“The world is changed by your example, not your opinion.”

That quote is from Paulo Coelho, the Brazilian writer, lyricist and religious philosopher. It leapt off the page when I read it, striking home in so many ways.

Most of what I learned from my mother, I learned from watching, not listening, to her. Sure, she kept me in line with “the rules,” and she consistently reminded me that because we lived in a small town, everyone was watching.

But her daily life was her example to me about what was right, what was worth pursuing. Hard work was necessary if you wanted to get ahead. In fact, it was the only way. (It didn’t keep her from buying an Irish lottery ticket once a year.)

And my mother did work extremely hard. She juggled two full-time jobs for the twelve years I was in school. Her day job put food on the table and paid the electric bill. The night job was for the dreams, the extras.

Her dream for me was education. Although bright and capable when she graduated from her specialized high school at 16, she never had the chance for more. Just eking out life’s basics in the depression-era thirties got in her way. Mom was determined that I would have more opportunities.

Her dream for herself? Well, after her marriage dissolved, she knew that it was strictly up to her. And that was a big challenge, because her dream was big. In her heart, she wanted to be a duchess. Since she didn’t know any dukes, getting close to duchess-hood was going to be a hard slog.

She aspired to beautiful things. She loved elegant clothes and pretty jewelry. She wanted a gracious home where she would serve wonderful food. And she wanted to see the world. But she started at the bottom.

As I thought about Coelho’s quote, I pictured my mother, struggling to get to her 7 a.m. factory job on time. Unlike today, women did not wear t-shirts and jeans. HER dress had to be fresh and ironed, every hair in place, and shoes polished. She lived her own “best foot forward” adage.

Getting Mom to her evening job began when I arrived home from school at 3:30 p.m. I polished and buffed her white shoes, and ironed both her white apron and lace handkerchief. When she got home at 4:05 p.m, she stripped, took a sponge bath, changed into her waitress uniform, then freshened her hair, makeup and perfume. She donned stockings, and I checked that her seams were straight.

My Aunt Rosie made hand-tatted Irish linen handkerchiefs, and Mom had them in a dozen colors. She wore them in her breast pocket, just like Flo in Mel’s Diner on the old TV show, Alice. Getting that hankie perfectly pleated and pinned into the pocket took five minutes. We had to be out the door by 4:35pm for her 5:00pm night job in the next town. It was a mad dash, but doable if nothing went wrong.

Snag-free was up to me, beginning at age eight. If I filled the sink full of hot water and rescued the bar soap from the tub, it saved time. If I made her bed (there was never time in the morning) and laid her uniform and fresh slip out, it saved time… and made it nicer when she arrived home late that evening.

When we arrived at the restaurant, we completed the finishing touch together. Enroute Mom’s heavily starched white apron lay flat across the back seat. I tied the apron’s bow at her back and puffed the loops so they perkily stood up – evenly. Uneven wouldn’t do. Only her best was adequate.

I ate supper there most nights. Although she waited on me, I still received a check for my meal, and paid at the cash register. I took the bus back home.

She lived a harried, exhausting existence that taught me so much. I learned so many life lessons from her earnest examples:

¯ Everything starts with soap and water.

¯ Punctuality is important, even if it’s a struggle. The world works that way.

¯ Respect the rules of your workplace. They pay you.

¯ Find thoughtful ways to make life nicer for others.

¯ Respect yourself enough to do your best, even if the situation isn’t the best.

¯ There will always be snags – plan ahead, but learn to roll with the punches.

Day after day, week after week, we lived it together, and her examples stuck.

Mom never made it to Duchess. She did work her way up, working formidably hard until she was 81. But she saw Paris, ate at a luau, and when she died at 98, she had made it to Great Lady.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com.