I am Margie, daughter of Margaret, daughter of Bertha, daughter of Margaret, daughter of Mary Ann, daughter of Mary Ann, daughter of Drusilla, daughter of Mary. And the line goes on further than I can ever know. It has taken all these mothers and then some to make me. Mother and daughter is not always an easy relationship, but it is an unavoidable strong bond.
Other than my mother, Margaret, and her grandmother, Margaret “Maggie,” [aka Granny] I did not know any of these women, but I bear their genes and probably some of their personal characteristics. I am grateful that they persevered and managed to birth and raise their children; however not all of them were able to see their daughters into being women. That was the story of my grandmother, Bertha. Had it not been for Granny, I would likely not exist. Although Granny had a six-month-old baby when my mother was born to Bertha, she took Mom to raise when Bertha died six months later. Actually, she had been mothering both babies all along. Bertha had TB and was not able to care for Mom. Granny nursed both girls—Marie and Margaret. Mom weighed about 2 pounds when she was born. Granny settled her into a blanket lined drawer set on two chairs behind the wood stove, a sort of make shift incubator before incubators were widely used. The two girls were raised as twins. Mom was around nine before she learned that her sister was really her aunt.