For Better or Worse

Nope, today's topic is NOT marriage,
it's Family.

Although we think they shouldn't, and often we don't want them to, some relationships, including friendships, marriages and heart throbs, come and go.

On the other hand, for better or worse,
family is forever.

You can love them, like them, hate them or despise them. You can interact on a regular basis or ignore and avoid them for years, but family is always family, whether you want them to be or not.

You can pick your friends; you can choose the people you date and get serious about, but you are basically stuck with your family, and you can make the best of it, or not.

So what do we do when we aren't surrounded by family? Most of us create a circle of friends who become a new "family" for us, and in some ways they fill the spot even better than family, and in other ways we still know that it's not the same. We can't get away from that basic craving. We need that family connection in our lives.

Holidays are good excuses for families to get together. Thank goodness the holiday seasons and weekends are usually long enough for us to recover from an overdose of "family!!!!!"

You know what I mean. No matter how much you love your family, spending a lot of time with them can be exhausting.

There's usually lots of food involved at these get-togethers. Bad, candid photos are almost a given. And then there's the talk-talk-talk. Seriously, how long can you talk with your family without someone saying something that doesn't aggravate someone else.

Come on, who knows you better than your family or what buttons to push? Who knows better how to evoke laughter and tears in each other? Who knows those stories, that make us moan and groan, but we still long to hear, about 'what was' better than the people who were part of it all?

These are the people who share the memories of your lifetime, and sometimes remember them better than you do yourself.

But how well do we really know our family?

We get busy with the concerns and pressures of our own lives and put off spending time with our family. Oh, sure, we say, "call me," "we should get together for lunch," or "I'll see you at Christmas." And then somehow time gets away from us, years fly by and and we miss whole chunks of time and experiences we could have had with each other.

We assume we have all the time in the world to catch up, but we don't. Something happens; lives or feelings change. We get older, get sick, move away and apart, or die; the kids grow up; the babies are having babies, and all we're left with is a useless handful of "what-ifs".

What if I had done this or that. How much different everything would be--if only.

This holiday weekend is all about remembering, but there's no reason it can't be a time for new beginnings.

I'm sorry to say I don't know my family as well as I should.

I don't spend as much time with them as I could.

I am only now learning to make more time to be with them and seize opportunities to tell them how much I love them.

It has taken me a long, long time to discover how lucky I am to have the family I was dealt. They are funny, smart, beautiful, loving, wacky, and complicated, and I wouldn't want them any other way.

Happy Memorial Weekend!

Hope everyone's was half as good as mine.

I spent time with my family.

Dollars and Sense

Money...Like it, love it, hate it,
need it, need more of it.
Say what you will, it's a part of our lives.

Personally, I just like it, but don't get me wrong. I don't like it in a sick, miserly way, and I don't mean to imply in any way, shape or form that I sure as shootin' couldn't use more of it than I have. It's simply not the end-all, be-all of my life.

It's a like and not the love of my life, and certainly not my main motivation for getting out of bed every day.

I've often heard, but do not completely believe, that "money is the root of all evil."
Actually I think the "lack of money" fills that bill better, but don't take that sentiment to a will reading where you can see how battles over money can tear families apart.

I also know that there isn't enough money in the world to satisfy some people's overwhelming need to accumulate as much of it as they possibly can, and that they don't care what they have to do to make it happen.
To me, that's the real evil.

In the past, I was accused of being a poor money manager. Yeah, whatever. I'd like my accuser, just once, try to make the little bit of money I got stretch as far as I did, or to do so much with so little. I guess when you come down to it, it's all a matter of perspective, and that one was particularly skewed, but not in my favor!

I've been financially comfortable a few times in my life. It was terrific, and I'd love to regain that status. What I'm not willing to do, however; is to sell my soul to make it happen.

I like the things I can buy with money--
a comfortable place to live, good food to eat, and a reasonable amount of entertainment. There, too, I'm lucky. it doesn't take a huge pile of cash to keep me amused or to satisfy my wants and needs so I don't rule out the possibility of prosperity in my future.

In cold weather, I put together a lot of jigsaw puzzles, read, watch TV and play on the computer.

In hot weather, I solve crossword puzzles and Sudoku, read, watch TV and play on the computer.

