What a Son Owed to His Mother
ALAN writes:
The worst day in my life occurred twenty years ago. It was the day my mother died.
She grew up in the 1920s-‘30s. Only rarely did she talk about those years. She remembered the very hot summers of the 1930s and how few toys children had to play with then. She had fond memories of being taken to visit an aunt and uncle at their home in the small coal-mining town of Pocahontas, Illinois, in the 1920s, when “Aunt Rosie” would select an unlucky chicken to be made into Sunday dinner. She also recalled leaving high school in order to get a job to help support the household.
But I believe the hardness of those years helped to determine her character. Pettiness, meanness, neglect — she never knew what those things were because there was no trace of them in her character.
She carried with her throughout her life a perfectly-calibrated measure of proportion and perspective and the interior restraint that prevented her from doing anything to excess. Moderation and self-discipline were built into her character. She never aimed too high. She never sought or expected something for nothing. (more…)
