While Mother did not often discuss politics, she not only despised violence, she was also a thoroughgoing pacifist and believed that we should have found a better way to respond to Hitler’s aggression and Japan’s December 7th attack on Pearl Harbor. Her real sensitivities, however, rested with the victims of war, particularly the young men who came home horribly disfigured. But it was the blind military veterans who really got her attention, and when faced with violence, she was determined to do something about it. Serious action replaced even spirited talk!
So she decided to learn Braille, and until the craft was mastered, she spent hours each day clicking away first with a stylus and wooden board, and later with a Braille typewriter. After several months in which she worked with blind veterans, she began to train groups of women, and finally became the president of the Philadelphia Society for the Blind, and later President of the New York State Society for the Blind. She then began to transcribe books for the Library of Congress, turning our basement into a Braille-book factory.
Once Mother made a decision, the males in the family never stood in her way, either singly or three at a time. She ran the household like a benevolent drill sergeant. We each had our tasks and there was no excuse or rest until we had completed them. She loved order and despised seeing anything that was soiled or just not put in its proper place, On one occasion we had packed up and begun a car trip to the Blue Ridge Mountains, when after about 50 miles she realized that the car was not spotless, so we stopped by a creek and finished the job. During those family road trips we would camp in farmers’ cabins for a dollar a night.
As I read back over these words it feels as if I have said nothing about the softer, more loving, affectionate part of her life. Her love was absolute but never mushy. It was the kind of love that pulled us through no matter the circumstances.
Mother would joyfully join in some of the fun things Dad and I would do. She loved to go fishing with us. But as the three males would sit quietly waiting for the fish to bite, she would sing to them, luring them to her baited hook. I never recall a single occasion when that technique failed to lure the biggest fish any of us caught. We chaps did not hear the end of her gleeful boasting for at least a month.
She loved to play cards or Monopoly, but whenever she joined in, the winner was always my little brother, Peter, whom she called “Peterkins.” She said he deserved to win because he was the smallest. While Peter was clearly mother’s favorite, I never felt left out of her profound circle of loving care.
Our home was always filled with good music, and Saturday afternoon during the Metropolitan Opera’s radio broadcast, was the week’s most sacred time. When she and Dad would travel to Europe for Dad’s work, it was the operas they heard that dominated the conversation when they returned home. Mother was the soprano soloist in our church choir, and made up with enthusiam any failure in pitch she might have encountered.
Her death from liver cancer was long and painful, but even in her last months she stood erect on the bridge of the family’s ship, still in command. Her death came in the middle of a Saturday night. I had gone to San Antonio, Texas to give a series of lectures and to preach Sunday morning. I got word of her death just as the service was about to begin. I have no memory as to what I said, but whatever it was, Mother was right there beside me holding my hand. I did not see her again until the next day when I returned to Chicago and went into our church building. There she was, up in one of the niches reserved for the saints, singing at the top of her lungs.
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