I began writing this story on the occasion of what would have been my mom’s 91st birthday back in September. A quiet but kind woman, her life wasn’t always easy. I‘ve gone through several drafts in the hopes of preserving memories of her, through both the good times and challenging times, and thought Mother’s Day would be a fitting day to publish her story.
Ruth Bailey was born July 11, 1929 in Rumford, RI, to a working class family just before the stock market crash that led to the Great Depression. I can’t imagine it was an easy time for her parents having to raise little Ruthie and older sister Betty during those hard days or the years that followed when daughter Dottie came along. Their dad Ross (my Grandpa) was a laborer with various jobs including elevator operator and a deliverer of ice blocks in the days before electric refrigerators came into fashion. Their mom Nina (my “Granny”) was a nanny or baby nurse of some sort, I was told. I don’t recall how the depression directly affected them, but I am sure there were some hard times and very little money.
She and my dad, Ray Poulin, a World War II army vet and mill worker, married in 1948. They purchased a small rocky patch of land next to my grandparents home in Cumberland, RI, and with the help of my grandfather, built a two-bed, one-bath home far too small to eventually accommodate the family to come. As each of their four children came into the world, rather than add on, dad simply chopped rooms in half to create tiny new spaces. I remember joking to my parents once how the family living space upstairs seemed an afterthought, while the three garages for the extended family vehicles in the space below was the real purpose of this house. Needless to say, living conditions were tight, but somehow we managed.
Ruthie was a stay-at-home mom, and the only work history I remember her telling me of was that of a “corrugated reel labeler” in an East Providence factory as a young adult. To this day, I remember having to do an oral report in high school and proudly reading aloud that whole entire term as Mom’s job description, and the teacher replying, “a WHAT?”, with a puzzled look on her face. Corrugated reel labeler just sounded way cooler than explaining how she simply slapped sticky labels on a cardboard spool.
No doubt due to their experience in doing without during the Great Depression, Mom and Dad didn’t spend a lot. They saved nearly every penny Dad earned at the mill. They saved stuff, too. Almost nothing was thrown out, and the house was comfortably cluttered. Kids’ clothes had a second and third life, and luxuries like eating out and going to the movie theater were rare. Things were repaired, seldom replaced. Dad prided himself on his flower and vegetable gardens, and we lived off the land with a helping of things like stewed tomatoes, Spam in a can, the Sunday pot roast, and that New England favorite, beans and franks.
There was usually one brief summer road trip, almost always to The Mohawk Trail in Northwestern Mass. because it was Dad’s favorite place. And since he did all the driving in the family Chevy, we went where he said, whether we wanted to or not. Accompanied by a large cooler and Sandwich fixings, roadside picnics were frequent, restaurants were few. Summers were also sprinkled with the occasional day trip to Crescent Park or a night at the drive-in.
Mom had significant health issues as an adult for as long as I remember. She told me that as a child or teen, she had a serious case of rheumatic fever. Whether or not this led to any of her ailments later on I can only speculate. When I was a kid, I remember the family doctor making house calls, because that’s what they did in those days. Ultimately, it was diabetes that most impacted her life until her death in 2001. Treatment options have improved in 60 years, but like today, managing Type 2 diabetes required changes in diet as well as insulin management.
However, mom had some obstacles in her path that prevented the lifestyle changes needed to manage her diabetes, the most critical being weight, gaining an impressive number of pounds with each of her five pregnancies. Secondly, though never officially diagnosed or treated, she suffered from bouts of depression and anxiety, perhaps hereditary or maybe they were related to her situation, or maybe both. It wasn’t talked about. The loss of a baby girl shortly after birth some time around 1953 must have been heartbreaking for her, and the grief hard to overcome.
The other significant moment of sadness for Mom was the death of her own mother (my Granny) in November 1963 at the age of 52. Mom and Granny were very close, and as my grandparents were always nearby in their house next door, the loss must have been hard to bear. Somehow she still managed to hold it together while planning a Thanksgiving dinner for the family like a real trooper.
Combine these life events with other situational factors. She didn’t work, didn’t drive and had no hobbies. Beyond a close relationship with her two sisters, she had few friends. She and Dad faithfully went to Mass every Sunday but seldom socialized with the other parishioners. My dad, who had his own personal struggles, worked a lot and was not terribly supportive to Mom or us kids, at least not emotionally. The caring of four kids during bouts of depression must have been overwhelming for her. Thankfully, she always had her sisters to confide in, and when each of us kids each got their license, she found some freedom. We took day trips down to Sand Hill Cove with my grandfather, picnics in the park and visits to relatives.
But no matter her mood, Mom loved Christmas. There was always a tree. In the beginning it was a real tree, but when the needles became a nuisance, it became an artificial tree, sometimes the retro silver version with spinning color floor light and sometimes the green variety. Gigantic bright lights covered the bushes outside, greeting cards adorned the walls, Christmas music rang from the Hi-Fi, and I was proud of the paper chains I made to hang around the house. And no matter how scarce money was, gifts under the tree were abundant. Giving was a true pleasure for Mom! Her sister Dot (the only one of the three sisters with a driver’s license) could always be counted on to take her shopping, or sometimes one of us kids would take her to Ann & Hope for the annual shopping pilgrimage. Writing Christmas cards was never a chore, but a pleasant necessity. When she couldn’t sign them anymore due to poor eyesight, Dad did.
Then the grandchildren came. The next generation provided new meaning To her life. It was as if the clouds parted and the sun reappeared. She became granddaughter Kristin’s part-time caregiver while I worked, and Mom felt she had a new purpose. She kept a supply of toys and books on hand, a tupperware container of cookies at the ready and could even be found on the floor with them at eye level. She was blessed with seven grandchildren, and though she wasn’t able to spend time with all of them equally, she loved them all fiercely.
The last several years of her life were difficult. Her health had deteriorated to the point where she developed most of the complications that come with diabetes - congestive heart failure, foot amputation, blindness and renal failure. Trips to the doctor, the hospital, the pharmacy, and dialysis treatments became daily routines. When she wasn’t shuttled between home and various appointments, she would be temporarily confined to hospitals or nursing homes. Through it all, she put on a good face, and the nurses who took care of her always remarked on what a sweet lady she was.
My mom passed away Labor Day weekend in 2001 at 72 years of age. I miss her most at Christmas, her favorite time of year. I miss pushing her around Wal-mart in her wheelchair. I miss the lunch at TGIF after shopping. I miss helping her wrap the gifts that would go under the tree. Most of all, I miss how she never got a chance to meet her great-grandkids. She would have adored them.♥️
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