2021: The year our mothers died. [View all]

My mother died last month in Baton Rouge at 98. My mother-in-law, 101, died last night in Canada.

My mother was from rural Mississippi and lived in Louisiana most of her life. My MIL lived 100 years on the Central Alberta grain farm settled by her pioneer parents.

My mother lived a soap opera. Joined the Navy, left when pregnant with me, married to save face, divorced and married a man who was not a good stepfather, had four more babies, was widowed, then married a much younger man who took care of her like she was a queen, to her dying day.

My MIL got indoor plumbing at the farm when my husband was 10. She had five sons, which was good for the fields and milking cows but meant she did all the cooking, sewing, and cleaning. At one time there were four boys in two sets of bunk beds in the same tiny bedroom. They had a set of clothes for school, and one for home.

My life was full of angst and drama; his was very stable. The grain farm prospered.

We know our mothers loved us, and we know we were lucky to have them still alive as we passed 70 ourselves. Both were vaccinated against Covid. Both loved to dance; mine loved jitterbug, his loved square-dancing. Both believed in God, unlike us.

Both have grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren.

Two lives that lasted about a century, which seems long when you look back, but short when you look forward.