My mother gave me her childhood book of fairy tales when my children were young.  This wasn’t a book she had ever shown me, or my brother and sisters.  I think it was my teaching and my newfound love of children’s literature that prompted her to give me the book.

I was thrilled and excited.  I read many of the fairy tales, especially the ones I knew.  I remember calling Mother and the conversation we had on the phone.  It went something like this:

Me:  “Mother, these fairy tales are terrible.”

Mother:  “What do you mean?”

Me:  “They’re violent.”

The silence was deafening.  I could see the stiffening and the tension, and I wasn’t even there.  I could see the eyes tightening and the chin rising, even though I wasn’t there.

My mother was a no-nonsense, tough woman.  She always idolized her grandfather who was a coal miner from Wales…