An American Mother Daughter Legacy

The story woven into my mitochondrial DNA (which we uniquely inherit from our mother's mother's mother and so on...) tells of a young woman, born to an unwed mother, living in Germany in the late 1800's. One can only imagine the prejudices she faced in a country known for its stern, strict culture. Apparently not one to accept her seemingly sealed fate as an 'illegitimate' child, my great-grandmother immigrated, by herself, to the farmlands of Iowa in 1907 at the age of 21.

Her marriage prospects greatly enhanced in a place where personal history and reputation mattered far less than a strong back and solid work ethic, she wed my great-grandfather in 1909 and bore ten children over the next 19 years. Sometimes when I look at my big, German hands (that I guess I might have inherited from her), I think of the endless chores she performed with hers on their family homestead. All the gardening, laundry, cooking and cleaning that went into raising that family! It was the life she chose, and she was apparently no worse for the wear, living robustly to the age of 100.

Her oldest child, my grandmother, was born with a harelip and cleft palate. Physical deformities back in those days were best kept hidden and were treated with scorn. By being born first of ten, she also inherited the role of mother's helper and didn't share the same level of schooling as that of her younger siblings. One of the mantras my kids have learned over the years is 'life isn't fair' but my grandmother knew this more than most.

Whether it was from the treatment she received growing up, or an in-born tendency toward manic depression, my grandmother never had it easy. Luckily, she met and married a gentle soul of a man, my dear grandfather. Through her ups and downs, he was the humorous rock, who took things in stride with a smile. Eating his home-grown peas with a butter knife drove her to distraction, but never failed to make his grandchildren howl. And it is his personality that my mother, their oldest surviving child, inherited.

After the tragic deaths of two older siblings, my mother was born to a couple who must have counted their blessings. Early pictures of her show a happy child, growing up on a typical Iowa farm, amidst the vivid summer flora of neon green cornstalks and brilliant pink peonies. And I suspect she was spared some of the household chores her mother and grandmother labored over, since housework was never her forte. Bird watching is far more interesting, if you ask my mom! And also quite possibly a way to escape the unpredictable nature of a bipolar mother, who carries on at 97 in an Iowa nursing home.

My mother taught me an appreciation for blazing sunsets, bright stars on a Midwestern summer night, the song of the meadowlark, the pungent aroma of crushed wild thyme and the precious shape of the Kinikinik flower. No matter that there might be dishes in the sink, laundry in piles, dust on shelves. Back then I craved a mother who cared more for these things but now the legacy my mother bestowed is of far more value.

Hard to say what legacy my lovely 16-year old daughter will acknowledge from me. Like my mother and grandmothers before me, I'm not what you would consider a "typical" mom, but maybe it's the mitochondrial DNA we all share that helps us make the best of what we're given.