No matter what the weather, I also like to go out to lunch or dinner, watch movies, sew, do crafts, and hang out with friends and family.

I'm careful, but not overly frugal with my money. I enjoy shopping and love bargains, but that's not all I look for when I'm out supporting the Economy.

I willing pay more for a great set of high count, 100% Egyptian cotton sheets, and opt for Crocs or Addis over bargain variety footwear.
I know I get more bang for my bucks when I don't buy junk, and I'd rather have a few of something comfortable than a lot of cheap stuff that wears out faster or just isn't all that great at doing what it's supposed to do.
More is not necessarily better.

I like good tools and toys. I have replaced my O'Cedar sponge mop with a Sharp steam mop. I'm going to miss those buckets of Pinesol, but my floors have never been cleaner. I've given away my Ace bargain bin screwdrivers and pared down to my Craftsman ones. I've long ago given up my Venture bookcases and replaced them with IKEA's. I have craft tool/toys to twist jewelry wire, mold and bake beads, locate constellations, make and cut paper, and on and on goes the list.

I like either side of the sales counter, as the customer or the clerk, and finding foreign coins among our everyday ones or the rare treasure of a wheat back, buffalo head, Liberty dime and Kennedy half that I can trade my pocket money for, but being the customer is usually a lot more fun.

I like paying with exact change and resisted getting a debit card for a long time. Now I don't know how I'd get along without one.

I like getting paid with exact change and the occasional opportunity to teach young customers how to figure it out for themselves.

I don't like sweat, floorboard, or foot money. That's too gross, even for me!

Last weekend some kids came into the store, and naturally I kept an eye on them. Sometimes they need help, and sometimes they help themselves, if you know what I mean and I know you do!

These turned out to be good guys, but after long deliberation about what they wanted, they came up front, put their selections on the counter, and one kid sat down in front of my register and proceeded to pull off his shoe. Out came a bunch of coins, rolling across the floor, and he started to pick them up.

I knew what was coming next so before he could present them to me, I told him, "You don't think you're going to put that foot money in my hand, do you? Take it over to the bathroom and wash it off. There's soap in there!"

Lo and behold, he did as I asked, but I can't tell you how many so-called adults have dragged nasty money out of their soggy pockets or bras, or from ashtrays and filthy floorboards and have been insulted when I put it in a paper towel with hand sanitizer before I put it in my drawer.
Come on, folks! Ewwww!

I like the sight, sound and feel of money, and although I know I should prefer currency to coins, I just don't.

Some of my fondest memories are about tying my Sunday school offering in the corner of one of my dad's handkerchiefs and dropping bus fare in a coin changer and hearing it ring. I remember the k-ching of an old cash register the same way I do the ding at the end of a line on an old Remington typewriter. Back then money and words had more value and a voice of their own.

I like money; I really do.
Maybe if I liked it more, it would like me enough to stick around a little longer.
Maybe not!

Don't Hold Back!

Way back when, long before most of you knew me, I was a quiet, shy, polite, little girl. Yeah, I know. That was a long time ago, and things have changed a lot since then.

If you could hitch a ride in Peabody's "Wayback Machine" to the mid 1950s, you would find a pale, wheezing girl with tangled hair who frequently curled up between the speakers of a Wurlitzer jukebox in a smoke-filled tavern rather than hang out with her peers in the damp, night air that would certainly send her into a full-blown asthma attack. Quite a choice, huh?

Dial forward a few years later and you'll see that same girl bravely swimming in snake-infested creeks, singing for all she was worth in the school and church choirs, and yelling back at a classmate who popped open the door of the bathroom stall and embarrassed her terribly in the 8th grade.

This metamorphosis was abrupt and painful, but I've not regretted it for a moment.

There were very few things I liked about my family's move to Southern Missouri, but the one thing I give it credit for was my being forced to learn how to speak up for myself and emerge as an independent, free-thinking individual. I was an odd duck in a small pool down there, and it became a matter of necessity for me to step up and shine, or sit back and get tromped, literally!

From that point on my smart mouth has gotten me into a peck of trouble, especially when I don't bother to engage my brain before opening it. Being honest is one thing, but telling people something they really don't want to know is quite another. I don't set out to be rude, but sometimes I'm outspoken to the point of being way over the top. Shame on me! Seriously.

