My mom raised three families. She perpetually mothered someone. She worked hard, too, throughout her life.

The first family she raised was her younger siblings. There were actually five of them, but the 13-day-old baby left behind when her mother died suddenly was raised by an aunt. Her eldest brother was being held as a Prisoner of War in Germany during WWII.

Her hopes and dreams of becoming a school teacher were crushed as she had no choice but to drop out of school at age sixteen in order to run the household, enabling her father to provide their support.

Times were tough, but folks were tougher. They stepped up and did what was needed to be done rather than shirking responsibility. Hard times call for sacrifice. Her work load increased.

Housekeeping alone required much more effort in those days than at present. Every meal was cooked from scratch; every drop of water used was carried in a bucket from the well in the side yard.

Laundry was at least a two-day affair — longer in the winter when wet clothes were stretched and strung all over the inside of the house to dry. Nearly every piece had to be ironed. At long last, electricity became available. They could run a refrigerator, a radio, and an iron plugged into the socket hung from the ceiling with a lone light bulb in it. Those modern conveniences were wonderful and welcomed.

Literally keeping the home fires burning was a way of life. The only heat and cooking source was a wood fire occasionally supplemented by coal spilled off box cars and picked up along the railroad tracks.

Despite seeming luxuries, nearly every bite they ate was raised on the place. Much time was spent planting, nurturing, harvesting, and preserving food to get them through the long winter months. On top of that, most of their clothing was sewn from feed sacks at home on the old treadle Singer.

Add cooking, cleaning, milking the cow, feeding the chickens and livestock, etc. and it’s easy to see there wasn’t much free time.

With four younger siblings to care for, Mom was always busy but robbed of some of the best times of her life transitioning from a young lady into full-grown womanhood. It’s a wonder she found time to meet my dad.

On rare occasions she discussed those days. They made her sad.

When her youngest sibling was eight, she married my dad, and voila, I was born. Within ten years she birthed four more children, so without a break, motherhood continued for her.

When I, her firstborn, married during my senior year of high school, she still had four others to raise. By the time the youngest graduated from high school, she was doting on grandchildren and soon began raising my sister’s three children following a divorce.

The details are complicated and do not really matter, but the fact is that she went from age sixteen through retirement age raising children — hers and others. She also worked full time during most of those years.

Rarely sitting down — even to eat — she was always busy doing something, usually in the kitchen. Despite her difficulties in life, she often hummed or sang as she went about her solitary chores. Of course, youngsters were always there to share the load, if somewhat reluctantly, but it was her habit to go behind them and do it right.

Daddy wasn’t any help doing “woman’s work.” As king of his castle, he was actually demanding and allowed money to slip through his fingers while Mom juggled to make minimum payments on their eternal debts. Getting ahead is a struggle when one continually buys interest.

Mom worked outside the home for years before managing to scrape and squirrel away enough money for a down payment on their first home.

In total, she raised twelve children over five decades: four younger siblings, five of her own children, and three grandchildren. Her influence is still felt. While not always the ideal role model (but then who is?) she tried her best with her limited knowledge and skills.

Rocking a baby nestled in her arm and singing an old-time lullaby always brought light to her face. During her last years, as her mind became ravaged by dementia, I gave her a life-size, weighted doll. Wrapped in a blanket I offered it to her. She smiled as she reached for it with joy as her countenance literally changed.

She often sat gazing into its face, rocking her upper body and singing strains of “Bye Oh Baby Bunting, Daddy’s gone a hunting.”

Her influence helped mold each of us she raised, as well as others. Yes, she truly mothered many.