This is my mother, Anna Greither, before she emigrated from postwar Germany with her husband and 10-month-old me. She couldn’t know that here, she’d face more challenges: abandonment with two children; inability to return to family abroad, because she had given up her citizenship; undiagnosed mental illness; and persistent poverty, while struggling to impart to two troubled daughters: belief in themselves and a solid education; willingness to embrace life’s challenges with a sense of humor and determination; and to fight for social justice.
An invaluable role model, she created masterpieces from nothing every day. A brilliant self-taught linguist, creative homemaker and gardener, she found therapy in nonstop knitting and handwork. “Knit us a train Madame Defarge,” I’d say to the insomniac parked in front of the "Late Late Show" with whirring knitting needles, filled ashtrays, and plenty of strong black coffee.
At 5 feet, she first took up tennis in her 40s; then later painting, winning prizes for still lifes and landscapes.
Her last 10 years with advancing dementia belonged to just the two of us, but you’re never ready for the end. I miss you so much, Mommy.
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