Strength, A story of Poise, Love and Loss

The Strength of My Mother

I had just turned nine years old the year my mother showed more strength and compassion than anyone could imagine. But I never realized it until I was grown up, married, and had children of my own.

We were a family who loved tradition and our religion. Christmas was especially important to us, after four weeks of Advent, and making all the preparations for Christmas Eve when we would set up the tree, talk about every ornament we put on it, and my mother would be sure every strand of tinsel was perfectly straight.

We never sent Christmas cards out until a few days before Christmas, and for that, we all lined up around the dining room table and took part in the process. Because my parents were both well known and loved, and because my father was a famed newspaper reporter and head of the Draft Board in Union, the largest in the state, we had hundreds of cards to mail. So the four of us, my two older brothers and sister and I, lined up around the table to put the cards in envelopes, address and stamp the envelopes, pile them in neat order and laugh about how we looked in that year’s photo.

The cards were always photos were of the family in a Christmas setting. Uncle Len, Len Morgan, was a photographer for the New York Journal American newspaper, and he and my parents always set up an appointment for him to come and create that year’s photo.  In 1945, we had taken the photo around Dec. 10^th and were waiting for Uncle Len to bring the finished product so we could do the procedure.

But my father came home from work Dec. 15, and said he had pains in his chest. He went up to rest while my mother called the doctor and prepared supper for all of us, reminding us to be quiet so “Daddy can rest.”

Our friend, Dr. Imbleau, came shortly after, assured us Daddy would be fine but needed a lot of rest before he would be better. We all went to bed saying special prayers for Daddy.

It was after 1 a.m., with us children all asleep, when my father died. There was not much help for heart attacks those days. My mother called each of us into her bedroom as we awoke the next morning to let us know God had taken Daddy to heaven with him. It was nine days before Christmas.

This nine-year-old grew up a lot in the next few days. There were two days of visitation, both afternoon and evening, and though my mother did not have us at the funeral parlor each day, we knew that hundreds of people passed my father’s casket to shake my mother’s hand, hug her, or simply express sympathy and tell her what a wonderful man he was.

The day of the funeral was blizzard-like, with inches of snow in the street and lines of cars processing from the Leonard Funeral home in Elizabeth to Saint Michael’s Church in Union with half a dozen or more priests were on the altar and the church filled to overflowing. The trip to Saint Gertrude’s Cemetery in Rahway was long, filled with snow and lines of cars. My mother told us to say a fond farewell to our father.

It was now five days before Christmas. The Christmas cards did not get mailed that year.

We put the reindeer up on the mantelpiece, nestled the stable in the fireplace, decorated the tree Christmas Eve and hung our stockings before saying our prayers and going to bed. My mother was telling us how much fun Christmas would be as she put the finishing touches on all the decorations.

In the morning, as usual, we all came down the stairs together to gasp and giggle over the array of presents under the tree. My mother watched silently as she sat on the landing of the living room steps watching and hearing us delight over our gifts.

For me, all l  saw was the two-wheeler. My first bike. It was blue and black, with shiny handlebars and a basket. I forgot about the sadness of losing my father. I was excited and ran and hugged my mother.

“That’s the last Christmas gift Daddy bought,” she said calmly. I did not even see the tears in her eyes.

I was nine years old and just happy to have a bike.

The years passed, I finished school, got married, moved to Highlands and Jimmy and I had a Christmas tree of our own.

It was not that First Christmas, but the next one, the first one for our first child, Kathy. That was when it hit me.

As Jimmy and I thrilled over Kathy, not quite a year old, so excited by the lights, the music, the toys, the bright colors, gurgling and chattering with joy, I suddenly asked myself: How did my mother do it?

How did my mother, only 45 years old, married 20 years, with four kids, ever put up a front for us nine days after her very loved husband died, so we could enjoy Christmas?

How did my mother, only five days after she cried out in agony as they lowered my father into the grave, pull it together so she could get all our gifts under the tree.

How did my mother make the house seem festive so her children would have a happy Christmas?

How did my mother have the strength I would never have to tuck her own grief inside her heart and pour out so much love and care for her children?

My mother lived another 50 years after my father died. She never remarried; she waited until we were all in high school, then, in those days of just start-up social security, went to school herself to get her real estate license and begin work selling houses so we could still keep our house at 1039 Bertram Terrace.

As each of us married and had our own families, she hugged and loved all of the grandchildren and great grandchildren. She told them stories about her own growing up, about happy Christmases, about some of the traits and talents they inherited from their grandfather, and she shared photographs and stories about him.

But she never told them of our own strength that first Christmas nine days after she lost him. They each learned on their own, in their own way, as I had done, just what a strong and wonderful woman she was