Unlike with my father, it's difficult to write about one major event which might describe my mother. When I think about her, which seems to be more frequently as time passes, my thoughts are a kaleidoscope of images and memories. I can, however, tell you about all the fine qualities she possessed.
She was selfless to a fault, always putting her husband and children first. She was the hardest working woman I ever met—a trait she inherited from her mother. She was intelligent, witty, kind, and nurturing. She had a wonderful sense of humor. She was also a top-notch sales person, a wonderful cook (pies were her specialty), an experienced seamstress, and an entertaining story teller. During difficult times, she was frugal (though she'd deny it) and would walk a mile rather than spend money for a bus ride if she thought the money was better spent elsewhere. She was forgiving; her love was unconditional. But most of all, she possessed an inner strength of which few people knew.
At the time of his death, she had been married to my father well over sixty years; prior to that, she had lived with her mother. She had never lived alone. And during her marriage, it was no secret that my father was the one who made all the decisions. It was not surprising, then, that she initially had misgivings about continuing to live on their ranch in the Sierra Foothills after he died. These uncertainties didn't last long, however.
No sooner had she gotten herself a dog or two and oiled up the trusty 410, than she could be seen making weekly trips to town to shop, visit her children, attend church or get her hair done (and always with the loaded 22 Woodsman tucked safely in the glove compartment). No longer did she have to account for her whereabouts; the reins had been let loose and my mother was now free to canter as she pleased.
Of course, this upset more than a few relatives who expected her to maintain the status quo and continue living the role only they assumed she had been born to—one of subservience and submissiveness. Oh, but they didn't know my mother or the fun loving, carefree girl she had been before she married and had children. And nothing, absolutely nothing could make her more upset than that one, especially nosey relative who made it her business to try to convince my mother to move into town.
For over ten years, my mother not only lived alone on her ranch (battling rattlesnakes, an occasional tarantula, the heat, and the few Jehovah Witnesses who dared to drive up the scarred and pitted dirt road) but she enjoyed every minute of it. She was, at last, living life on her terms. No longer could children, grandchildren, and a variety of relatives assume my mother was at home and drop by to visit; they must call first to be sure she was there, because for the first time in a very, very long time, my mother had a life of her own.
My mother was a remarkable woman. Too late have I realized this. She remains a tribute to all those women of her generation who finally get the opportunity to discover what they are really capable of doing on their own.
I smile when I think about her.
She was selfless to a fault, always putting her husband and children first. She was the hardest working woman I ever met—a trait she inherited from her mother. She was intelligent, witty, kind, and nurturing. She had a wonderful sense of humor. She was also a top-notch sales person, a wonderful cook (pies were her specialty), an experienced seamstress, and an entertaining story teller. During difficult times, she was frugal (though she'd deny it) and would walk a mile rather than spend money for a bus ride if she thought the money was better spent elsewhere. She was forgiving; her love was unconditional. But most of all, she possessed an inner strength of which few people knew.
At the time of his death, she had been married to my father well over sixty years; prior to that, she had lived with her mother. She had never lived alone. And during her marriage, it was no secret that my father was the one who made all the decisions. It was not surprising, then, that she initially had misgivings about continuing to live on their ranch in the Sierra Foothills after he died. These uncertainties didn't last long, however.
No sooner had she gotten herself a dog or two and oiled up the trusty 410, than she could be seen making weekly trips to town to shop, visit her children, attend church or get her hair done (and always with the loaded 22 Woodsman tucked safely in the glove compartment). No longer did she have to account for her whereabouts; the reins had been let loose and my mother was now free to canter as she pleased.
Of course, this upset more than a few relatives who expected her to maintain the status quo and continue living the role only they assumed she had been born to—one of subservience and submissiveness. Oh, but they didn't know my mother or the fun loving, carefree girl she had been before she married and had children. And nothing, absolutely nothing could make her more upset than that one, especially nosey relative who made it her business to try to convince my mother to move into town.
For over ten years, my mother not only lived alone on her ranch (battling rattlesnakes, an occasional tarantula, the heat, and the few Jehovah Witnesses who dared to drive up the scarred and pitted dirt road) but she enjoyed every minute of it. She was, at last, living life on her terms. No longer could children, grandchildren, and a variety of relatives assume my mother was at home and drop by to visit; they must call first to be sure she was there, because for the first time in a very, very long time, my mother had a life of her own.
My mother was a remarkable woman. Too late have I realized this. She remains a tribute to all those women of her generation who finally get the opportunity to discover what they are really capable of doing on their own.
I smile when I think about her.
