Bea V. Larsen . . . .Commentaries |
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Bea V. Larsen is a Senior Mediator at the Center for Resolution of Disputes in |
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My Mother-in-Law This entry was posted on 3/22/2008 11:22 AM and is filed under Personally Speaking. I rise early each morning, make coffee and return to bed, laptop propped against my knees. A favored time for checking in with the world. Often, I follow the advice of the latest happiness guru whose book I’ve read, and consider what I’m grateful about on that day.
At this time of year my mother-in-law always comes to mind. Leora Larsen died on Easter Sunday almost ten years ago at the age of ninety-eight. Born at the turn of the last century, she was five years old when her mother died of tuberculosis. Her father, unable to cope alone, left her in the care of two kindly women who ran a bakery and took in foster children. Attending school only until the eighth grade, she began at a very early age to care for the younger ones, many babies, who followed her into foster care. Soon, she also learned the skill of pastry and bread making. At 18 she met and married the man who was her husband for over fifty years. Together they raised four children, living for most of those years in a small midwest prairie town, which during their lifetime became suburban Chicago. My husband, Len, was their first son. Leora’s role was never in question, the full time care of the family, which expanded during the depression years, as displaced relatives moved in under their small roof. Her husband, who worked as an electrician for the railroad, established the boundaries and direction of their life together. As a visitor, I rarely witnessed either touch the other, but never had cause to question their mutual devotion or respect, their privacy closely guarded. When I came to know her, she dressed in print cotton dresses of no particular style, hair pulled into a bun, face free of makeup, devoid of vanity. Without flourish or pose, she managed the family’s world. A cup of hot coffee an ever present offering in her warm simple kitchen. I thought of Leora as having pioneer-like strength, could readily imagine her driving a covered wagon across the plains. Yet, she expressed a quiet scorn for the message feminists began to voice in the sixties. Len and I and our young family visited several times a year. Conversations around the table as the extended family gathered were about the route chosen for the drive from Cincinnati, activities of the day and the weather. Only minimum creature comforts in their home were deemed important, except for the babies. Displays of affection were few, except for the babies. By my New York City politically liberal lights, their small town community was ultra conservative. FDR, the hero in my childhood home, here was cast as a villain. Theirs was a like-minded, insular community which, before the sands of cultural change began to shift after World War II, was solely white and Christian, outsiders suspect. As I came to know Leora through Len’s stories of his childhood and our visits over the years, she continued to hold firmly to the political and cultural values of her earlier time and place. She and I, a generation apart, were as different in background and world view as two people could be, but from the day we met and ever after, she welcomed me without reservation as a loved member of the family. An extension of her love for her son? I’ve often wondered, marveled, how this woman raised the free thinker I married, a man who reveled in and welcomed human differences and disdained exclusivity in any form. But I’ve always known that it was at her knee he learned kindness, which she offered without reservation to anyone in need. And from her he learned to expect great things from women, to admire their strength. How grateful I am. CommentsDisplay comments as (Linear | Threaded)
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