by angelo greco
Then again, my mother grew up during The Great Depression. Born in 1920, she was but nine years old when the Crash of ’29 (1929) occurred.
I remember her describing how they all went to bed, she and her five other siblings, my grandmother had not yet given birth to her youngest child, went to bed and upon waking the next morning discovered, along with reading in the local newspaper, thousands of people who had to that point, held much money, were now poor same as my mother and her family.
Some of these people lived in small town in southeastern North Carolina where my mother grew up.
This proved, I gathered over the many years I heard my mother tell this story, an eye-opening moment for her.
Not only did she grow up poor, my mother saw those who had known wealth and comfort fall into poverty. She never discussed the adjustments she witnessed them making, only that rumor in the small town where she lived held that the owner of the bank, being short of money, called in those who were his friends and gave them their deposits. Those with whom he did not feel close, lost their money.
I surmise that my mother learned a great lesson here.
I certainly did.
Nothing is for certain.
Beyond that, it is truly good to have friends in high places.
Not that what this banker did, I am sure like others, was in the least bit morally right, politics plays huge role in all areas of life, particularly those in which we least expect.
I suspect this is where my mother and I parted ways of behavior.
I seek to please, avoid conflict and several costs, not that encourage this. Nor do I think it is the best policy by which to abide.
My mother, on the other hand, while possessing a voice that one could characterize at times as soft, never lacked force. She, like her father who could use expletives in a most sincere and soft tone, so much so that if you were not carefully listening would miss the entire verbal battle, could and did the same with words, lacking expletives, but no less sharp and cutting.
In short, my mother could and quite often put people in their place, told them where to get off and go.
Their shock, most often resulted that she had done with such a soft and smooth tone, they almost often had not realized what had transpired.
My mother was direct and to the point.
I, while in my earlier years and until recently, have avoided conflicted, now find myself stepping up to the plate of life and more often than not speaking my truth.
Funny thing is, the tone of my words resembles that of my mother, I, her daughter, coming full circle and this being our place of common ground.
A priest once told me, “The tone of your voice becomes soft and quite congenial when you are most angry.”
I am quite sure I inherited this trait from my mother.