The earliest memory I have of my mother is her washing my hair.
What makes it memorable is that it was a serious business. This was no gentle scalp massage. This was a decidedly non-gentle scrub that went on and on till I was ready to cry.
My mother grew up in a refugee camp in Denmark. Head lice were a common occurrence. She made damned sure none of her kids would ever have head lice.
And they didn't.
My mother would shudder to be considered a feminist, but I never knew a time when she did not work outside the home.
Although a devout Christian, my mother opened her home to Muslim refugees from Afghanistan.
Aside from working outside the home she always found time to maintain a garden that would more properly be considered a small farm.
My mother modeled the virtues of hard work and compassion like no one else.
And she puts down one hell of an apfel strudel!
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