Today, April 23, 2015, would have been my mother’s 100th birthday. Unfortunately, she has not been around to celebrate the last 36. Katherine Marcella Pie (pronounced pee-a) was the third of 9 children of Charles William and Nora Scollins Pie. It’s pretty amazing that my grandmother had her first child in 1909 and her last in 1928. She loved the fact she was born on the same date (not year) as William Shakespeare, even though his actual birthdate has been questioned. She grew up in Johnstown, Pennsylvania and was acknowledged by her entire family as the brightest of them all.
After high school she attended nursing school and wound up in Washington, DC at Saint Elizabeth’s Hospital. She spent time in their suicide ward which must have been stressful. I remember her telling me about a patient who attempted suicide by swallowing 47 razor blades (they must been used because he survived). She kept a journal from 1938 for about 10 years and the early portion is filled with various adventures she and her cohorts had as single females. During that time she met my father as he was heading oversees for World War II. I’ve written about their relationship in other posts so I won’t recount it here.
I remember her as someone who was adept at many things. She could sew and knit, was very quick witted and managed the house. She also wrote two novels but they were never published. The first was titled Right Out of My Mind and was similar to the book Please Don’t Eat the Daisies The second was a novel called The Invisible Scar and drew on her knowledge as a nurse. She and my father seldom argued, I can only recall 2 instances where things escalated between them and I remember because it was so unusual.
I inherited several characteristics from my mother: her love of books and the written word, her quick wittedness. After my father died she became very depressed and that seemed to stay with her for the rest of her life. She died from emphysema and smoked right up to the end. It was very sad to watch helplessly as a very talented woman never really recovered from becoming a widow. My brother and I who had been raised too survive on our own just did not know how to help. It was awfully sad and I regret not being able to figure out how I could have helped her.
In retrospect both my parents left this earth far too early because of the choice they made to smoke. It’s too bad I didn’t have more time with them as an adult, I think they both could have helped me grow and mature better than me doing it on my own.
Happy birthday, Mother. I miss you.
