It would never have occurred to my mother that she was courageous. When her dream of life as a farmer’s wife in Pennsylvania was derailed by my father’s larger dream of becoming a pioneer in Alaska, she did not flinch. In 1958 Alaska was still a territory of far off remoteness. Mom left behind her family and a secure life on the large sheep and cattle farm she and Dad owned in the rolling fields of Greene County. In a station wagon pulling a trailer, she followed Dad and his truck for four thousand miles on the month-long drive to Alaska. She and Dad had a young family - four kids, all under the age of six.

Mom left behind a two-story white farm house in a community her family had lived in for generations. Nothing awaited them on their arrival - no job, property, friends or family. They arrived in the Matanuska-Susitna Valley in July and soon my father found work as a hired hand on a farm. In September, just before the first snowfall, the job and housing my father had lined up was unforeseeably taken away.  My parents quickly found a 160 acre homestead for sale on a mountain nearby and moved in shortly before winter. 

Dad spent the first winter cutting firewood, repairing the house and hauling water. Mom was busy with children and doing her best to adjust to a very different lifestyle, one without indoor plumbing.

Our new home was bordered by tall mountains on three sides and it must have made her feel isolated. The winter winds came from the north and howled across the face of the mountain where I grew up. Alaska is a land of extremes – the winter months are dark but the sun never seems to set in the summer. How alien it all must have seemed to her.

Shortly before she passed away in 2010 she told me she was “not an Alaskan wilderness woman.” She described herself as a homemaker, a behind-the-scenes-person whose role was laying the groundwork for her family’s stability. Her strength was found in her family and her belief in God.

It was my turn to find a source of strength in April of 2011 when my husband and I moved to New York to help care for his mother, 92 years of age. The day we drove our little caravan away from my familiar Alaskan valley, I wrote: “I will miss my family and the mountains, but I am truly ready to test myself, to see how I can adapt to change and to flourish.”  

Alone in my car, except for the company of two of our dogs, I followed my husband as he drove our moving van across Canada, to Nova Scotia, and then down to his childhood home on the outskirts of Buffalo. I spent thousands of miles reflecting on my journey, and of my mother when she drove many of the same highways back in 1958. In my mind and heart I continued to measure myself against her and our respective experiences. Even though she had been dead for over a year, I found myself looking to her when things got tough. When I was faced with a section of highway mostly underwater from flooding, Mom came to mind and I told myself I could do it despite my fear. When I didn’t want to face another day on the road, I thought of her, and how she not only drove on endless gravel roads back then, but did it with four restless kids. She was with me in spirit, and still is today as I continue to adjust to a lifestyle very different from the one I grew up with.  I’ve come to realize how truly courageous my mother really was.