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As I remember my mother this Mother's Day, so soon after having lost her, the first thing that comes to mind is that she was strong. She fought to stay in school and graduate, even though she was as poor as a church mouse (an expression she often used) and one of 14 children growing up in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. She borrowed her sister Caroline's dresses, or coveted them when Caroline wouldn't let her. She shared a bus pass with her dad, who often hogged it and made her walk to school.
She went on to college, the only one of 7 girls to do so. She studied at Florida State University, all the while still caring for her parents, both of whom died too young, years before I was born. She married my father at 29, an old maid for her time, but she was as beautiful as those actresses in the black and white movies of her childhood.
My mother was Miss Tennis of Florida State. I can still picture her standing in her official white tennis skirt, hair pulled back in a thick brunette ponytail, holding her tennis racket as if at the top of a backhand swing.
My mother's beauty is something she never recognized. That's because her older sister was more beautiful (in her opinion) and so she was not "the pretty one" in the family. But my mother was a real beauty, the kind who would be admired by both men and women when she entered a room. She had huge, brown eyes and eyebrows that were perfectly sculpted long before there were brow salons or Oprah made them a must. Her lips were full and her smile warm.
My mother is my understanding that the words strong and beautiful can go together. You don't have to be a damsel in distress to be beautiful. You can be strong, strong enough to handle power tools, play doubles tennis at 9 months' pregnant, strong enough to raise 3 children nearly by yourself because your husband works so much, strong enough to go to college and work hard and endure unimaginable physical suffering . . . and still laugh a lyrical laugh that sounds like toddlers in a daffodil field.
Happy Mother's Day Mom.
