There were eight of us, and every single one believed she loved them best. That was my mother’s particular gift. I am Catherine Jacque-Davis, her baby girl, and this is Mary Robertson — who moved her whole world from a country town called Rosedale into the heart of the Lower Ninth Ward.
Born on March 6, 1919, my mother’s beautiful story began in the country town of Rosedale, Louisiana. It was in Rosedale that she met my father, Walter Emmet Jacque, and they began building a life together, quickly welcoming the first two of her eight children, Nelson and Bertha Lee.
Seeking new opportunities, our family relocated to the vibrant Lower Ninth Ward of New Orleans, settling first on Independence Street. It was there that our family grew even larger and filled with more love with the births of Walter, Mary Ethel, Raymond, and Alfred.
As our bustling family continued to expand, we eventually moved into larger accommodations on the corner of Tupelo and Florida Avenue, where my brother Clarence and I (her baby girl, Catherine) were born to complete the family. Though her marriage eventually came to an end, her fierce, motherly love for her children far outlived it, and she stepped into her role, truly becoming the iconic, beloved centerpiece of our family.
What my mother treasured most was the private, particular relationship she built with each one of her children. Even in a busy house of eight, she had a magical, intentional way of making time to acknowledge, support, and guide all of us individually as we transitioned from children into adults.
Her immense pride was always deeply rooted in her daughters — Bertha Lee, Mary Ethel, and myself, Catherine. She poured her wisdom into us, shaping the women we would become. And her laughter — the loud, helpless kind — belonged to her boys — Nelson, Walter, Raymond, Alfred, and Clarence. They kept her on her toes and kept our home filled with endless energy, light, and smiles.
My mother’s love was a seed that blossomed into an incredibly vast family tree. From her eight beloved children, her legacy beautifully expanded to include an amazing 28 grandchildren, 78 great-grandchildren, and 51 great-great-grandchildren.
The deep bond she shared with her own siblings was so profound that it was even woven into our names. My sister, her second oldest daughter, Mary Ethel, was named in a beautiful tribute to both my mother, Mary, and her older sister, Ethel — a perfect blend of two incredible women.
My mother had a nurturing soul and legendary hands in the kitchen. She found great peace in her gardening, tending to the earth just as beautifully as she tended to her family. During the holiday season, her sweet potato pies were absolutely legendary — a warm, delicious staple that we all eagerly anticipated all year long, and a recipe that tasted like pure love.
One of her most cherished daily rituals was picking up the phone to talk to her beloved sisters. Those daily calls were the heartbeat of her afternoons, filled with laughter as they caught up on their favorite soaps, swapped their best kitchen recipes, and, most importantly, chattered endlessly and proudly about all of their grandbabies.
She was our rock, our comfort, and our matriarch. Eight children, a house full of noise, and somehow every one of us got her undivided attention. That was Mary Robertson, and we were lucky to be hers.