1940s Motherhood
As a gift for my Mom’s birthday, I took her back to Beaver, the quaint town on the Ohio river where she grew up. As Mom and I walked from her brick home on the corner of Bank and Commerce along her usual route to the store where Grandma sent her to buy milk and bread, I stepped back in time. I never knew Mom had a green bike named Bess with a basket for her bunny. That her mother paid her a nickel to play with the girl up the street instead of the boys in the alley. And how my grandfather, the principal of Beaver High School, turned away a boy who came to take Mom out on a date. Back then, kids played outside. Grandma blew a whistle twice to call Mom and my uncles in for supper. And, like many mothers in those days, Grandma’s schedule went like this: she washed clothes on Monday, ironed on Tuesday, sewed on Wednesday, cleaned on Thursday. We’re not sure what she did on Friday. Rested, we hope.