She only spoke of her mother twice. Once when I asked about her and once when she referenced her death. My grandmother gave birth to at least six children. She lived the life she was given, experienced the lifestyle she made, and lost that life by man made means. Whatever lessons my mother learned from her mother, given the extreme circumstances of her childhood, had to have been handed down with forceful subtlety. The Filipino life my mom experienced, so devastatingly infused with what others thought that should be, was the rhythm to which her heart beat.

My mom and dad met in post war Philippines. From his own account, he was smitten with her from the first time he saw her, standing across the street from where he was standing. He dragged his buddy across the street with him so he could talk to the young and attractive Filipina who returned his smile. For my mom, the tall , fit man dressed in the crisp white uniform of the US Navy, looked the part of the hero she was hoping to find. Time would tell if he was the answer to her prayers.

He was. My father was a respectful man, well raised by his Polish born parents. Growing up during the Depression, he understood that kindness and care of those who had less was what made life livable through the dark times. He treated my mom, and her sisters, with generosity and attentiveness. They married and had two children before my mother and brothers immigrated to America while my dad finished his tour.

The young family arrived in San Francisco unaccompanied. Standing the midst of hundreds of other young wives and mothers, the Red Cross stood at the ready to process and provided assistance to the ones who were unmet by receiving in-laws. I can only guess that my father provided all of the information that became the basis for establishing a life for his family.

She and my brothers settled into a small apartment in the east bay. Fortunately my mother could speak some English, although she admitted years later that she was far from fluent. She was befriended by a couple who would become lifelong friends to both my parents. Their daughters would become frequent babysitters as our family grew.

Two years later, after serving during the Korean War, my dad returned to the states and worked multiple jobs to afford to buy a home for his growing family. If you own land you will never be poor, he said many times. He lived his dream after the birth of their second daughter.

Life was very good for a time for my mom. She loved being a mom. Four kids. Two boys and two girls. The house they bought was perfect. My dad continued to work his three jobs so she spent a great deal of time with the kids by herself. Like before, she was fortunate to have neighbors with children. Wonderful, friendly people who genuinely wanted to help the young mother. With the added bonus of having children near in age to my siblings.

Her new life lost some of its luster with the birth of a fifth child, another daughter. Raising five kids pretty much alone wasn’t what she thought her life would be as a married woman. The new baby brought on stresses she didn’t anticipate. My brothers were 6 and 7 years old, my sisters 2 and 3. The newborn added a weight onto her already over taxed emotional state. She was still struggling with the effects and after effects of the war. The magnitude of the losses she had endured were immeasurable.

Life would only get harder.