--Margaret Walker, Lineage, For My People, 1942

      I was sitting in the Pediatrician's waiting room with my two-year-old daughter, Denise. She'd been running a fever for a couple of days, and I just wanted to make sure she didn't have another ear infection. We'd dropped her big sister, 4 year old Debbie, at nursery school on our way to the clinic. Denise's appointment was scheduled for 10 a.m., it was only 9:35; I was glad

      Denise immediately busied herself at a chalkboard. Her plump dimpled hands drew alongside other runny-nosed toddlers. I delighted, watching small children becoming the best of friends within a few minutes. Their open innocence caused me to smile, and as usually happened during times like that, tears pooled in my eyes.

      I enjoyed sitting in this particular waiting room, where life as a young mom got a ‘shot in the arm', so to speak. I always came away from pediatrician appointments feeling validated as a mother; my heart uniting with other women in this not often applauded society of people who nurture and rock society. The emotions of feeling sorry for myself, at always having to run here and everywhere for my little ones, was transformed through the sacrificial love I identified with, mirrored all around me. I always left pediatrician appointments feeling energized.

      The room was filled with women tending their infants and toddlers. It's always been my way to people-watch while waiting anywhere. I tried to be inconspicuous, but why be concerned; I wouldn't be seeing any of those people again anyway. Nurses scrambled in and out of the door that led to the examining rooms. Actually I hoped they wouldn't call Denise's name soon; waiting had become mini-vacations for me.

      I scanned the room, stopping at the end of my row. I leaned forward to get a better look. There were 3 women sitting side by side; an empty stroller was parked in front of them. I thought it must be transportation for a newborn, yes, probably a first-born. I could tell because the stroller was brand new, had immaculate white tires with sparkling hub caps, and a tiny pink hand-crocheted blanket and bonnet were neatly hanging over its hood. You can always tell when baby things are handmade; the delicate patterning of the stitches couldn't possibly have come through heartless assembly line knitting machines.

      Each of the women resembled the other in a family way. They were speaking Italian. I didn't need to understand a word, their body language was colorfully animated. The eldest was white-haired, and appeared to be in her nineties. She wore a white collared silk flowery print dress, her nylon stockings were rolled to below her knees, and her black sensible shoes were secured with double knotted thick black shoelaces. Her body stooped with Osteoporosis, and her head relaxed on her folded arms that rested over the handle of the locked-wheeled stroller. The woman sitting to her left looked like she must be her daughter. She was a lovely bun-coifed woman, probably in her sixties. She was busy making certain that her mother was comfortable, placing a sweater over her shoulders and offering her a piece of hard candy to suck on. The third woman, about forty years old, sat scooted to the end of her chair. She wore blue jeans, high black patent leather boots, and a bright red turtleneck sweater. She was intently reading Vogue magazine. I came to the conclusion that these women were the great-great-grandmother, the great-grandmother, and the grandmother of the baby the stroller belonged to. Yes, I thought, they must be waiting for a young mom and her baby to come out of the pediatrician's office. They looked tired, like they'd been waiting for quite awhile.

      It finally happened. The doctor's door opened wide, as did the eyes of the waiting women. Out walked a beaming twentyish looking mother, cradling her pink receiving blanketed infant in her arms. The baby looked to be about two weeks old -- the fifth generation of women born to this family. The eldest woman remained seated, while the other two rose to help the young mother soothe her squawking infant. The grandma handed her daughter the baby's bottle; quiet was immediate. After a few minutes, the young mom gently laid her infant in the stroller. Deference was given to the great-great-grandma, while she bent over and performed the age-old ritual of tucking the baby in, snug. I imagined that her's might have been the hands, though arthritic, that had crocheted the blanket and bonnet. The great-grandma tied the bonnet's ribbon under the baby's chin, her fingers being more flexible.

      After coats and jackets were buttoned, it was time to help the eldest member of the family out of her chair. I thought that one of those silver chrome metal walkers was just what she needed, but there wasn't one in sight.

What I hadn't realized is that the walker had been there all along. Yes, this was wonderful. The great-great grandmother positioned her hands, securely gripping the stroller's handle. The wheels were unlocked, and as it moved forward, the stroller pulled her to a stooped, but standing position. Leaning forward, and with obvious pride causing her chin to lift, the procession began. She walked with a slow gait. Her daughter and granddaughter flanked her on either side. The great-granddaughter ran ahead to open the door leading outside, lest the stroller bump, disturbing her baby's slumber.

      I watched until they rounded the corner of the building. The youngest of the five generations of women led the way. In a few short months she too would be leaning forward, reaching for something to help her up. Then slowly, but ever so slowly, she'll walk -- stooped over at first.

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