She walk out of the back door of the old farm house, oak kitchen chair in hand, sat down on it under the oak tree, unfolding the newspaper into sections. Supper was done and the girls were doing dishes, the noise of the day was starting to fade as the sun moved closer to the top of the hill. There was a deep sigh as she started reading a column written by war correspondant Ernie Pyle, a reporter that interviewed soldiers on the front lines. With three boys in World War Two, she, like many other mothers across the country, read this column almost religeously, hoping to see a son's name there. This was almost a ritual with her and though the hope was always there, the names never were. That hope nor the disappointment ever showed on her face, but we children knew that this was her time and that we were not to disturb her.

   I watched as she lifted her eyes, looking up to the sky, quietly sitting there, the weight of raising seven children alone and those three boys in danger of dying in some far off place had to be tremendous, yet she turned her eyes to me, stared for a moment, then smiled.