by  Muriel Tucker

                      Muriel wrote this for Mother's Day and read it in her church. Muriel was the fourth child and third daughter of Gladys and Ivan.

                         I'd like to greet all mother's today, the old ones, the young ones, and especially the middle aged ones.

                        I must look backward in time to see my mother again. Fleeting, flashing memories cross the screen of my mind: I see her enjoying with her children the Saturday night bath session--- bare child bodies glowing in the lamplight-- the warmly heated kitchen stove pouring its comfort forth.

                     I see a woman bending to check baby piglets in the warming oven--coaxing them into life.  I see swimming lessons in the river as we learned to swim by clinging limpet-like to her back, our arms tight around her neck, each in our turn.

                    I see one who cooked, not just for her own, but for others as well; one who sewed and knitted for her ever growing family. One who did men's work out of doors; one who set her children working at their lessons, the Aladdin lamp glowing on the center of the table.

                  Her name was Gladys Rebekah Allaby, she was born April 13, 1900, a Friday, and she had red hair-- apparently causing a ripple of superstition in that Scottish community in southern New Brunswick.  She went to Normal School and taught school before marrying my father at the age of 18 or 19, right after he came home from France and the war,

                These are childhood memories. As I grow older, I see her more clearly: long red hair with a wave to the back, a tall woman  troubled with bronchial problems. She died at the age of 47.

             She left to her children a legacy of love of reading and learning; delight in nature with it's seasonal beauty, its creatures and birds; an urge to travel and see people and countries; a great patriotism and loyalty; a strong moral and religious mode of life.