A tribute to my Mother

A life taken too soon
13 July 1943 - 30 August 1983

My mother's name was Beth. All of her life she had been known as that, except for a small period of time when she was called Mary Elizabeth. Shortly thereafter though, it was decided she was most assuredly a "Beth" and henceforth, that was what she was known by.

Beth was the second youngest in a family of five children...four boys and she, the only girl. When she was just 5 years old, her parents, living in a squallid little shack in northern Delaware, gave the children up to social services. They were both alcoholics who didn't have it in themselves to set to the selfless task of raising children.

The oldest, Harvey and Jack, were "farmed out." That is, being too old to be considered cuddly, small children which families sought to take in, they were sent to live on a Delaware farm, tending chickens and more or less, being unpaid, slave labour.

The next oldest, Butch, became a ward of the state of Delaware. Frank, the youngest, was placed with a foster family.

My mother, the dark haired and dark eyed Mary Elizabeth, was placed in a foster home as well. Her first foster parents were an elderly couple whom she always would remember as being Catholic and living next to a cemetary. They scared her to death. Luckily, this would not be her final placement.

The year was 1949 and Mary Elizabeth had lost her dear brothers, especially her beloved brother Butch, and was alone in the world. In another part of the community, a young couple, Vincent and Ann Harris wanted to adopt a child. As if two stars collided, Mary Elizabeth was brought to their home.

The first night she was there, the Harris' had close friends of theirs come over to meet their new little girl. When Peasie Glassco asked the little girl her name, she replied "Mary Elizabeth." Peasie laughed and commented that it was too big of a name for such a small girl and said, "We should call her Beth." My mother was delighted and from that night forward, she, indeed, was Beth.

The Harris' unsuccessfully tried to adopt Beth for many years but her natural father, while not wanting her either, refused to sign the papers to pave the way for her new life. Still, she eventually would begin to use their last name and identify so strongly with their family that when she was 26 years old and her natural mother died, she had to be taken kicking and screaming to the funeral.

She was especially close to her father, Mr. Harris, and when he died of lung cancer the summer she turned 18, she was devastated. She was equally as close to her mother and for as many years as I could remember, she would send a dozen roses to her on the day on which she was made a part of their family.

I was born the April after her father died and within three months, my birth father had abandoned us. My mother, nineteen and unmarried, felt forced to find a father for me. It was 1963. In 1965 she had met a man and felt it was time to marry. They did in June that year. His name was Wilbur Alger.

From the very beginning he beat her senseless and abused me as well. Even when she was pregnant with their daughter, who was born in 1967, he beat her to the point that she delivered the baby 3 months early, in September rather than in December as expected. My half sister weighed 2.5 lbs. at birth.

The violence continued and escalated from actions that one would consider unthinkable to actions one would consider even more unthinkable. She was beaten, chased with broken glass, sexually abused, made to watch her children be tortured and abused. She spent 18 years in this marriage....her family told her she had made her bed and must lie in it.

Domestic violence is insidious. It can take a very intelligent, thoughtful woman and render her incapacitated and unable to make good choices. She felt Wilbur was "sick" and so she stayed despite the alcoholism, the drug abuse and the beatings.

She was a great mom. She always seemed so especially proud of me and my accomplishments. I was an exchange student to New Zealand and this particularly made her so proud of me. One of her happiest days was when I was accepted to college.

While materially she wasn't the best mother...now I understand that the stress of the abuse she suffered made her unable to properly care for us. She was pretty much in the same boat we were and none of us could get out.

I brought my boyfriend home to meet her on 9 July 1983. That night she stayed up and talked to us. He was visiting from Pittsburgh and we had a full schedule planned of sightseeing around the nation's capitol as well as in the scenic Shenandoah Valley.

She bid us goodnight and went into her room and suffered a devastating and near fatal heart attack. We lived in rural West Virginia and when I called 911 no one answered. She never lost consciousness and called for my stepfather...I finally reached him at the bar he owned and operated and he sped home and took her immediately to the hospital.

Unfortunately, the damage was done. As her surgeon explained to me, the lower third of her heart was dead. And in 1983, that was fatal. He told me we only had a matter of weeks or maybe months but it would happen again and this time, she would most likely die. She was 39 years old.

When we took her to the emergency room, she did, in fact, die. They used the paddles and called her back. Of the experience, she said she heard them calling her name from a great distance but she was enveloped in light and felt absolutely euphoric...it comforted me later to know she was not afraid of what happened to her.

Six weeks later, she was found lying on our living room floor. I was at college and the call came at 2am. My grandfather telling me that she had gone. And with her went my entire world.

I will remember my mother for the wonderful woman she was. For her laughter which I hear everytime my son finds something funny. The way she called her mother "Mother." The way she always wore blue jeans and tshirts and little Washington Redskin Nikes....which is exactly what I had her buried in. Her haircut and the way she held a cigarette and would tell you exactly what she thought when she thought it. How she would call me Sharsi-Poo and Bugs but how very proud she was of everything I did, even if she couldn't tell me sometimes. One of the last things she ever said to me was that I was her best friend. I hold onto that.

The day I went home to bury my mother was 31 August 1983. It rained the whole way there. It seemed as if the angels knew the searing pain in my heart, the loss that would never heal. It rained the entire time I made preparations and planned the service.

My mother was a Presbyterian but never really went to church. I think she would laugh to think she had a full-blown Catholic service! Her parents (my grandmother had remarried) could never accept when I became Catholic and I guess I used her funeral to make a point (big smile.) The day she was laid to rest, the sun finally came out. I went back to college and finished, just as she would have wanted.

One of the last conversations I had with my mom was when my sister asked if my mother would die. That summer I was 20 and my half sister was 16...to think of losing our mother, despite everything, was unthinkable. My mother, with her wonderful sardonic wit, replied..."Of course not. How could I? None of you will leave me alone! You are always around, your father watches me breathe while I sleep and your sister (me) refuses to go anywhere! How would I ever be able to die!" Ironic or not, the night she died, I was back at school, my sister was at a party and my stepfather was at work. My mother finally had the peace she needed.

This is a sad story but also a tribute to a very strong woman. She had a horrible life. But she left a daughter who is strong, a survivor, able to make her way in the world and someone she can always be proud to have raised. I hope I always am able to make true the comment one of her friends made to me shortly after her death. He said to me..."Your mom will only have one foot in the grave as long as you are alive."

I miss her and I always will. The last thing I could do for her was to make sure her headstone was correct. It says "Beth."

Read my Dreambook!
Sign my Dreambook!