My mother left the quiet fields of Pine Grove and never once looked back. I am Gloria Williams, and Lydia Robertson found her whole life waiting on the road to New Orleans — the city, the possibilities, and eventually my father.
Born in 1922, my mother, Lydia Mae Robertson, was the sixth of nine children born to Magnolia “Big Ma” Robertson. Her story began in the quiet cow fields of Iberville Parish — the home of Rosedale, Louisiana. Wrapped in the warmth of a bustling household of siblings, my mom’s early years were shaped by the simple, comforting traditions of country life. During her childhood, the family relocated to Pine Grove, laying the loving foundation for a country girl who was getting ready to take on the world.
As time went on, the magnetic pull of the city called to her, sparked by the encouragement of her sister, my Aunt Beulah. Aunt Beulah had already made the move to New Orleans, quickly taking advantage of the endless opportunities and possibilities the city had to offer. Inspired, my mother packed up her dreams and journeyed south, trading the peaceful pastures of her youth for the vibrant promise of the Big Easy. It was a classic, beautiful tale of a country girl stepping into the big city to find her way. As she soon discovered, the greatest of those new opportunities was love — for it was along that path she found the absolute love of her life, my dad, Mr. Peter Brown.
My parents eventually found their forever home just south of the city, putting down deep, lasting roots in Violet, Louisiana. In this close-knit corner of St. Bernard Parish, they built a life anchored in unwavering devotion. To this beautiful union, four daughters were born: myself (Gloria Williams), Delores Brown, Arelita Griffin, and our dearly remembered sister, Patricia Brown. My mother poured her whole heart into raising us girls, creating a home overflowing with warmth, laughter, and the comforting traditions of southern family life. We four girls were the center of everything she did.
But her love and devotion extended far beyond our front porch. Just within walking distance of our home stood my mother’s second favorite place in the world: a little wooden-frame, white family church called Second Baptist. It was there, inside those hallowed walls, that her spirit truly soared. She was a joyful fixture in the congregation, singing her heart out as an active member of the choir and welcoming everyone with a warm, familiar smile as a dedicated usher. More than anything, she made absolutely sure that our family was deeply rooted in the principles of God, family, and service to those in need.
Those deep church roots gave us some of our most precious, nostalgic memories. I’ll never forget the days the congregation would say, “Let’s go down to the river.” We would all gather at the banks of the mighty Mississippi River, where my cousins and I were baptized in its rolling waters. And as for my sister Delores’s baptism? Well, let’s just say it was the absolute most hilarious of them all. Bookmark that story for later at the reunion — if you know, you know!
Over the decades, the fierce love my mother cultivated in Violet cascaded down through the branches of our family tree. Today, her legacy continues to blossom beautifully into rich layers of generations, expanding to include a remarkable eight grandchildren, eighteen great-grandchildren, and fourteen great-great-grandchildren.
To truly know my mom was to know a woman with a bright, contagious joy who celebrated the magnificent life she built. Our house sat right in the middle of Highland Lane, and because of my mother’s warm, welcoming spirit, our home truly became the center of the community. She was a lively, adventurous soul who absolutely loved vacations and the thrill of a good road trip — she even took her very first cruise at 97 years old! She loved the ringing lights of the casino, and she equally treasured her quiet moments, especially chatting on the phone with her sisters about their favorite “soaps” (soap operas) like The Young & the Restless.
Best of all, she was our beloved matriarch who, when the Fourth of July arrived or a New Year rang in, could always be found joyfully shooting Roman candles to light up the night sky. Hers remains a story of boundless devotion — a brilliant, enduring spark in the beautiful history of Big Ma’s family.
From my sisters, Arelita and Delores, and from me: there was only ever one Lydia. The sixth of Big Ma’s nine, and the only woman I know who could light up a night sky and a family reunion in the very same breath.