200 Four years ago

Today is the fourth anniversary of my mother’s death. I’m sitting here with a package of her letters mailed to me this week from my cousin Marianne in Iowa. In genealogy, one uses the word “cousin” a bit loosely but warmly. Marianne is the grand daughter of Mary Ann, the sister of my great grandfather, David. She is my second cousin once removed. She is a serious genealogist who authored “The Jacob George Family of Adams County, Pennsylvania” (1998). She and my mother had corresponded for years about this genealogy, but I recognize that some of the material in the book is what I pulled together for her from Mom’s records.

I didn’t wait until Mother’s death to canonize her as some have done with their parents. I’ve always known I had an exceptional mother (well, not counting those awful teenage years when I knew everything and she knew nothing!). And I’ve never known anyone who thought otherwise. She was, however, a rather private person, kept her own counsel, I think is the phrase. Didn’t dabble in controversy. Didn’t gossip. Didn’t argue. So her letters from 1975 to 1998 are less than forthcoming. Weather report. Crop report. Grandchildren report. Health report (as they aged).

Each year Mother wrote promises or near-promises to travel to Iowa so they could see each other in person, but as far as I can tell from the letters, this only happened for Thanksgiving in 1988, although the Iowans did visit in Illinois in the late 70s.

Since Marianne was her cousin and also Brethren, she did share some thoughts on their common heritage on Christmas: “[at a 1978 retreat] no one of Brethren background could recall Christmas trees except at our country school programs. Most of us hung up stockings as children. Christmas dinners with relatives and programs at church and school seemed bigger than our present celebrations. Gifts were mostly homemade. We had lots of fun and excitement as we remembered.”

She fretted a little on Memorial Day 1975 that she and her sister were the only ones left to place flowers at the grave sites of parents and brother, grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins, something their mother had always done. In 1987 she recalls visiting in Iowa her great Aunt Annie as a young child--“the comb honey served at meals and the fat feather mattress we slept on reached with a little foot stool. I wish I might have known them at a later age when memories wouldn’t be so dim and one could appreciate more.”

Finally, in 1998, Mother writes Marianne that “I try to tell Amy (granddaughter, early 30s) stories about the family [learned from Marianne’s mother] so someone remembers how the George family spread out and came west.