After my father died (I was 5 and the oldest of four) my mother continued to raise us as they had discussed. His last words were, "Esther, take care of my kids" and for thirty-one more years she did that. Gave us slack and pulled the reins when needed, did whatever was necessary to feed, clothe and house us, worked 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. when she could get work, and in general taught us to survive. But she also saw to it that we had a place to live and food to eat for as much education as we could get, and since there was a 4-year college five blocks from home we all got BAs -- and then SHE took some classes "just to see if I could do it."

She waited with bated breath while her three sons were in the military at the same time (two went to Vietnam, one to Korea) and cheered when they all three came home unhurt (that she knew of -- some things we didn't tell her). Then, before she died, she saw all three boys married and held two grandsons (ultimately she had nine grandchildren and would now be twice a great-grandmother).

Mostly, they gave us Love.