Letters From A Great Grandfather Part 1
To My Mother on Mother's Day
My Mother passed away in 1977, fairly young at the age of 57. Today, which is Mothers Day in the USA. A friend of mine who is also a Mother made the following observation. “Yes. It [Mother’s Day] should be more about our mothering than actually giving birth. It’s about the fact everyone has a biological mother.”
Here are words which could form a letter to my Mother and yes I do write letters, in this case; Letters From A Great Grandfather.
Dear Mum,
On this Mother's Day, I write not just as your son, but as a man who now carries the quiet title of great-grandfather—something neither you nor I could have imagined on the day of my birth. I came into the world fragile and uncertain, but here I am. You brought me safely into life, and somehow that life has rippled outward: seven grandchildren, four great-grandchildren, and still growing.
You were born Maria Rena Fiori in Accrington, Lancashire, around 1920. Later, after marrying Dad, you became Maria Rena Brunt—though most knew you as Rena. I remember the long years you worked at Holt’s Shoes in Burnley. You were not loud about your strength, but it showed in every step you took.
I wonder sometimes what dreams you held close. What was it like to be a young woman in those streets, through the war and after, shaping life with your hands and heart? There’s so much I never asked. But I carry the answers now in smaller, quieter ways—in the way I care for others, the way I plant seeds and watch them grow, and the way I try to leave the world more nourished than I found it.
Seeds fill my days now. Not just literal seeds—though my life is certainly full of those—but the kind we plant with care, patience, and hope. Every seed is a continuation of something larger. Like life itself, it does not begin or end with us. It flows on. I’ve never tried to end life, Mum—only to enhance it. That, perhaps, is the truest echo of your legacy.
And so today, I say thank you.
For bringing me through that fragile beginning.
For your quiet courage.
For giving me a life that would in turn give life to many more.
With love always,
Michael (your lad, always)
P.S.
As I walk through the garden, the seed trays waiting, the soil warmed, I feel something ancient and familiar.
The act of tending—of protecting life in its smallest forms—is what connects us all.
In each seed I plant, I honor not just the Earth, but you.
Mother Earth… and my own dear mother.
