A Gift of Love
My mother's parents were born in Germany, emigrating to
America while still young. They ran a grocery store in New
Jersey, weathering the depression, two world wars and six
children. My mother, June, was the next to last, having one
older sister and three older brothers. Her younger brother,
Eddie, was a millstone around her neck. Her older brothers
shooed her away constantly, calling her bulgy eyes and telling
her to take a bath. Her older sister Louise seemed to get the
nice clothes, attention from the boys and had little time for
her younger sister. Her Papa worked fourteen hours a day in
the store, and seemed to June a stern taskmaster, to be feared
instead of loved.
Her mother was kind and loving who unfortunately suffered
from epileptic seizures. Once a month they would find her on
the floor, shaking all over or unconscious. She died when
June was seven, hitting her head on a coal stove in the
kitchen. June cried for a week.
Years later, I came across a small portrait of mom's
mother. A studio picture taken in 1913, she had a beautiful
face, her hair done up in a braided top knot held with a pearl
comb. The black satin dress looked expensive with pearl
buttons and lace inserts. The picture's corners were brittled
round and spots appeared in the faded background. I secreted
the portrait out of the house to the studio where I worked and
ordered the most expensive miniature offered. It was to be
completely restored and printed on white celluloid. The face
and hands would be hand colored with transparent oils and the
background and dress painted with tiny brushes by an artist.
When it arrived from the artist's studio, I framed it in a
beautiful gold plated lace edged frame with a domed glass.
Though measuring only three and one half inches by four and
one half inches, every detail of her features could be seen
clearly, even the color of her eyes. She looked just like my
mother at that age.
On mom's birthday, January seventh, I placed the wrapped
box on the kitchen table. All through supper, she couldn't
take her eyes off that little box. Her guesses ranged from
jewelry to playing cards, never coming close to the truth.
Finally, she opened the box and just stared. Her big gray
eyes got wet and shiny. A squeaky "Thank you" was all she
could manage. No jewelry, no matter how expensive, could mean
more to her than her mother's picture.
1996 - 2008. All Rights Reserved. Please review our Terms of Use, Mission Statement, and Privacy Policy.