Since my last post – Make Love, Not War – I’ve been thinking about the 60s quite a bit.  And so, yesterday, while driving home from work, I remembered two events from that time period that I found to be both very revealing about the times and also about me.

Both involve my mother. And, in order to share it with you, I need to provide a little background information about my mother and me.

Mom was a Registered Nurse and during my early years she worked in the maternity ward at the hospital in town.  There were three shifts at the hospital: 7 a.m. – 3 p.m., 3 p.m. – 11 p.m. and 11 p.m. – 7 a.m. As I remember it, Mom usually worked one week on the first shift, followed by 2 days off, and then would work a week on the second shift followed by 2 days off, and then would work a week on the third shift and the two days off. Additionally, her days off were rotated with the other nurses. So, say, for instance,  she had Tuesday and Wednesday off this week, she might work seven straight days on the next shift  before her next days off of  Thursday and Friday the following week. 

Now, this is important to know because when I was a very little girl back in the 1960s, I loved when my mother was home and not at the hospital working. I spent every waking hour following her around the house, watching her do all of the house chores. I watched her wash clothes in the wringer washer. I followed her outside and watched her hang them on the line to dry. I watched her cook dinner and do the ironing, etc. And, while she did all of these things, I talked. Oh, yeah, I talked. I talked and talked and talked.

This is no lie, I used to  follow her into the bathroom and sit on the toilet seat to talk to her while she took a bath, then follow her to her bedroom to talk some more while she put on her white stockings and nurses uniform and fixed her hair at her dresser to get ready for work.  I didn’t shut up until she was in the car and on her way. I suddenly see that I never gave her any peace!  Honestly, she was probably relieved to go to work just to get away from me (although, she would have never let on that that was so).

So, back to the present, I’m in my automobile driving home, and I’m remembering all this because of the specific incident I’m going to tell you about next.

By 1963 I was in kindergarten. For part of the year, I attended school in the mornings and the other part of the year I attended in the afternoon. Well on this one specific day, I do not remember whether I was in morning kindergarten or afternoon kindergarten. But, what I do remember is sitting on my mother’s bed watching her reflection in her dresser mirror while she was getting ready to work the 3 p.m. – 11 p.m. shift at the hospital.

The date was November 22. And, John F. Kennedy had been shot. This was the first time I ever saw her cry. She wasn’t out and out sobbing. That would have never been her style.  But I saw her glistening eyes in her mirrored reflection and I was sad for her. And, she answered my never-ending questions about it, before going to work to deliver new babies into the world.

The second time I saw my mother cry during the 1960s was when I was in third grade. This was 1967, or maybe, 1968.  I went to the big city airport (Pittsburgh) with my parents to see my big brother Dennis get on an airplane that would ultimately take him to two tours in Vietnam.

On the outside, Dennis wasn’t acting a bit nervous or anxious about his future.  But, I think mom saw right through him and knew his cool demeanor was only an act.  Her eyes filled with tears as he boarded and again a little later when we watched the plane take to the sky.

So, back to present day. Yesterday. Driving home from work and thinking about these two incidents. Both say a lot about the times – the assassination of a president and a son going off to war.

And, my mother always listened to me.