MOTHER’S DAY

It’s hard to know what to write on Mother’s Day. My mother and mother-in-law are both gone. Not that I don’t remember them often and wish I could ask them how they did a certain thing or how they coped. Both my mother and mother-in-law lived through the Great Depression. I know it greatly affected them in ways most of us can’t imagine.
My own mother have tuberculosis and spent time in a sanatorium in the late 30s. The things those patients endured was downright barbaric. And yet she learned to write poetry there and her journals of that period of her life are full of her poems–some so sad I can’t bear to read them, others poking fun at her station in life. Like this one:

REST HOURS

From nine to ten ’tis rest we must

Don’t you agree it isn’t just?

For we all find ’tis talk or bust

When Pat, the maid, comes in to dust.

From one to three we try to sleep

Tho’ minds do work and thoughts are deep,

And oftimes thoughts they almost leap

From out our minds, ‘twould make one weep.

From to half past seven we rest,

At least we try to do our best,

But we find resting such a test

When we are feeling at our best.

Besides all this; before each meal

The last half hour the doctors feel

We all should rest; our lungs to heal,

No doubt ’twill help digest our veal.

I once visted the san where she lived for the better part of two years. Although it is now derelict I could see the beauty and serenity of the surroundings and how everything was intended to make rest possible.

Mother also sketched and drew. As children, my brothers and I would pick wildflowers and carry them home for her to draw. Here is a sample of the wild Alberta rose (Our provincial flower). I never see these wild flowers without thinking of her.