One woman, this woman; all women

Twenty two years ago, on March 8th, 1999, my mother celebrated her last birthday . This year, she would have turned 94.

For years, she was the only woman our family celebrated on that day. Now it is International Women's Day. She was not a woman of her time. And she was.

She married and had children, for her generation, late - in her 30s. I often wonder if it is something she wanted or because it was the done thing. I do know that she had been engaged before. What happened to end that, she never explained. I know that my father adored her. What her real feelings were for him, I have no real clue. When I was getting divorced, she wanted to go there. At the time, I couldn't. And then I couldn't. Because she was gone.

She was also a career woman: she loathed being just a housewife. That was what my father wished for her. It was "supposed" to be what should have "enabled" her to be. After we moved to Grahamstown and she'd made a home, she needed to do something: she was bored of the sewing, house management and caring for my sister (I was at school). She found a job at Rhodes University: an administrative job. My father was far from thrilled, but she took it. She grew that half day, clerical job into a fulltime, senior role as Buying Officer for the entire university's academic and administrative function: furniture and equipment needs. And more. A friend of mine (still now) and a leading light in the rowing club, still tells me how she went above and beyond when they bought a new boat. She was quite fond of those young men.

In 21st century parlance, she was Procurement. Her training: nurse and secretary. When I had occasion to return to the university, in a professional capacity, about 10 years after she retired and 5 years after she died, the Deputy Vice Chancellor not only remembered her (from his days as junior and academic), but told my colleagues that she had left a legendary legacy, saying to me that, "Two people do her job, now..."

After work, she'd have a "sit down" with a cup of tea before retreating to the kitchen to cook supper from scratch. Every evening. It was her happy place as it is mine.

Although we were never friends, she was my mother. It has taken almost a lifetime for me to acknowledge that some of my best (and worst, if course!) traits are hers and to make peace with both her, and those, facts.

This is one of the only photos of Ursula Muriel Cameron nee Stockford, as a child. When I found it, after she died, it was like looking at myself in the mirror at the same age. She would have been about 13, so around the beginning of the Second World War.

As I reflect on her life and women's lives in the 21st century, I reflect on how much, and how little, has changed.

Until next time, be well
Fiona
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa

Post Script

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