be kind to old people and those who are less fortunate than you.” A rule she always practiced in her dealings with the young Mexican women who worked in my parent’s small manufacturing shop.

That’s how I remember my mother, this daughter of immigrants.