Elsie Kathleen Koplin

If you were one of the lucky few who knew her well, Elsie might have greeted you with this Irish Blessing: “I ask a leprechaun to bring a pot of gold to you, I ask a fiddler if he’d play your favorite ditty, too.” Then hands on hips and grey eyes dancing she would ask if you believed in the Little People. True to her Celtic heritage, Elsie did not feel it necessary to distinguish between the natural and supernatural worlds. Not a religious woman, her spirituality and a belief in the goodness of all guided her life.  

I was her only child. When she died, she left a spiritual legacy of unconditional love and acceptance which manifested itself in her compassion for those who struggle, in her determination to overcome the tough stuff, and in her love for the written word. She left me with the desire to dream as a Celt and taught me that mysteries and possibilities are just around the corner.   

My earliest memory of my mother, Elsie, was the smell of coffee perking on the wood stove. As soon as Mama poured her first cup of the darkest drink imaginable, she would settle into her green chair, put her arm around me, and begin to read a nursery rhyme, fairy tale or from the adventures of Uncle Wiggley, Tom Sawyer, or the Arabian Knights. But the story of her life was the most engaging and meaningful of all. In the Celtic tradition, whatever we do in life becomes a part of the human story. So with joy and honor, I share with you the story of my mother, Elsie Kathleen Koplin.

Born June 14, 1906 in the wheat-covered hills of Eastern Washington, Elsie was the second child of Albert and Grace Ryan. As tenant farmers, the family worked the land from dawn to dusk. Elsie’s father abandoned the family shortly after her birth, when her mother was just seventeen. For Grace and her children, poverty now became as familiar as the wheat fields and back-breaking labor. Elsie’s mother remarried unaware of the emotional abuse and trauma this man would bring to Elsie and her other children.

 “We were poor, but by golly, we sure had fun making horses, dolls, wagons, and anything we could imagine from our pile of bleached animal bones,” my mother would tell me. “We hunted for Indian arrowheads along the Snake River. On Easter morning the kid that found the most four leaf clovers got an extra pancake. Toys were out of the question, but in spite of our poverty, we always had books to read even though the money spent for books would trigger my stepdad’s rage. An emphasis on wisdom, learning, and the story was never denied. We all learned at a very young age to protect ourselves with the armor of an Irish warrior and the wry humor of an Irish storyteller.”

“Mama, mama,” I would holler, “tell me the story of bringing in the cows.” She would laugh as she took a deep breath to begin her story: “Well, each evening after dinner I was to bring in the cows from the pasture. I always had a book in one hand and the herding pole in the other. Not a cow was lost but everyone held their breath until they heard the rhythm of their hooves and saw the swirl of dust and counted their white heads.”

Of her two brothers and sister, Elsie was the quiet, gentle one. The tension of her stepfather’s rage began to take its toll. For instance on Saturdays, the family went by horse and wagon to the closest town, Hay Station. Going to town meant a slice of warm bakery bread and a stop at the library. But excitement was usually accompanied by an anxious ache in Elsie’s throat. Her stepfather made a ritual of deciding at the last minute, if the kids had been “good enough” to deserve the trip to town. If the trip was on, Elsie began to relax. An undercurrent of fear and anxiety were my mother’s companions for the rest of her life. I remember that she was afraid to ride an escalator, to drive a car, or to use a new appliance.

Elsie began to have disabling headaches and quit school at the end of her seventh grade year. Unable to stay there any longer,  she left home and began to support herself by cleaning homes, caring for children, and picking whatever crop was in season: hops, onions, fruit, or hazelnuts. “Sweat, drudgery, exhaustion, and very little money, that’s what you get when you work in the fields.” Mama would tell me. “We are not entitled to pretty clothes and nothing is free—so you must get a college education, Sunny Lea.”

In the early 1930s, stories she heard about Oregon City drew Elsie south to Oregon. Her letters home described the energy, excitement, and work there and not a wheat field in sight. Soon the entire family followed.