I can't say I don't enjoy the surprise on people's faces when I come right out and say something they were thinking, but are too polite, timid or prudent to say. I blurt out with these brash, and sometimes harsh, observations, and that's when I get that all too familiar response.

"Don't hold back, Judy. Tell us what you really think!"

Even so, there are some things I keep to myself, or only say when I'm alone in my car. Here's a few choice ones:

Yep, that's quite an outfit you got on today. Obviously you don't have any mirrors in your house.

Did you put on enough makeup this morning or would you like a new trowel?

Nope, I don't think that's your natural color. I don't think that color can be found anywhere in nature!

Phewie, you know a close encounter with some soap and water would keep us from smelling you coming!

Nice perfume/cologne! Did you take a bath in it and does it come in a 50 gallon drum?

Thank you for sharing, but I don't think the rest of us came to this restaurant/movie to hear your kid scream!

All righty then. Nothing I like better than hearing you yell at your snot-nose kids while they're running around creating havoc. If you think they're a mess now, just wait till they're teenagers!

No, I don't think it's alright for you to cut in line ahead of me! I see you majored in being inconsiderate and got high marks in the class!

What makes you think it's okay to throw your trash out your car window? Do you think the whole world is your personal trashcan!

You wanna drive a little slower? Traffic's still moving here!

Car too big for you? Try the one in front of K-Mart and bring your quarters!

Hello-o, I'm revving up my engine to put it in gear and back up, and you think that's a signal for you to walk behind my car? Are you really that dumb or do you just have a death wish?

Sorry, that light only comes in one shade of green!

You can only have one lane to drive in and this one's mine!

Who taught you how to drive? I'd ask for a refund!

And finally,

Okay, $#!% for brains! Get off the road; you're too stupid to even walk!

Here are some I've overused:

You have serious delusions of adequacy.

I'd love to have a battle of wits with you, but unfortunately you're unarmed.

If I thought you had a brain, I'd advise you to stay up all night to feed the gerbils that make it work.

I'd like to think there's a chance I'll get more patient and tolerant over time, but let's face it, when people encourage you by laughing when you make outrageous remarks, you're not inclined to stop. I'm glad I do most of my venting in private.

Oh well, all I can say is that while people are a never-ending source of amazement and entertainment to me, I guess I'm occasionally one to them as well.
I think it's a fair exchange.

Rewriting History

Throughout the years, I've told my children many stories about my life. They nod and smile, or frown, and often tell me in that slow, dry, not-quite-patient tone reserved for the elderly,
"Yes, Mom, I've already heard this story."

I'm sure as I get older and continue to tell them stories, I will hear that line more and more often.

Occasionally, I get a nice surprise when I tell them something they haven't heard a thousand times. It comes as a shock to both of us that once in awhile I’ve left something out!

Now that I'm putting my memories into print, I’m happy that I’ll finally have visible reminders of the tales I have, or have not, told them.

Years ago, when I wrote the first "Reflections." it was mostly about the current happenings in my world. Nowadays it seems I'm doing more writing about my early life and memories. I actually started writing a family biography ages ago, but didn't stick with it. Unless I'm writing fiction, short stories are about as much as I can handle when it comes to family matters.

I love writing and most of the people I've let read my work seem to enjoy it very much. What they seldom see is how hard I work at honing my craft. They don't understand that when I turn off the phone, don't answer the door, and stay up all night on the computer, that I really am working!

They'll read a bit and say, "That's good;" I look it over and think,"It can be better." Writing, after all, can be a never-ending work-in-progress and this author, for one, is never completely satisfied with the final edition.

It was a challenge for me to take literary criticism when I was in college and nearly twice the age of most of my classmates. While they were learning to find their writing voices, mine was already well-developed. I was lucky enough to have great teachers who appreciated where I was as a writer, and yet kept showing me ways to improve.

I’ve frequently been asked about the how of my writing, how I pick the topic or how I plan the structure of it. I have no satisfactory answer for that. Although I freely admit that I write from personal experiences, I rarely know exactly what I'm going to write about or how it's going to come out.

