My mother, my heritage, my writing, and me

I have to acknowledge that I’m a sentimental person. I like to keep in touch with relatives and old friends. And often, I find myself reflecting on my life and the sequence of events that got me to where I am now. I usually think about my mom’s side of the family because I knew them best.

My grandparents, Fred and Mollie Kern, my mother’s parents, started a journey in 1913 from what then was Russia to a farm in western Pennsylvania. Looking back, their timing couldn’t have been better, what with World War I beginning the next year. With them on their voyage across the sea was their three-month-old daughter, Susanna, my Aunt Susie, who died earlier this year at the age of 100. Although from Russia, they considered themselves German.

My grandparents were farmers and, to supplement farm income, my grandfather worked in the coal mines. By many people’s standards, they were poor. They were deeply religious (Missouri Synod Lutheran) and worked well before sunup and after sundown to make a life for their family. They had six children, three girls and three boys.  All boys joined the service in World War II. Uncle Gus was a tank commander and died in northern Africa.  Uncle Julius served in Europe, and my Uncle August, who is still alive, served aboard the “Lucky Lady” in the Pacific. Uncle August’s ship had a remarkable story, and I chose his exploits as a template for one of my characters in my upcoming historical novel, How Much Do You Love Me?

While the boys were off fighting the war, my mother, Ottilie, a teenager, stayed behind at the farm, saddled with milking cows and other strenuous farm work. Her older sister, Aunt Susie, had already left the farm. When Mom describes the amount of work she had to do, I can’t help but be amazed. I think I would have lasted about a day in that environment.  These were tough people.

Mom attended a one-room school house about a mile’s walk away. When you hear stories about people who walked through drifts of snow to get to school, my mother was one of them.

My mother married my father, and I came along in 1945. Compared to my mother, I had it easy. Other than normal chores, I never had to work to support our family. My mother, in the meantime, worked her entire life as a waitress, bringing in the daily tips that partly supported our family. I remember fondly her stint at Howard Johnson’s on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Long before Baskin Robins, Howard Johnson’s twenty-eight flavors of ice cream were a significant advertising feature on roadside billboards. My primary reader, Robin Brody, says that, when he was young, nothing could compare to their mint chocolate chip in a sugar cone.

I was the first from my family to go to college. Again, my parents made it easy for me. Other than my job with the U.S. Weather Bureau during undergraduate summers, I never had to work during the school year. I finished a BS and continued on to graduate school, followed by a thirty-plus year career as a civilian research meteorologist with the Navy.

Twelve years ago, I retired to write fiction.  (In another blog (click here), I discuss this choice.)  Looking back, all of that was possible because of my ancestors, beginning with the perseverance and hard work of a courageous couple brave enough to take a voyage across a huge ocean, knowing full-well they would never return to their homeland.  Truth be told, I feel guilty because I can spend time doing something I enjoy and because, whether I succeed or not, I’ll still have a roof over my head and won’t starve to death.

At my mother’s seventieth birthday party, my brother Keven remarked that what he admired most about our mother was her work ethic. That work ethic permeated the DNA for her parents, her sisters and brothers. Additionally, they were hardened by the Great Depression. In the title of his book, Tom Brokaw gave these people the ultimate compliment; they were the “Greatest Generation.”

My mother still lives only miles from where she was born. When I go to visit her next month, I will make a point of thanking her for all that she has done for me. My heritage, defined partly by her and my grandparents, is where I came from, and I couldn’t be prouder.

Categorised in: How Much

This post was written by paulmarktag01