"A mother's love is a blessing." As I write those words on the eve of Mother's Day, the strains of that familiar song floats in over the air waves. For many listeners, the lyrics strike a deep chord; a reminder that, far too often, we take that special love for granted. That love, though universal and timeless, is also fleeting, and in their passing our mothers leave a deep void in our lives.

For a generation, growing up without electricity and running water, that love was demonstrated in many ways. Our moms were 'stay at home moms' long before the term became fashionable to distinguish their special status among the emerging roles of women. As a general rule, families were large. Breast feeding was the norm and quite often, babies were born barely a year apart and several were in diapers at the same time. With only cloth diapers in use and in households devoid of tap water, washing machines and dryers, raising a large family was most certainly a full-time job.

That term 'full-time job' hardly does them justice, for it implies work within well defined parameters. On the contrary, their work was so far beyond the scope of definition, that it gave rise to the saying that a woman's work is never done. Their unfinished labour involved such a multitude of tasks that any list would have many omissions. Rather, in an overview of sorts, their mornings were busy preparing breakfast and in seeing her children washed, dressed and off to school. Then only after the little ones received her attention did she face her daily chores. Beds and toilet pails, washing and drying, sweeping and scrubbing, cooking and baking, knitting and darning; until the peal of the Angelus bell herald the return of her hungry young scholars home for dinner. A rush to the table, a flick of a wash-cloth and they're back out through the door. There's now time to eat. Her plate, the last to be laid down, doesn't always get filled but for whatever amount goes on it, she gives thanks.

The day moves on. There's no babysitting. That terminology hadn't entered her vocabulary. In any case, there isn't time for such indulgence but 'between the whiles' her little ones get plenty of attention. Lord Help Her! for in whatever direction she turns there's work to be done before her brood strikes home from school. They arrive in full force, impatient for a snack. Quite often turmoil ensues. Peace returns with their departure outside until suppertime.

Apart from mealtimes, her husband makes an occasional foray into her domain as wood and water has to be constantly replenished. At times, quiet times are often shared as she knits a glove, darns a vamp or sews a patch on a coat or on pants. On occasion she will venture into his domain, the outside world when, in season, her labour is required on the flakes and in the stage and garden.

Day draws to a close. Supper is finished; the dishes put away. It's prayer time and she gathers her flock for the recital of the rosary. That family prayer of mystery and faith offers solace and stability in daily life and in trying times. Beads are put away. The children rise from their knees accompanied by the occasional sigh of relief. Reassured, their spiritual needs are met, she keeps a close watch on their education. A kerosene lamp sheds its glow on a table filled with books and scribblers. Every chair is occupied and her young scholars labour elbow to elbow until she's certain all lessons are learned and all homework completed.

It's time for bed. The little ones are stowed away first. From upstairs comes the refrain, "Angel of God my guardian dear..."  Slumber isn't far off. She tip-toes out of their bedroom and, thankful for the blessings of another day, she leaves them in the care of the angels. Night closes down. New dawns bring new tomorrows. Children leave. Time now for herself but in the long silences, hands need to stay busy. Her apron is rarely laid aside and her gloves and quilts, basic necessities of another age, are now regarded as works of art. She smiles at such accolades and gives those gifts of caring to her grandchildren.

Old Age Pensions bestow independence. Inevitably, joys and sorrows come her way. Grandchildren born. Elderly parents cared for. Anniversaries and memorials. Fashionable outfits and the black of mourning. Aged hands and their gentle touch. Wisdom and senility. Departure and heartfelt loss. Through it all, moves a woman, rock solid in her love of family. A mother's love is a blessing. May their memory never fade.

-Roy Dwyer