What I do is begin with the germ of a thought or an incident I found interesting, or a memory or a gripe I want to explore, but once I get started, the writing takes off on its own and I'm as surprised as anyone else about the course it takes, where it ends up, or how it touches me and my readers.

I once wrote something I thought was an unique experience and when I showed it to my mom she said, "Yes, I've felt that way myself." At the time I was somewhat dismayed and insulted that she could see herself in something so personally mine. It took ages before I understood I've been given a talent to put the thoughts and feelings many of us share into words.

I lack a certain discipline about my writing. I don't have a specific time or place to do it. I don't keep to any schedule. I write wherever I am, sometimes in long hand, but more often on the computer because I love how easy it is to move things around and make changes. I don't take a predictable path by starting at the beginning and writing straight to the end. In fact, I more often start with a few lines that eventually land in somewhere towards the middle or the end.

Discipline does factor into my work in my attitude toward it. I take it very seriously and will work on each piece until it feels right. It usually takes me at least an hour or two to write two pages and another 4-6 plus hours per page of editing and rewriting to get them fit to print.

I weigh each word and phrase. I take my ideas to bed at night and dream solutions to get the words just right. I try not to get hung up on the spatial construction, where the paragraphs and lines end, how it looks on the page, but I make changes for that, too.

I continue to polish, prune, and rearrange until I am ready to release the final version, and then I'll edit again if I think it needs more work--which it usually does. I'll read it aloud, to myself but preferably to someone else; find something to correct or tweak, make my final, final changes and then force myself to leave it alone, maybe.

I prefer writing when I'm alone, and would write while driving if I were better at transcribing from a tape recorder.

On the other hand, I have written in break rooms, at restaurant bars, and in other public places, but I've found it's hard to write around other people. For some reason, they find the temptation to interrupt your train of thought to ask what you're writing almost irresistible. For me, writing is a private process, and I really have to focus to get through the first draft.

Crisis and chaos in my life can either shut down my creative juices or send them into high gear. It's a toss-up either way.

I don't question the why of my writing. It has been my creative and emotional outlet for as long as I can remember. The answer to why I blog is perhaps as simple.

Maybe I'm setting down stories for my friends and family to entertain them; maybe I’m reaching out to tell them something about me and let them see who I am; maybe I’m letting them know how they’ve touched my life and how I feel about them. Maybe I'm just venting an opinion or irk.

Maybe I'm looking back to see how what was has affected what is now. Maybe I'm telling the stories of my life because I wish I'd asked my parents more about their lives while they were still here to tell them. Maybe I set down these stories because there are so many memories that I've either lost or blocked out.

What I do know is that eventually I end up with an imperfect, one-sided, slightly biased snapshot of my own history and those who have been part of it, and that I do it, for the most part, with no malice intended. Even so, I wonder how much of what I remember is what really happened and what is just my interpretation of what I remember or was told. Hmmmmm.

As the result of one of my blogs, I received a not-so gentle poke from one of my siblings to inform me that my view of the past and theirs was quite different.

Instead of them hearing the praise, love, and admiration for them that I intended to express, I think my words were taken as intrusive, inaccurate, and a harsh reminder of the "bad old" days. That was never my intention and I am sorry they were taken that way.

What I've recognized from this comment is that no two children, living in the same household with the same parents, have the same memories of events in their childhood--at least not in my experience.

When you factor in the number of different places and homes we lived in, the economic changes we went through, the different relationships we had, our strengths and weaknesses, and the varied circumstances accompanying the addition of each sibling, it's fairly easy to see how all of us would have a different experience and viewpoint.

Despite all the ups and downs, I grew up with the belief that I had a happy childhood and, like typical teenagers, I blamed my parents as much as possible for the core of my adolescent angst. I also neglected to recognize, that even before the glaring B-M-D (Before Mom Died) demarcation line, how different my siblings' lives were from mine.

I don't think my family is particularly unique. I think most people have it rough growing up, for one reason or another. I think talking and writing about those times can be either painful or liberating, and sometimes both. I never intended for my memories to inflict more pain, sorrow or misunderstanding.

I hope my family will bear with me as I explore the past and sometimes make erroneous assumptions and other inadvertent mistakes along the way. The problem with writing about memories is that, for better or worse, you are essentially rewriting history as you alone see it.

