My mother was the illegitimate daughter of Lucy Hawks, and a well-bred Virginia farmer. God bless her; all that I am or ever hope to be I owe to her. I believe that I inherited extra drive from her unfortunate background. That drive stands me in good stead.
Executive Mansion
June 10, 1863
I have experienced death many times. My aunt, my uncle, my brother’s death. Then my mother’s death of milk sickness. Such suffering. I whittled the pegs for her coffin. I can see her grave outside our cabin. I could see it each time we opened the door. In the spring and often during the summer I placed flowers on her grave. She loved lilacs and roses. Her kindness lingers on. Friends called her a woodland madonna.
Later, when my step-mother came, her love was felt by each one of us.
“Let me help you, Abe. Let me strain the milk tonight...you’re tired. What a big stack of wood you’ve cut for us, son. That should last a while!”
She could handle an ax. She could lug a sack of flour. When wolves howled, she’d lean over me and say a few words or kiss my forehead. When my shoulders ached she rubbed them with bear grease.
“If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take,” is a prayer she taught me.
Sometimes we planted pumpkin seeds together, on a nearby slope. She was faster than I. Again and again, she urged me to attend school. Each time we moved, she located the nearest schoolhouse. “You’ve got to go, Abe.” I used to read to her.