My grandmother climbed mountains in her bare feet, raised hell and three hearty children on the edge of a small Pennsylvania mining town. Oldest child of the indomitable Baba Melnyk, who hitched a ride to America all by herself when she was just 13-years old, my grandmother earned her matriarch status with a sharp tongue, keen mind and perfectly rolled apricot cookie.
These are the women who raised us.
My mother touched a cloud on Machu Picchu, bought a scarf in an Egyptian market, sipped tea in a Japanese garden. She commuted 180 miles to earn her Master’s Degree, raised hell and four hearty children on the edge of a city park.
These are the women who raised us.
My mother in-law wrote children’s books, practiced yoga and cheerfully criss-crossed the country to support her growing brood. Sharp-witted and sweet, she raised hell and nine hearty children on the edge of a cornfield that disappeared into the quick gulp of suburban sprawl.
These are the women who raised us.
My sister Kathy climbed Mount Rainier, toasted her engagement in a Paris restaurant and became a Wisconsin Teacher of the Year. My sister Jenny walked with icons, produced a flawless flash mob on a Chicago city street, raised hell and a tiny spitfire.
These are the women who raised us.
My nine sisters in-law form a perfect circle of sophistication and support. They are writers, teachers, lawyers, computer programmers, nurses, artists, wives, mothers and friends.
These are the women who raised us.
We are mountain climbers, ocean swimmers, beach walkers, tennis players, sunset seers, book readers, garden growers, cancer fighters, chocolate eaters, belly laughers, birthday wishers, morning joggers, scrabble players, kitchen dancers, movie goers, private prayers, shower singers, life toasters.
These are the women who raised us.
