Silent Generation Speaks

Children born between the years of 1928-1945 were tagged the Silent Generation—there was a strict rule they lived by—children should be seen and not heard.  “Don’t speak until spoken to”  was how it was, and these children respected their parents and elders.

They came of age in a time so unlike our technologically-attached world. But they have seen more change in their lifetimes than we have.


Today I’m celebrating my favorite member of the Silent Generation. It’s my mother-in-law Bernadean’s 91st birthday. Covid canceled the huge party we’d planned last year, but we have enjoyed a year’s worth of phone calls that became our story time.


I’ve heard about Bernadean’s hardships and endurance, of her adventures and ordeals. The reality is that life will never be like it was back then. Yet, I marvel at her strength born from those tough times.





Bernadean’s early school years were in a one-room school. One time, the teacher announced that the kids would get to perform a play. She then handed the excited students their parts, with a stern warning not to lose them because no other copies existed. Supplies were severely limited in those days. The students dutifully took those precious pages home and practiced their lines. They would then practice together during class.


One day after school, Bernadean left her lines for the play on the kitchen table. She ran outside to do some chores. An older girl had come to help Bernadean’s momma, who’d recently had a baby. Not realizing how important those papers were, the girl used them to help start a fire in the wood stove. 


Later, Bernadean panicked when she couldn’t find the papers. Her momma helped look and when she went to the wood stove, a small corner remained of those lines of the play.


Bernadean had the longest walk to school the following morning. She dreaded telling the teacher, but she went straight to the front of the classroom and explained what had happened. The teacher gathered the students and said the play was now canceled. Without that part, it couldn’t be performed. Bernadean felt awful and her classmates were so disappointed.


Even after a lifetime, it was one of those indelibly-marked days—a sharp reminder that even the most innocent mistakes can hurt. Not long after, Bernadean’s family moved yet again, in their nomadic, migrant worker’s lifestyle. 



Bernadean’s stories remind me of the amazing quilts her family made—taking scraps of fabric, like the days of their lives, placing them in well-placed squares, and then becoming a hand-sewed marvel of warmth, security, beauty, and most of all, love.


Yes, most of all, love.


Happy birthday Bernadean!



One of the many amazing quilts




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