What a beautiful story, which reminds me that my mom, a voracious reader, enjoyed and admired your writing, too. In fact, yours are among the hundreds of articles she clipped from newspapers and magazines and mailed to me over the decades.
She used to see you at the West Point Market, she would tell me.
I, too, had an enlightening encounter with Bruce Springsteen. The first time I met him, backstage at a concert in Minneapolis, a friend introduced us and Bruce peered into my eyes as if trying to see the person I was. That was in the late 1970s and I’m reminded of it whenever I hear the line from “Badlands”: “I wanna find one face that ain’t lookin’ through me.” I hope that I have often followed his example.
Tears always:) Your Mom going back to work so you could dream❤️ Your love for her rippled through Erie-beautiful. As always I hope for that feeling for my kids when I’m gone.
So much goodness as I read that I know the universe is going to return it to us☮️🌊🇺🇸
When I think about my mom going back to work, I am so proud of her. She told my father that he could not take a second job to pay Catholic school tuitions. She remembered her own father working three jobs to support 10 children and the effect it had on them. She told him "I need you and your kids need you". They fought, she won and all of us were better for it. She died from lung cancer like your mom, (except she was a smoker, so there's that difference). Thank you for sharing her story and yours! She sounds lovely!
When we moved into the only house my parents ever owned, in Wisconsin, in December, before global warming, there was no driveway, but there was a garage. So Dad would drive through the muddied snow to get into the garage. As early as possible that spring, my parents paid a heap of money ($400), to have the ever-so-long space paved. Just before the garage door, Dad had the cement folks put in a small extension to the side, into which he sunk an iron pipe. That pipe was sized to hold one of these clotheslines that looks like a blown out umbrella. Mom could then stand in the cement extension to hang clothes, and wouldn't have to get her shoes wet in the grass, or snow. (We kids were tasked with shoveling that endless driveway all the many weeks of the winters when my father would be on a road as a salesman.) I remember the crunch of dried jeans when I brought them in on a cold winter day. And them Mom got a drier with a cycle for decrunching--an air-only cycle. All comfort upon us. (Decrunching was still necessay, since Mom preferred the joy of clothes smelling of fresh air.)
I am so inspired by your beautiful storytelling. There is always love and a hopeful message. I too can relate--in this one to the rebellious teen who "started reading the New Yorker and Ms. Magazine." Most of all, mom's message: "every day I am helping people..." And you do that, as we all must, in our own ways. Thank you!
What a beautiful essay--thank you for sharing this story. I was really touched by Bruce Springsteen's comment. My parents were factory workers who died when I was 15 and 16. My father quit school in the 8th grade. My mother quit in high school to marry my father. I loved school and decided at 10 that I wanted to be a lawyer--the effect of watching Perry Mason, I think. We certainly did not know any lawyers. My parents though that was a great idea and encouraged me to do well in school. Of course, since my parents died when I was in high school, they did not live to see my life unfold. I became a political science professor and later a law school professor. I think they would have been so happy to see how my life unfolded. I am now retired and more than twice the age of my mother when she passed. I am so grateful for her love, and that of my father, and I carry that love, and them, in my heart. Much of my education was financed by their social security benefits, which were available to me until I was 22. I always think of how they supported me in that way.
Your mom sounds lovely and your memories of her are very engaging. I too remember my mom hanging out clothes on the line with her apron pockets full of clothespins. Your challenging her about her work is what really got me. My youngest daughter of 7 is a fentanyl addict. I spend time with her every week on the street and I've grown to love many in her community. It's become a sore spot with sone of my oldest kids. They just see them as homeless people, but to me they are people with trauma, difficult pasts and they just need someone to listen and care. I feel a kinship with your mom amd I'm glad you have peace with her work. She must have loved you so much. And you have not wasted the years she spent supporting you in college. Looking forward to reading more stories.
This beautiful tribute to your mom brought me to tears when I read it this morning. The sacrifices many parents have made, and continue to make to insure that the next generation will have the advantages unavailable to them is nothing short of amazing. Through your writing, and photos, we all feel like we know Janey and Chuck Schultz. You have kept them alive, and not just through "The Daughters of Erietown".
We see them through your eyes that are filled will love and gratitude. Thank you for sharing them with us. I'm just sorry that she never got to see Ireland. May her memory be eternal.
Well, that made me miss both of my parents yet again. My dad was a cop for most of his life, and my mom was a teacher who quit teaching in public schools to become a a full-time mom who just happened to spend a fair amount of time teaching her own four kids formally and on the fly until we grew up enough that she could go back to work as the most dreaded (by students) substitute teacher who showed up to TEACH, not babysit. (I hated having my mom sub for my class because all my friends complained that she made them work.)
