By most standards, my mother didn’t accomplish anything noteworthy in her 91 years.

She came from a Depression-era household, a row home filled by her parents and 10 siblings. They spoke one language.

She didn’t finish high school.

Once she had her first child at age 28, she was never employed again.

My mother was married only once, for 50 years. She bore four children, and buried one.

Ten miles was about the limit of how far she’d drive from her home. I don’t recall her ever driving in the city. The farthest west she traveled was Illinois, and she never left the lower 48 states.

She never posted a single thing on social media. In fact, she never owned a cell phone or used a computer.

Her home was decorated simply; the only wall decorations I recall are a crucifix and a mirror. At Christmas, we added matching Styrofoam Santa heads and a beer can wreath. At least until Home Interiors and Gifts found her in the 1980s.

Over a few days greeting her friends and family at the funeral home this summer, her legacy become clear:

She baked.

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