My Mother Next Door by Diane Danvers Simmons

Author:Diane Danvers Simmons
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Koehler Books
Published: 2021-09-25T15:29:37+00:00

18.

FORCE BEHIND THE POWER

MY MOTHER WAS TENACITY personified. Even though she didn’t have a proper formal education, she had street smarts, which allowed her to catapult from nothing to being a multi-property owner and in turn to become an independent woman. Mum fantasized about the life she wanted, and she didn’t need any self-help books or spiritual guide to get her there (even though she did believe the gypsies had the gift of sight and loved a good astrology reading).

She wasn’t asking, “Why am I here? What is my purpose?” She’d never had the luxury of self-reflection. She was screaming, “Look, I’m here, and I’m living whatever purpose I damn choose.” A spirit, a mindset she instilled in both my sister and me, one of self-belief, reliance, resilience, and can-do attitude (though it doesn’t take a mind reader to deduce that we really had no choice). Fear was not an option—well, at least the display of fear wasn’t, and vulnerability of any sort was off the table in her world. She was bossy, outrageously outspoken, and could charm the pants off anyone . . . and I’m sure she did.

Each encounter with Mother (on a good day) was infused with an unfathomable knowledge of life, a belief that anything was possible, and was garnished with a sprinkle of Irish fairy dust—or a curse if you crossed her. I’d sit in awe and wonder as she transported me back in time to her happier days of childhood, playing in Ireland’s magical fairy realms in search of the “little people.” Sometimes I even wondered if she was one—eternally young, mischievous, engaging, secretive, and very short, demanding respect and could grant you a wish as a child and make life intolerable as an adult. Good or bad, her dictum was invariably sealed, in the best of British and Irish traditions, by a strong cup of tea—and if you were really lucky, a tea-leaf reading would round out the experience.

No wonder being a mother was not enough for her. Not that she didn’t love her children; she would have killed anyone who hurt us and then in her next breath killed us. Mum’s soul simply needed more. She was a complicated woman who needed to feel a sense of fulfillment, recognition, and adoration to complete her. She had escaped the boundaries and rules of her father and Catholic Ireland. She’d survived the war, she’d survived the losses and hardship, and she was never going to go back to those dark days. She had been poor once, and that was not an option for her or her children. Her children would have the best private education she’d been deprived of and the chances the nuns and Church had taken from her for being a girl. They would respect and participate in the Church but not be constrained by it.

Mum was a quick learner and highly intuitive and had the street smarts of a monkey with a PhD from Oxford University. She understood the weaknesses and

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