“Dorothy Edna Agnes Elizabeth Wuebker Kerber was born on July 20, 1920, in Coldwater, Ohio. The oldest of eight children, Dorothy grew up in a two-story white-frame house ...”

So begins a memorial I have been writing about my mother that I hope to share with others, on the occasion of her passing.

As a young girl, I remember listening attentively as my mother carefully enunciated her names. With only three of my own — Linda Jean Kerber — I was always amazed at my mother’s many names.

I began writing the memorial shortly after Mom suffered a debilitating stroke that robbed her of the life she knew: As a mother to 12 children and numerous grandchildren and great-grandchildren; as the wife of Elmer, her second husband, whom she married at age 75; of reading and writing, cooking and crocheting, living life fully as only those who have lived long know how to do.

Today, more than four years after her stroke, my mother remains in a nursing home, only slightly cognizant of passing events. Since then, grandchildren have married, great-grandchildren have been born, and the seasons have come and gone.

When I recently told mother that I had turned 57 and our youngest child was graduating from high school this year, she looked puzzled. That information didn’t align with what is inside her head: me as the mother of young children, and her traveling to Pennsylvania from Ohio to lend a hand.

Today my mother spends her days confined to a wheelchair, always pleasant, yet sadly disconnected to the life she once lived. In my written memorial, I have tried to capture the richness of that lost life.

I have written about Mother growing up during the Depression; of the death of her baby sister, when she was eight years old; of her skipping the fifth grade because the nuns felt she already had mastered what would be taught.

I also wrote about her meeting my father at a dance; of their 39 years together; of her traveling with a toddler by train to be with Dad in California, where he was stationed during World War II; of the homes they lived in and the children they raised; of her widowhood at age 60; and of the life she created for herself after my father died.

Recently I shared some of my writings about Mom with my daughter, Elly. One story I told her was how her grandmother, as a sophomore in high school, lived in a makeshift house — a shed, really — while a family home was being built. At the time, a boy had given her a ride home from school on his bicycle. When they neared the shed, though, grandma jumped from the bike, not wanting the boy to see the kind of house she lived in.

“I was so embarrassed to be seen living in a place like that,” mother always said when telling the story.

“What your grandmother doesn’t know,” I said to Elly, “was that the man on the bike today lives with his wife in the same nursing facility where grandma lives. Seeing him on a recent visit, I heard again the story of that long-ago bike ride, and of the high regard he has for my mother.

“She was an amazing woman,” the man said. And I heartily agreed.

Tears sprang to Elly’s eyes as she thought of her grandmother as a young girl with a lifetime of dreams ahead of her, a striking contrast to the feeble woman Elly knows today.

“Is it sad writing about your mom?” Elly wanted to know.

“No,” I said. “It gives me pleasure to think of Mom in the various stages of her life.” To recount her experiences, to marvel at her accomplishments, to recall her simple beginnings.

“Your grandmother had a rich, textured life, full of joy as well as heartaches,” I said. “And even though her current circumstances are sad, I don’t feel sorry for her. Only for those who never really learn how to live.”

To my mother, and to all women who have nurtured and cared for others, Happy Mother’s Day.

Linda K. Schmitmeyer is a freelance writer living in Middlesex Township. Her e-mail address is lks260@zoominternet.net.