Happy Birthday to Mom and Me!

I have now celebrated my second COVID birthday and, in spite of the restrictions, it was a joyful experience. My four sisters and I were looking forward to celebrating outdoors, which until shortly before my birthday was allowed with exactly five people, but then things got out of hand in Manitoba and even that was not any longer permitted. But I received lovely surprises at our front door: 

A delicious lemon buttercream cake, baked by my youngest sister Margaret

  

Beautiful cards and well wishes from family and friends. 

You will notice that these cards are handmade. That is one positive thing about this COVID experience: We have time to be creative. The one on the left is artwork done by my sister Ruth. The one on the right is from my friend Yayoi who does origami (Japanese paper folding art). In the center of the card is a beautiful flower that unfolds into heart-shaped petals.   

My thoughtful oldest daughter remembered my nostalgia about a rabbit storybook from my childhood (see March 2021 blogpost). She found it on Amazon and ordered it for me. 

The grandchildren also made cards and we had Zoom meetings with them throughout the day. 

Here's a link sent by a friend on how to have fun with the Happy Birthday song:

https://youtu.be/OaZveHbxAYs

 Preview YouTube video How to play "Happy Birthday" Like Beethoven, Chopin, Brahms, Bach and Mozart Piano by Nicole Pesce

I did some reflecting about the time I was born (May 1943) in Ukraine.

When my brother was born in 1941, the Germans were celebrating their victory over Russia, and my parents called their first-born Victor. They were able to resume church services, and both my parents were baptized. They were happy and hoped for better days.

(Pen-and-ink drawing by Teresa Pankratz)

Two years later, at the time of my birth, the Russians had defeated the Germans and our lives, as people who claimed German ancestry, were in danger. My parents called me Elfriede, hoping for peace (the word Friede is peace in German). Dad took Mom to the local hospital, but as soon as I was born, he checked us out because he had heard rumors that the Russians were sending all patients who identified as Germans into exile.

In October of that year (1943), our family left Ukraine by train -- first to Poland and then to southern Germany. After four years of refugee life, we boarded the Volendam, a passenger ship heading to Argentina.
Following another five years of pioneer existence in Paraguay, we emigrated to Canada.

When I asked my mother about her memories of these difficult years, she had no desire to talk about them. She told me that she couldn't remember the details because she was so busy just keeping track of us! She had two children in Ukraine, one during the refugee years in Germany, three in Paraguay, and two more in Canada!

 My parents celebrating their 25th anniversary in 1965. I am in the back row, second from left.

My mother and I share a birthday month, and tomorrow (May 30th) she would be 100 years old. Sadly, she passed away in 2008, at the age of 87, just before our family's move to Winnipeg. The above picture was taken at her last Christmas celebration. Regrettably, I couldn't be there as we were in Ontario preparing for our move. She wanted us to come; I think she sensed that it would be her last Christmas.  Early in January she quietly slipped away.

A poem in memory of my mother

My Mother's Hands  . . .

Rough hands they were, with cracks and crevices, 

carved there by caring for eight children and a homestead.

These hands drew water from a well, milked a balky cow, 

mixed manure to spread over dirt floors, washed and swept these floors,

cleaned children's ears and noses, 

sewed, laundered, and mended their clothes,

tended a garden and worked in the fields.

But more than anything, 

I remember that these hands kneaded the dough for our daily bread.

I can picture her now, 

back bent, head down, hands deeply immersed in the dough;

kneeling on a chair beside the table, I watched those hands in fascination.

The smell of the yeast dough is with me still.

Mother's hands kneaded it to supple elasticity until the strength of her went into it.

Deftly, she shaped the bread into loaves, pushed it into the hot clay oven.

I sat and watched until it turned golden brown.  

We ate it all, knowing that mother's hands would make more bread, the next day and the next.

In all our childhood years, strength from those hands, those cracked and work-worn hands

flowed into making bread.

 

What special memories do you have of your Mother ?