THE POEM. Our Mother Was a Rose. She had thorns. We bled. But her color was the best. Her perfumes raised us high. She gave us full life and love in passing. Our Mother Was a Rose. She had thorns. We bled. But she grew in Living Water which we suckled at her breast and ourselves thus lived and loved. THE STORY. My mother, Rose Annette Saxon, was born into an interesting family. Her grandparents were French Canadian -- her grandfather, Leon Auguste Brodeur (Gus), a skilled stone mason and wood carver; her grandmother, Marie Louise Rose de Lima Milette (Mama Rose), a midwife and expert seamstress. Gus signed on to build stations for a rail line being laid along the US east corridor. They had a child or two at every post along the way. At Salem, MS, they birthed a daughter, Cecile Eliza Medora Brodeur (Ceci), and by the time they reached Augusta, GA, Gus had abandoned Mama Rose and their eight children for parts unknown. (Unbeknownst to the rest of the family, Ceci kept in touch with him for years, while a sibling searched for him high and low around the country.) Mama Rose, left in virtual poverty, wanted the best for her children (i.e., prosperous marriages for the girls) and would dress her daughters in ornate pleated dresses fashioned of flour sacks. She made hats, and a variety of bows to swap out on their one pair of shoes, so the girls always looked au courant. Ceci soon attracted the eye of Hugh Saxon, a young Augustan who rose like a rocket from beer factory clerk, to teller at the local bank, to bank exec, and ultimately to VP at the Chicago National Bank in Chicago. Their fourth child, my mother, Rose Annette Saxon (Annette) was born in Augusta in 1924, shortly before they moved to Evanston, IL for the big banking job. Came the stock market crash, and, subject to repeated bouts of depression, Hugh committed suicide, leaving the four children, Ceci and Mama Rose on their own. Mom was eight at the time. The bank president offered them respite at his winter cottage in Ocean Springs on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. The Saxons fell in love with that quiet town, ultimately purchased a large Victorian home (the 'O'Keefe Castle' or ‘Seven Gables’) and settled in. When Ceci went up the street to close the deal with the O’Keefes, Annette went along and met for the first time, Jerry J. O’Keefe, who was peaking around his aunt’s skirts as they chatted at the door. Jerry and Annette got to know each other at St. Alphonsus Church and School, mid-block between their two homes. Jerry was an altar boy so, of course, Annette attended Mass when he was ‘on duty’. They dated on and off. Later, at the height of the depression, the O’Keefes lost their beautiful Beaux Arts home and moved across the bridge to Biloxi, MS. Jerry and Annette drifted apart, but resumed corresponding when Jerry volunteered to train as a military. At the time, Annette was a serious (but mischievous) young scholar at Ursulines College in New Orleans, LA. Jerry, posted at Camp Pendleton in CA while waiting to ship out to the Pacific Theater, invited Annette for a pre-departure visit. Wanting a stable future for her daughter, Ceci secretly bought a trousseau for Annette and volunteered to escort her on the cross-country train trip. Not to be outdone (and suspecting something was afoot), Jerry’s mother, Tess Slattery O’Keefe, decided to come along. Jerry and Annette married a few days into the visit. I was conceived during the brief period before Jerry left for Okinawa. Mom returned to Ocean Springs. I was born in early January 1945. In April, dad and his reliable Corsair shot down five kamikaze planes on his first combat mission, becoming an instant ‘Ace’, along with several co-pilots. He downed another two Japanese planes the following week. The war ended shortly and Jerry came home to high acclaim, medals, and a young wife and baby girl. Was it something in the wonderful water of the Gulf Coast? Jerry and Annette produced twelve more children, almost one a year, over the next 16 years. Mom tended the children as dad went to college in New Orleans, joined his father in the family funeral business, started an insurance company, went off to the State Legislature, served as Biloxi Mayor for eight years, and did various other worthy things. Mom, on the other hand, drooped and foundered under the weight of us children and dad’s absences -- and, sad to say, mental health issues inherited from her father and mother (who had fallen into a deep, long-lived depression after her husband’s death). Mom was diagnosed with bipolar depression (‘manic depression’, in those days); was hospitalized from time to time for what seemed to us children like lengthy periods; and even endured multiple ‘shock treatments’ (ECT, today). Upon her returns from the hospital, mom would dive back into birthing and family and community activities. She was a fabulous hostess, welcoming the extended family, dad’s friends and colleagues, and many others who simply lacked a support system. Once invited to our large table, you were welcome anytime thereafter and lots of folks happened to ‘drop by for a minute’ right before supper time. They were always fed with a smile and a chuckle. Black, white, gay, straight, no matter. She was no cardboard saint, however; she knew how to keep us all in line, knew how to cuss, and could flash her hazel eyes dramatically when we needed ‘correction’. She was multi-talented. A fine pianist and organist, she played and sang with the choir at the local Catholic parish; led bible study groups; took up oil painting; performed in community theater; worked in dad’s business for several extended periods; and, in due course, became a strong advocate for mental health treatment. She wasn’t shy about telling her story of depression and hospitalization, providing comfort to those needing succor and encouraging them to get the necessary professional care. She chaired the county Mental Health Association for quite a while, receiving awards for her service. She was a wonderful cook and, assisted by her youngest child, my brother Joe, ultimately published ‘Cooking on the Coast - the O’Keefe Family Cookbook’, fulfilling a long-held dream of sharing family and Gulf Coast recipes. (After Hurricane Katrina, many families called in hopes of replacing cherished copies lost in the storm.) She passed away far too young – at 74 -- from heart issues. Lines of mourners stretched down the block, waiting to attend her wake and funeral. Her family of eleven surviving children and forty grandchildren (with more than 40 great-grandchildren among us) still mourn her, but equally celebrate her memory and legacy. Here’s what I commended to work colleagues at her passing in 1998. In lieu of flowers or donations to a favorite charity, my mother can best be commemorated by doing one or more of the following: giving unconditional love to your family, including black sheep; bringing into your family’s circle, on a sustained basis, those who are troubled or have no family; living a big life with lots of good food and laughter; and kicking rear ends when they need to be kicked.

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