Perhaps you might not know, yet, that my Mother married a Marine Corps vet. My mother had got to URI, and wound up, knocked up, by this guy. She was eighteen, he was twenty three...the rest they say, is history.
She was already a tough, Rhode Island Red, a rebel, before they wed. He was no match for her in the field ; The Little Rhodey was as tall as him, but damaged goods, deep within.
I was one of the six she bore, before, they understood the score; either the Jersey Shore or perma War.
Here’s to Joan Of Arc, and my mother, martyrs both, like no others. Amazons exist, I’m not shy to leak...on this day from this peak.
True, one burned from out, and the other in...but only one did me discipline. I felt her backhand, and obeyed. Right or wrong? I’ll not say.
What Europe’s matchmakers matched, via Templar and Masonic yarns, Of St. Clair and beyond; the Cowan, the Haigh...The Jamison, ours came down to a river’s edge to do, what Nature told them to.
Over on this other shore, her will be done, and gone. We never called her a Saint, she scowled at the church, unrepaint!
She fed the birds, and died a slow and painful death, defiant to her last breath. No doubt, at all she was the very best. Unknown, unheard, and unsung...I remain, THAT mother’s son.