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Today is my mother’s birthday. She was born 93 years ago in the little town of Groveland California, where her Dad headquartered as the Doctor on the Hetch Hetchy project. Hetch Hetchy, from the Miwok word hatchhatchie, meaning edible grass, is the name of a valley in Yosemite National Park, drained by the Tuolumne River. It was dammed and flooded in 1923 to accommodate San Francisco’s water and power needs.

Helene Angela Degnan, known as Nell, grew up in Yosemite Valley, raised by her dad, Dr. John P. Degnan, aunt Mary Ellen, and paternal grandparents, John and Bridget Degnan. It was a magical childhood she and her sisters enjoyed. They spent summers at play by the Merced River observing nature close at hand. Later this was shared with us, her children, who played by that same river.

Of course, a parent has many influences on a child. Beyond food, shelter and etiquette, my mother made all seven of us deep lovers of nature. It has manifested itself in many ways, coming out in poetry, music art, and lifestyle. She noticed things like light rimming leaves heavy with dew, turning them into jewels. On our many walks around Yosemite Valley, we learned the names of trees, flowers, birds, and rocks. Mom knew all the Miwok Indian legends about Yosemite, and where many of the grinding rocks were in the woods by our house near the chapel.

My mother always made sure I had plenty of art supplies. She bought reproductions of famous paintings and hung them around our house. We had place mats that were copies of Renoir, Van Gogh, Pissarro, and other artists whose work she loved.

Today the world is very different from my parent’s era. It is different again from my childhood. Things are speeding up at a dizzying rate. Still, there are constants that are markers. Markers in that they remind us who we are. For me it is going back to the river, recalling those nature walks with my family when we were little, and basking in that glow. 

The last conversation I had with my mom was on the phone. She was in a sterile hospital room describing to me the birds and flowers she saw out her window, and the Sierra with cumulus clouds gathering over them that dark August day.  She was unfailingly kind, gracious, and a child of nature.