“Want me to beat you in a game of cribbage?” was her greeting whenever anyone came in the door. The cribbage board and a deck of cards had permanent residence on the round oak table in the breakfast room. Next to them sat a package of Pall Mall cigarettes. Mother had a raspy laugh and a persistent cough, the result of years of smoking.

The front door to the house on Ney Avenue in Oakland was always open. We came through the entry hall as we hollered out greetings, passed through the living and dining rooms, and found her in the kitchen.

A blue and white Corning ware coffee pot sat on the freestanding stove and it was always full. I’d grab a mug from the cupboard, pour myself a slug of the thick, strong brew, thin it with some milk and sit down at the table. It didn’t matter whatThe time of day didn’t matter nor what her schedule was, she could always sit down for a game—and beat me she did, almost every time.

When I first came into the Ettlin family, I realized that Mother was the lively, vocal one, Dad more reserved. But early on I noticed that when she was holding the room enthralled with one of her fascinating stories, he watched quietly with a slight grin on his face. I could see he was proud of her and I could see the love in his eyes.

The breakfast room was where Eeveryone congregated in the breakfast room whereand there were some vigorous discussions. Politics, religion, sports and family—anything that came up was thrashed out while they all puffed on Pall Malls. I didn’t smoke or talk much, mostly just listened. My eyes were red and itching from the tobacco haze that filled the room, but this was before we knew all the bad effects of cigarettes, and I was happy to suffer the side effects to be part of this lively group. The year we married, 1957, racial tensions were high, we faced the threat of nuclear war, the Soviets launched Sputnik 1, setting off the ‘space race’, and sirloin steak cost fifty-nine cents a pound.

“Governor Faubus brought in the National Guard just to make sure those colored kids didn’t get into the school,” Dad said.

“No, Dad,” Alan argued. “He did it to protect them.”

Dad’s eyebrows rose as he glared at his son. “You don’t know what you’re talking about….” and the discussion was on.

I knew Alan didn’t believe that, but he always enjoyed a good debate and often took an opposite view just for the sake of argument. I became nervous when the disagreements got too serious, but everyone seemed to take them in good stride. Dad was stern, but Mother entered into discussions in a warm, friendly way and she could always hold her own in any discussion.

Dinner at the Ettlin home was always relaxed and fun. It didn’t matter how many people were at the table. If people dropped by at the last minute, Mother could always extend the dinner to feed us all. One of our favorite recipes was a veal and noodle concoction that she invented years before when old friends from out of town popped in unexpectedly. She stretched out the veal chops by cutting them in half, fried them with onions, then filled the pan with noodles and chicken broth, added salt and pepper, and simmered slowly until done. It was such a success that it became a favorite meal and one I tried to imitate many times.

When Mother made enchiladas, everyone got invited. Since enchiladas are a Mexican food, I found it amusing that this Swedish lady got the Mexican recipe from her friend Sarah, who was Portuguese. The recipe was simple—for the sauce melt some lard in a large pan, add chili powder and stir. Fill with eEqual amounts of cooked hamburger, chopped onions and grated sharp cheddar cheese comprised the filling. Mother made huge quantities and it looked so easy. When she rolled up the mixture in corn tortillas, she inserted three pitted black olives in each were as the final touch. A tossed green salad and French bread completed the menu.

I asked Mother for the recipe once and found out it wasn’t easy—too much chopping of onions with tears streaming down my face, too difficult grating all that cheese. I never made enchiladas again unless Alan was there to help.

Becoming a grandmother was a role that suited her well. Her grandchildren adored her and she was unstinting in her love for them. She never talked down to them, but always on their level, and she listened attentively when they spoke to her.

Because both Mark and Eric were allergic to cats and dogs, they had snakes, a lizard, once even a tarantula. One day when Grandma was visiting, Mark expressed his desire for a turtle.

“I’ll bring you a turtle the next time I come,” Grandma said.

Several days later, she visited again. Mark was excited when he saw her car come into our driveway.

“Where’s my turtle, Grandma?” he asked, barely able to contain his excitement.

Grandma laughed. “Frankly, Mark, I forgot.. I promise to bring it next time.”

“Frankly? Is that the turtle’s name?”

“Well, it could be,” she answered.

The next time she came, she did bring a turtle. It was about the size of a football. Mark was ecstatic when she handed it to him.

“What are you going to call it?” I asked.

“Don’t you remember, Mom? His name is Frankly.”

My mother-in-law never offered advice, but when I needed help, I could always phone her and be assured that she’d listen intently and then tell me how she would handle the situation. The one time she did give unsolicited advice was when the boys were two and four.

My daily routine after Alan left for school and I’d fed the boys breakfast was to clean the bathrooms, dust all the furniture, vacuum, scrub the kitchen, and then play with my children. One day Mark was impatient. He wanted to go to the park like I’d promised, but my chores were taking too long. He grew cranky and when Grandma dropped in, he ran to her complaining.

She scooped him up in her arms, turned to me and said, “When my children were growing up, if the kitchen sink was full of dishes and they wanted to fly kites, I left it all and we went out and flew kites. The dust will always be there, but the children will grow up and be gone.”

I was liberated. I won’t say I always dropped everything and took off to play with the boys, but I did get over the hare-brained idea that the house had to be spotless all the time.

Returning from New Zealand in September of 1967, we learned that Dad had cancer. He died in March, 1968, at the age of 62. Devastated, Mother carried on bravely, but some of her spirit was gone. While visiting relatives in Reno in March of 1969, she sat at the breakfast table drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette. She uttered one word, “Oh!”, put her hand to her head and died. The doctors said an aneurysm had burst in her brain. I always felt she’d died of a broken heart. She was only fifty-eight years old.