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Remembering Martha: My Mother, My Friend
Martha, the second eldest of six children, lost her 34-year-old railroader father as a result of a head injury when he fell off a LVRR train in 1929. It was the first year of the Great Depression. That same year, her father's father, George, also passed away from old age. Alice and George lived just up the street from my mother, and my mother was very close to them And so the loss of her paternal grandfather so shortly after her father died made for a very sad year. lMy mother never talked to me about her father's death, nor the hardships which obviously followed. My father's sister, an R.N., made it her business to give everyone she ever met the third degree. Over the year, from Aunty's remarks, I gleaned that there was no compensation for my grandfather's death paid by the Lehigh Valley Railroad because a the distant relative lawyer hired by my grandmmother allowed the statute of limitations to pass. The LVRR never had to pay a dime to the fatherless family of seven. That same lawyer, according to my paternal aunt, was likely amply rewarded by the railroad company for his "forgetfulness". Martha was a "Black Irish" beauty with high cheekbones, straight black hair, dark eyes and fair skin. Mom was slim and two inches taller than the average woman of her generation. Think Ali McGraw. My ancestry research also revealed that mom, a very devout Catholic, had maternal Jewish ancestry. Her 18th century and earlier German ancestors are all buried in Judischer Friedhof Hanau (Jewish Cemetery of Hanau, Germany).
My father was not my mother's first love. Frank was a few years older than my mother. My aunt described Frank as "mild-mannered". Martha and Frank were engaged to be married when he died suddenly, age twenty six, of diabetes. The next year, while on a trip to New York City to visit a relative, my mother was introduced to my father by his Army buddy - a mutual friend of both. The chance encounter took place on the steps of Saint Patrick's Cathedral in Manhattan, where my mother had gone to light a candle and pray. My mother's shyness prevented her from making a lot of friends - even as an adult. On hot summer evenings, while the other ladies of the neighborhood passed evening hours by sitting on wooden front porches and catching up on the latest gossip, my mother remained at home behind the safety of her sheer dime-store curtains in our rented home. On hindsight, I realze she would have loved to join her fellow housewives, not for the gossip but for the companionship. (I never heard my mother say an unking word about anyone). Sadly, none of the neighborhood women ever knocked on our door to invite my mother to join them. And she was just too insecure and shy to approach any of their porches uninvited. And so my mother's social activities in the neighborhood were restricted to friendly waves and short conversations over the backyard fence or clothesline. But "Mommy", as her children continued to call her even after we were all fully matured adults, achieved great things that not many of us, including myself, can claim: she dedicated each day to God, rising daily at 5AM to say her rosary and other prayers, and she dedicated all of her time to being a full-time, devoted wife (a lone caretaker to my father for the last six years of her life) and a wonderful, selfless mother. She was always there for her husband and children - literally. I'm ashamed to say we were not quite as unselfish. I can remember countless times when my mother would need or want something: a permanent; a new pair of shoes; an appliance, or a new coat or dress. She would put small amounts of cash aside, when she could, to save for the desired or needed item. This painstakingly saved money was kept rolled up in rubberbands (thereby hidden-in-plain-sight from my father, who liked to play cards with the boys) in a corner of the kitchen cupboard. Invariably, one of her four children, and sometimes my father, would want or need money for a particular luxury. And just as invariably, after listening to our request, Martha would reach into that cupboard, pull out that rubber-banded money and hand it over to the requester. My mother made selflessness seem easy. Looking back, I am overwhelmed at how good a person my mother was. I say this not just because she was good to her own children. Thank God, most of us are good to our children. But my mother went far beyond the ordinary goodness. My mother was kind to everyone- even those who were often unkind to her. This included my aunt. One of the very last things my mother did was visit my her in the hospital. My mother was more ill than my aunt at the time, and only had a few weeks to live. No one but my mother knew about her illness, and the trip to my aunt's hospital bed must have required a monumental effort both physically and emotionally. (My aunt did recover and went on for another 21 years.)
I know many of you out there are fortunate enough to have a mother like the one I had. How blessed you are. If you are also lucky enough to still have her with you on this earth, please go and give her a hug and a kiss, and tell her how much you recognize and appreciate all that she's given to you. Tell her how she has taught you, through her example, to be a better parent, a better spouse, and a better human being. It will make up for all the little sacrifices she made for you, and even for the ones you'll never know about.
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