Remembering Mom

Yesterday was my Mom’s birthday.  She’s been gone 17 years now, but she’s always with me.  You don’t get over someone like my mother.

I’m not sure how she managed raising three children mostly by herself, particularly since she had chronic asthma and a host of other health ailments.  But she was much larger than her asthma; she would try anything and do anything for her children.  In that respect, she was like all good mothers.

But my Mom was unique.  I remember when she showed up unexpectedly at Father/Daughter Brownie Day, knowing my Dad wouldn’t be there and I’d be devastated.

 I remember when she let me buy my first horse with babysitting money, though she had to pay the boarding bills every month on a super tight budget.

I remember her crying once when she was really sick, and saying she should have encouraged me to be a dancer.  (It’s ok, Mom, I really didn’t have the talent.)

I remember her waving wildly when I left home for California, off on my first big job adventure after college.  Years later I asked her how she managed not to cry, as I cried all the way to Texas before I ran out of tears.  She laughed and said she started bawling as soon as I turned the corner, and cried all weekend long.

I remember her paying my truck note while I was in grad school, even though looking back it was a much bigger struggle for her than I thought it was.

I remember her driving to Boulder to visit me and bringing all my worldly goods with her, so I’d be more comfortable while I was in school.

We had a special bond that was always laced with humor.  I’m telling a little story here, but please withhold your judgment until the end J.  I came to visit once and found my Mom’s house filled with flowers of every kind and description.  Vases of fresh cut flowers were everywhere.  Knowing she didn’t have a beau and that she didn’t have the money to buy them, I inquired about their origin.  Mom said that on her nightly walk with the dogs she had decided to cut them out of a neighbor’s garden.  I was horrified, and told her so.  She assured me that she had cut them very carefully, picking and choosing, and being so conscientious that the neighbor would never notice.  About the judgment caveat—it was around this time that we discovered she had significant brain damage from her breathing difficulties which left her wildly impulsive.

Previously, my Mom had been overly loving, but was always tightly wound—probably from the stress of being a single parent.  The type of brain damage she suffered made her much more direct, much more daring, and quite fun.  For example, once we saw a fire hydrant that had been knocked loose two miles from her house.  She asked for my help and we drug it home with a chain behind the station wagon and installed it in the back yard for the dogs. (And yes I know that was not terribly legal, but she was so delighted when she discovered the upended hydrant that I couldn’t deny her.)

My Mom appears often in my dreams and still offers advice.  Basically, she says I should have anything I want, do anything I want, and be anything I want.  (Told you she was dangerous!)  And she lets me know that she will always love me unconditionally.  It just doesn’t get any better than that.  Happy Birthday, Mom!  (And ya’ll watch out for your gardens, in case I decide to cut some flowers for the party!)

Please feel free to comment.

Marianne M. Smith
Writer At The Ranch
Making You Look Brilliant One Word At A Time
http://writerattheranch.com
wordsmith@writerattheranch.com