Frailty was Never

Her name was Woman never Frailty , and she was my Mom.

I wish you had known her, and possibly those words say it far better than I ever could.

But, obviously that is now impossible, so let me tell you about the woman who was baptized Anna, but always asked to be called Ann.

Her literary heroine was Anne of Green cables, a fictional heroine who was fanciful, imaginative and dramatic.

None of those adjectives describe the Mother I knew, but quite possibly identified the woman who had disappeared before my birth.

She was then Anna King and had been working full time since her 14th birthday. Somewhere before she completed her final year of education (8th grade in Parochial school) she spent some time in “business classes.”

It was there the young woman (or still child) learned to type, and do it exceedingly well. This ability opened the door unexpectedly to employment with a prestigious Magazine,

Vanity Fair was an American society magazine published from 1913 to 1936.and introduced Ann King to a world far from her vastly overcrowded home on Tenth Avenue in Hells Kitchen. It was there she made lifelong friends and when she married (ten years later) was gifted with a full set of exquisite imported bone china by her coworkers.

I know she smiles (from above) when my daughter (and her first grandchild) places it nightly on her lovely dining room table. It must evoke memories the woman called Ann seldom shared with my sisters or I.

Anna had vanished and Ann was now her identity and perhaps some of her dreams had left also. She fell in love with a young man with red hair who taught her to laugh as well as love, and had almost as many family responsibilities and burdens as she.

Their engagement was announced, sealed with an exquisite diamond, but soon broken.

The following month (after both lovers made major family concessions) their commitment was reaffirmed with the gift of a blue sapphire and diamond bracelet, and a quiet wedding planned.

A Granddaughter now wears the exquisite heirloom bracelet.

Neither family attended the quiet ceremony in the parish church where both bride and groom worshipped. Years later Ann King Donlon’s unique and still lovely satin and lace wedding gown along with a pearl tiara were given to my longer sister for playing dress-up. Neither item survived many of those sessions,

The required care and financial support of the young couple’s parents continued until I was born five years after their marriage. And possibly far longer. I never knew.

In those years Ann’s subtle humor became sharper, and provoked more laughter, but was possibly initiated by her own pain and loss of dreams, Her love of the written word never diminished as she read incessantly when she was not serving others. Our kitchen table was always strewn with the eight daily newspapers published during that pre-television era.

She became the informal leader of her clan the month after her second daughter was born and quickly moved “The Family” to an adjacent railroad flat in our family’s tenement building.

She served not both masters, but both families from that day on.

When nature refused to hide a surprising pregnancy (at age 47) Ann refused the offer of a Doctor who could and would help. That was the first time I heard the word abortion spoken aloud as I stood by her side and listened..

At the end of a robust 87 years I heard my Mother express only one regret,

“I should have allowed my girls to go to college.”

Ann (without the E) enjoyed her three granddaughters, but did not share a close relationship with her three grandsons, possibly a consequence of always caring for six highly dependent brothers.

Nor did she ever understood why I chose to “marry outside and leave the neighborhood.”

She never praised any of my so-called accomplishments but without my knowledge kept every word I published.

She collected more “Poor Souls” than I could count, and fell fatally ill en route bringing soup to another elderly (but younger) neighbor.

Her name was Ann, but my two sisters and I were lucky to call her Mom.

I wish you could have known her.