Elfriede Henrietta Woelk Byrne

March 11, 1926 - February 2, 2010

I recently asked my mom what her earliest memory was. “When I was about three or four, I used to go outside and braid the tall grass together, pretending I was dressing hair” she said. I loved hearing about her memories. She had lived a fascinating life. Born in East Prussia, one of eight children, she was there when a dictator ruled her country and led them into world war.

She had lots of stories. Stories from her early years of watching her mother cook, helping her father with the garden or watching him kill the chickens and pigs for their meals. She spoke of wrestling with her brothers and sisters while her parents laughed and stealing the sweets her mother had made for Christmas. She remembered sneaking cigarettes from her father and hiding out back with her sisters to smoke them.

She had lots of memories. Her teenage years were spent working at a German Air Force hospital as a nurse’s aid. Sneaking to the basement with her girlfriend to have Schnapps with the German officers and running to the bomb shelter when the air raid sirens would alarm filled the moments of those years with what she said were some of the most exciting and fun times of her life.

The war scattered her family and she met and fell in love with an Irish man in the British army. Post war life was filled with rebuilding; reuniting with her family and getting married. She buried twins and then my sister was born. In 1954, my dad said they were going to America. She didn’t want to leave but her mother told her to follow her man. She did. She came across the Atlantic by ship and learned English by going to school with my sister when she was in first grade and then watching American television.

She had two more children and buried another and built a family, a home and life. She was strong, fearless, and playful. She intensely loved her family. She taught me about work and how to behave even when I didn’t want to learn. She made me weed and mow the yard and then got the neighbor to hire me to do the same. My sisters had to clean house and make the beds. When I was 12 she made me get a paper route and then took most of the money I earned. She gave it to me when I was 16 so I could buy a car.

She liked to work and play. She worked for Avis returning rental cars to Chicago and never missed a chance to stop at the horse track on the way back. She loved Saturday night poker with friends and family vacations. She told us every family vacation that she was never bringing “you kids” again, but she always did. Her and my dad would take turns driving on those trips and my mom would be the one inching the speed up on the highway to the point where my dad would have to say Elfi, slow down. She was the one that taught me to drive. On trips to the west, if we got anywhere near Nevada my dad would often have to drag her kicking and screaming across the state line to get her away from the slot machines and blackjack tables that she loved.

After my dad died she worked at a factory, a school and a hospital and then retried. After she retired she spent time with her family, watching grand kids, or coming over to our house and scrubbing down the outside with a bucket of soap and a broom. Her grand kids loved her and their friends thought Grandma Byrne was a hoot. They would squeal and laugh every time they heard her say “Komm mal here you little schitt!” She had a sweet tooth and wanted all of the grandkids to have one as well. She had a way with names. When we were about to be blessed with our first son we were struggling with names. It was Grandma that said, What about Nathan? It just seemed to fit. Other names of grandkids and friends became a either a blend of Germenglish, Jacobla, Hanala, Maargritte, Ikey, and Joshma or nicknames, like Schmiley Face and Angel Face. And her great grandson Antonio some how became the Tomster.

I was simply her son.

Those were the last words she ever said to me. I walked into her hospital room that last Sunday and she looked up and said “Oh, mine son”. I stayed with her. I cried.

She used to sing a German lullaby to my kids, “Hiedchi Bon Biedchi Bom Bom,,” That last day, that song came out of my heart and went back to her as I quietly sang it to her. I held her hand and she slept. When it was time to go she looked up at me. We shared a moment of sadness and knowing it was the last time we would see each other in this life. She died on Tuesday. I knew it was coming, but I didn’t know it would hurt so badly. I’m thankful for all of those Saturday’s and the talks, stories and memories, most of all I’m thankful I was her son.

Americans say Goodbye, In Germany they say Auf Wiedersehen, literally "on again seeing". I like that better than goodbye.

Auf Wiedersehen Mom,