Unlike with my father, it's difficult to write about one major event which might describe my mother. When I think about her, which seems to be more frequently as time passes, my thoughts are a kaleidoscope of images and memories. I can, however, tell you about all the fine qualities she possessed.
She was selfless to a fault, always putting her husband and children first. She was the hardest working woman I ever met—a trait she inherited from her mother. She was intelligent, witty, kind, and nurturing. She had a wonderful sense of humor. She was also a top-notch sales person, a wonderful cook (pies were her specialty), an experienced seamstress, and an entertaining story teller. During difficult times, she was frugal (though she'd deny it) and would walk a mile rather than spend money for a bus ride if she thought the money was better spent elsewhere. She was forgiving; her love was unconditional. But most of all, she possessed an inner strength of which few people knew.
At the time of his death, she had been married to my father well over sixty years; prior to that, she had lived with her mother. She had never lived alone. And during her marriage, it was no secret that my father was the one who made all the decisions. It was not surprising, then, that she initially had misgivings about continuing to live on their ranch in the Sierra Foothills after he died. These uncertainties didn't last long, however.
No sooner had she gotten herself a dog or two and oiled up the trusty 410, than she could be seen making weekly trips to town to shop, visit her children, attend church or get her hair done (and always with the loaded 22 Woodsman tucked safely in the glove compartment). No longer did she have to account for her whereabouts; the reins had been let loose and my mother was now free to canter as she pleased.
Of course, this upset more than a few relatives who expected her to maintain the status quo and continue living the role only they assumed she had been born to—one of subservience and submissiveness. Oh, but they didn't know my mother or the fun loving, carefree girl she had been before she married and had children. And nothing, absolutely nothing could make her more upset than that one, especially nosey relative who made it her business to try to convince my mother to move into town.
For over ten years, my mother not only lived alone on her ranch (battling rattlesnakes, an occasional tarantula, the heat, and the few Jehovah Witnesses who dared to drive up the scarred and pitted dirt road) but she enjoyed every minute of it. She was, at last, living life on her terms. No longer could children, grandchildren, and a variety of relatives assume my mother was at home and drop by to visit; they must call first to be sure she was there, because for the first time in a very, very long time, my mother had a life of her own.
My mother was a remarkable woman. Too late have I realized this. She remains a tribute to all those women of her generation who finally get the opportunity to discover what they are really capable of doing on their own.
I smile when I think about her.
She was selfless to a fault, always putting her husband and children first. She was the hardest working woman I ever met—a trait she inherited from her mother. She was intelligent, witty, kind, and nurturing. She had a wonderful sense of humor. She was also a top-notch sales person, a wonderful cook (pies were her specialty), an experienced seamstress, and an entertaining story teller. During difficult times, she was frugal (though she'd deny it) and would walk a mile rather than spend money for a bus ride if she thought the money was better spent elsewhere. She was forgiving; her love was unconditional. But most of all, she possessed an inner strength of which few people knew.
At the time of his death, she had been married to my father well over sixty years; prior to that, she had lived with her mother. She had never lived alone. And during her marriage, it was no secret that my father was the one who made all the decisions. It was not surprising, then, that she initially had misgivings about continuing to live on their ranch in the Sierra Foothills after he died. These uncertainties didn't last long, however.
No sooner had she gotten herself a dog or two and oiled up the trusty 410, than she could be seen making weekly trips to town to shop, visit her children, attend church or get her hair done (and always with the loaded 22 Woodsman tucked safely in the glove compartment). No longer did she have to account for her whereabouts; the reins had been let loose and my mother was now free to canter as she pleased.
Of course, this upset more than a few relatives who expected her to maintain the status quo and continue living the role only they assumed she had been born to—one of subservience and submissiveness. Oh, but they didn't know my mother or the fun loving, carefree girl she had been before she married and had children. And nothing, absolutely nothing could make her more upset than that one, especially nosey relative who made it her business to try to convince my mother to move into town.
For over ten years, my mother not only lived alone on her ranch (battling rattlesnakes, an occasional tarantula, the heat, and the few Jehovah Witnesses who dared to drive up the scarred and pitted dirt road) but she enjoyed every minute of it. She was, at last, living life on her terms. No longer could children, grandchildren, and a variety of relatives assume my mother was at home and drop by to visit; they must call first to be sure she was there, because for the first time in a very, very long time, my mother had a life of her own.
My mother was a remarkable woman. Too late have I realized this. She remains a tribute to all those women of her generation who finally get the opportunity to discover what they are really capable of doing on their own.
I smile when I think about her.
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"Hope Perches in the Soul"
(from a poem by Emily Dickinson)
Gravesite Details
Very dry area with lots of squirrel holes. Watch out for occasional rattlesnake!
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