In the summer of 1953, my father rented a small 17th Century farmhouse in the Berkshire foothills outside Deerfield, MA. We had no running water, no central heating, little electricity, but we had plenty of solace and a henhouse full of needy fowl, the care of which was entirely mom’s responsibility. She was at the time pregnant with her third child and thoroughly unprepared for the life Dad expected her to embrace.

The child of prosperous parents, mom had led a life of privilege. Even after they were forced to flee their beloved home in Europe to escape the Nazis, the family continued to live comfortably, and Mom certainly never learned how to clean a coop after a fox raid or how to keep her hands clean and soft when daily egg gathering was required. She endured. But she was never truly happy except when she was playing the cello she brought with her into exile. After the cello broke, and her life was consumed by children and chores, she was never quite happy. But she endured.

From her, I learned endurance. But I also learned that endurance is not really enough for a life. We need more.