Your story, Connie, first made me think of my dad, who rose through the ranks to Captain during our childhood, while we tiptoed around the house during the day because he worked a lot of night shifts. When he made it to Lieutenant, we missed him on some holidays because he would take the place of one of "his" guys so the cop could have at least one holiday with family. It was years before I figured out that we had our big family party on Christmas Eve so my dad could work on Christmas Day for one of his guys. He was an immigrant kid, one of four whose mother had to work full time because her husband had died shortly after my dad was born. My dad spent his adult professional years reaching out to young men who needed someone to support them, to intervene with authorities, and to be a role model for them. When he died, my mother got many letters from men who told her that MY dad was the dad they never had, and that he had helped them become the professionals they hadn't expected they could be.
I also figured out later that my mom wanted her kids to go to college (as she did as a rare female student in the late 30s), so that none of us would have to do manual labor as all the kids in her family had to as "camp followers" to her roving carpenter dad during the Depression. I was recently reminded by a friend that my mom was the one who took him to get his Driver's license since his mother couldn't as the sole provider. He needed a license to try to get a job. That was almost 60 years ago, but he still is grateful. She treated all our friends, and all her students, as intelligent people. I miss her all over again when I remember her sitting in her rocker, my 4-year-old daughter sitting in a little wooden school chair (really) next to my mom, in what always appeared to be an intense and interesting conversation between peers.
From both my parents, I learned so much more than how to be professionally successfully. I credit them both for teaching me that empathy was the real secret to success.
I have no doubt that your Mom's patients lived longer having her for company. I was a Hospice Nurse for 6 years, at the bedside on 12 hour shifts. I loved it, and was honored and privileged to have spent time with, and cared for so many patients and their families.... may your Mom's memory always be a blessing 🥰❤️
As someone who started life as a Nurse's Aid, I can empathize with both points of view, yours and hers. There are risks in everything we do, but we do it because we care about it... no matter what it is. I love your Mom's spirit and heart. She loved what she did and she loved you. It's enough to know those two things.
What a beautiful story, which reminds me that my mom, a voracious reader, enjoyed and admired your writing, too. In fact, yours are among the hundreds of articles she clipped from newspapers and magazines and mailed to me over the decades.
She used to see you at the West Point Market, she would tell me.
I, too, had an enlightening encounter with Bruce Springsteen. The first time I met him, backstage at a concert in Minneapolis, a friend introduced us and Bruce peered into my eyes as if trying to see the person I was. That was in the late 1970s and I’m reminded of it whenever I hear the line from “Badlands”: “I wanna find one face that ain’t lookin’ through me.” I hope that I have often followed his example.
Tears always:) Your Mom going back to work so you could dream❤️ Your love for her rippled through Erie-beautiful. As always I hope for that feeling for my kids when I’m gone.
So much goodness as I read that I know the universe is going to return it to us☮️🌊🇺🇸
When I think about my mom going back to work, I am so proud of her. She told my father that he could not take a second job to pay Catholic school tuitions. She remembered her own father working three jobs to support 10 children and the effect it had on them. She told him "I need you and your kids need you". They fought, she won and all of us were better for it. She died from lung cancer like your mom, (except she was a smoker, so there's that difference). Thank you for sharing her story and yours! She sounds lovely!
When we moved into the only house my parents ever owned, in Wisconsin, in December, before global warming, there was no driveway, but there was a garage. So Dad would drive through the muddied snow to get into the garage. As early as possible that spring, my parents paid a heap of money ($400), to have the ever-so-long space paved. Just before the garage door, Dad had the cement folks put in a small extension to the side, into which he sunk an iron pipe. That pipe was sized to hold one of these clotheslines that looks like a blown out umbrella. Mom could then stand in the cement extension to hang clothes, and wouldn't have to get her shoes wet in the grass, or snow. (We kids were tasked with shoveling that endless driveway all the many weeks of the winters when my father would be on a road as a salesman.) I remember the crunch of dried jeans when I brought them in on a cold winter day. And them Mom got a drier with a cycle for decrunching--an air-only cycle. All comfort upon us. (Decrunching was still necessay, since Mom preferred the joy of clothes smelling of fresh air.)
I am so inspired by your beautiful storytelling. There is always love and a hopeful message. I too can relate--in this one to the rebellious teen who "started reading the New Yorker and Ms. Magazine." Most of all, mom's message: "every day I am helping people..." And you do that, as we all must, in our own ways. Thank you!