The rage of Elsie’s stepfather was escalating and her mother began to fear for the safety of her family. After arriving in Oregon City, Grace made a daring decision for her time. She had him committed to the state mental hospital in Salem. His family never forgave her for this decision and instigated his release. Within twenty-fours hours of his release, Grace received the disturbing news that he had shot himself. Those were hard times with hard decisions to be made, but now, without the threat of his rage, Elsie and her family could begin to relax and enjoy their new home.

As far back as I can remember, Mama stored a flat trunk under her bed. It was full of black and white photos from the 1930s and 1940s. In those pictures my mother looked just like a fashion model. Every time we got the trunk out, Mama would pick up the same photo and tell me about the cape she was wearing. She had purchased it with her first paycheck and tips. “It was shamrock-green with a collar that stood up around my face,” she would tell me. I could imagine, even from the black and white picture, how beautiful she must have looked with the shamrock-green collar framing her face and red hair. Sometimes as we looked at the photos, Mama would begin to reminisce. She told me about conversations over coffee with co-workers and family, and how her liberal beliefs and politics began to jell. Unions were being formed to help the worker, and Elsie, in her quiet but determined way, had no trouble expressing support for the movement.

Elsie left Oregon City in 1935 to work at Portland’s Cabbage Patch Bar and Restaurant, located just off West Burnside. A favorite hangout for the loggers, the place jumped on Friday nights. Fancy attire replaced their snagged black jeans, cork soled boots, and red suspenders. No logger grabbed the attention of the women in the Cabbage Patch more than Elmore Koplin, but the girl for him was Elsie. These two spent hours talking about workers’ rights and the Democratic Party—both Elsie and Elmore were Yellow Dog Democrats and never crossed party lines. They dressed “to the nines” and people said they were quite the couple. They married in 1936 and had one daughter, Sunny Lea.

When I was three years old, Elsie went to work for the “war effort.” Still the fashion plate wearing slacks and her red hair covered with a bandana knotted in front, I can still see Mama’s wave and hear her laughter as she left each morning for the Kaiser Shipyards. Happy and light-hearted, she was out with people and working once again. I can imagine her at the lunch table or at coffee break listening to the other workers and then, just at the right time, with her quiet but passionate way, expressing concern about those who have to buck the “big guys” in the workplace. Her timing and humor was sly and sharp. I’m certain she had everyone listening and laughing.

Women had little choice at the end of the war. They went back to homemaking so the returning soldiers could have the jobs. This was a real disappointment to my mother who loved being out with people.

 In 1949 Elmore had a cerebral hemorrhage and lost many of his physical and verbal abilities. Never again, although both lived for thirty more years, would Elsie and Elmore have those liberal, political conversations that she loved so much. Nor would they be able to share their physical passion for each other. Having lost so much and becoming even more fearful of the world, Elsie began to lose her vitality and experienced depression for the rest of her life. But she dealt with it. She got out and worked in school cafeterias, was a loving mother and role model, adored her grandsons, and could still get lost in her beloved books.

In March l972, just as quietly as she lived, Elsie died in her sleep, and three months later Elmore died. In her last years, I believe my mother waited in what the Celts call “the very thin place”—a place not far from there to God. She left me and all those she loved a belief in the intuitive understanding that the circle of life starts with death then leads to birth. In her death, I pray she reclaimed her joy and vitality. Three months after she died, I, her only child, graduated with a bachelor’s degree and then a master’s in counseling. To me and to all who knew Elsie, she was a anamchara (ahn-im-KAR-un), the Galic word for soul friend. She always provided guidance and support as we, her family, walked the path of life.

I leave you with the memory of a courageous, loving woman and words from the poet, Amergin, who captures the essence of Irish and Celtic spirituality: “I am the wind that breathes upon the sea, I am the wave on the ocean, I am the murmur of leaves rustling, I am the rays of the sun, I am the beam of the moon and stars, I am the power of trees growing, I am the bud breaking into blossom, I am the movement of salmon swimming, I am the courage of the wild boar fighting, I am the speed of the stag running, I am the strength of the ox pulling the plough, I am the size of the mighty oak tree, I am the thoughts of all people, Who praise my beauty and grace!”