What a beautiful essay--thank you for sharing this story. I was really touched by Bruce Springsteen's comment. My parents were factory workers who died when I was 15 and 16. My father quit school in the 8th grade. My mother quit in high school to marry my father. I loved school and decided at 10 that I wanted to be a lawyer--the effect of watching Perry Mason, I think. We certainly did not know any lawyers. My parents though that was a great idea and encouraged me to do well in school. Of course, since my parents died when I was in high school, they did not live to see my life unfold. I became a political science professor and later a law school professor. I think they would have been so happy to see how my life unfolded. I am now retired and more than twice the age of my mother when she passed. I am so grateful for her love, and that of my father, and I carry that love, and them, in my heart. Much of my education was financed by their social security benefits, which were available to me until I was 22. I always think of how they supported me in that way.
So beautiful and true. Thanks for sharing your mother with us.
This one made me cry.
i have tears streaming down my face. such beautiful memories, your mom sounds like an incredible person
So beautifully written. I had tears in my eyes about your dad blaming himself, your mom’s words and you reassuring him. Thank you for writing this.
Your mom sounds lovely and your memories of her are very engaging. I too remember my mom hanging out clothes on the line with her apron pockets full of clothespins. Your challenging her about her work is what really got me. My youngest daughter of 7 is a fentanyl addict. I spend time with her every week on the street and I've grown to love many in her community. It's become a sore spot with sone of my oldest kids. They just see them as homeless people, but to me they are people with trauma, difficult pasts and they just need someone to listen and care. I feel a kinship with your mom amd I'm glad you have peace with her work. She must have loved you so much. And you have not wasted the years she spent supporting you in college. Looking forward to reading more stories.
This beautiful tribute to your mom brought me to tears when I read it this morning. The sacrifices many parents have made, and continue to make to insure that the next generation will have the advantages unavailable to them is nothing short of amazing. Through your writing, and photos, we all feel like we know Janey and Chuck Schultz. You have kept them alive, and not just through "The Daughters of Erietown".
We see them through your eyes that are filled will love and gratitude. Thank you for sharing them with us. I'm just sorry that she never got to see Ireland. May her memory be eternal.
Well, that made me miss both of my parents yet again. My dad was a cop for most of his life, and my mom was a teacher who quit teaching in public schools to become a a full-time mom who just happened to spend a fair amount of time teaching her own four kids formally and on the fly until we grew up enough that she could go back to work as the most dreaded (by students) substitute teacher who showed up to TEACH, not babysit. (I hated having my mom sub for my class because all my friends complained that she made them work.)
Your story, Connie, first made me think of my dad, who rose through the ranks to Captain during our childhood, while we tiptoed around the house during the day because he worked a lot of night shifts. When he made it to Lieutenant, we missed him on some holidays because he would take the place of one of "his" guys so the cop could have at least one holiday with family. It was years before I figured out that we had our big family party on Christmas Eve so my dad could work on Christmas Day for one of his guys. He was an immigrant kid, one of four whose mother had to work full time because her husband had died shortly after my dad was born. My dad spent his adult professional years reaching out to young men who needed someone to support them, to intervene with authorities, and to be a role model for them. When he died, my mother got many letters from men who told her that MY dad was the dad they never had, and that he had helped them become the professionals they hadn't expected they could be.
I also figured out later that my mom wanted her kids to go to college (as she did as a rare female student in the late 30s), so that none of us would have to do manual labor as all the kids in her family had to as "camp followers" to her roving carpenter dad during the Depression. I was recently reminded by a friend that my mom was the one who took him to get his Driver's license since his mother couldn't as the sole provider. He needed a license to try to get a job. That was almost 60 years ago, but he still is grateful. She treated all our friends, and all her students, as intelligent people. I miss her all over again when I remember her sitting in her rocker, my 4-year-old daughter sitting in a little wooden school chair (really) next to my mom, in what always appeared to be an intense and interesting conversation between peers.
From both my parents, I learned so much more than how to be professionally successfully. I credit them both for teaching me that empathy was the real secret to success.
I have no doubt that your Mom's patients lived longer having her for company. I was a Hospice Nurse for 6 years, at the bedside on 12 hour shifts. I loved it, and was honored and privileged to have spent time with, and cared for so many patients and their families.... may your Mom's memory always be a blessing 🥰❤️
As someone who started life as a Nurse's Aid, I can empathize with both points of view, yours and hers. There are risks in everything we do, but we do it because we care about it... no matter what it is. I love your Mom's spirit and heart. She loved what she did and she loved you. It's enough to know those two things.
I am grateful that you shared this beautiful story about your mother.