Painting Park Benches

I just came inside from the patio area of my apartment building. The air was cool, but not chilly; the breeze was gentle and refreshing; my task was satisfying and soothing.
It was time well spent.

A few weeks ago I offered to help one of the men in the building repaint the benches out back. A few days ago he told me he didn't think he was up to the job anymore, and he offered the job and materials to me.
I took him up on his offer.

Two days ago, I ran my wire brush over both benches to remove the old, cracked paint. I turned the benches face down on the patio and put the first coat on the bottom side of the slats.

Today I applied a second coat to the bottom and a first coat to the top of the benches. In another day or so, I'll put a second coat on the top, work on the slat edges and think about painting the metal supports. I'll probably get the phone number of the man from housing and see if he can get me some replacement screws for the ones that are missing.

I enjoy building, painting and repairing things around the house.
I learned that from my dad.

I learned there is great satisfaction from a job well done.

I learned that a large part of performing a job successfully lies in the prep work.

Pick the when and where.
Dress properly for the occasion.
Organize your equipment.
Prepare to enjoy the experience; and you will.

I volunteered to help paint, but I was glad when the job became all mine.

I like opening a paint can for the first time since the paint was mixed at the store. I take out my Craftsman screwdriver and make my way carefully around the rim, gently prying until it opens. Like Dad, I hate mangled paint lids when there's no reason for them to be that way.

I take the fresh brush out of its packaging and clean the top of the lid for my first stroke. I dip the brush no more than a half inch or so into the can, dab and stroke the paint along its way.

Dip and stroke. The brush glides down the wood and the paint fills the crevices. Dip and pull. It's important to load the brush properly, not too much so that the the paint runs and drips away from where you want it.

Cutting is important when you paint; I'm good at it and rarely need tape to avoid the areas I don't want to coat.

There's something so rewarding and comforting about transforming things with paint. Although some woods should stay natural under varnish, stain or oil, others cry out for protection from the elements. Some nearly sigh with relief when they have been rescued from untimely decay.

I finished what I set out to do for the day.

I made sure my "Wet Paint" sign was still in place, put my stool and tools in my cart, set the lid on the can and carried the wet brush in hand back to my apartment. I sealed the brush in plastic wrap, tapped the lid back on the can with my hammer and left the stool in the cart by the door until I make my next trip outside.
Dad also taught me that cleaning up is just as important as the prep work.

I worked in solitude, and I like it that way.
I can smell the freshly mowed grass. I can hear the sounds of people passing by. I can listen to the birds and trees. I can think about anything or nothing at all save the task at hand.

Sometimes it's good to step out of the chaos and noise of everyday life and listen to the sound of your own heart.

Sometimes it's good to walk away from everyday duties and do something that may not be of any benefit to you beyond the simple pleasure of just doing it.

Sometimes it's good to meld pleasant memories of the past with the ones you create each day.

Today was a good day for brown bagging with the Breakfast Club, napping in the afternoon, and painting before dusk.

Today was a good day for making new memories.

Relatively Speaking

Well, it's almost Mother's Day, and let me tell you like you don't already know, it's a holiday that rivals Christmas and Valentine's Day in its potential for disappointment. It's a day that can put you in good graces with your mom or put you in the dog house for a long, long time.

When I was a kid, I was sure there was nothing I didn't know about my mom. In the years since she's been gone, I've discovered how little I really knew.

Here's what I was certain of:

Mom came from a large family. She was the second daughter and the ninth of ten children. Her mother died when she was only 4 years old, ironically the same age her youngest child was when she died.

My grandpa was an older man; the family was in Arkansas; and it was the beginning of the Great Depression when my grandma died. He had struggled in the best of times to take care of his family, and this was far from the best of times.

I think it was with great reluctance and sadness, and with good intentions that he sent his youngest three children off to live with his relatives and in-laws. The new baby was adopted by a maternal aunt. Mom and her next older brother were sent to relatives in Ohio, returned home shortly thereafter, and eventually Mom was sent to Illinois to live with yet another relative, an older brother.

Though Mom never spoke very much about those early years, I still remember going with my parents for visits at the house where she grew up. Those visits were brief and sad, until my uncle staggered home. Then they became loud, more brief and sadder. I can't imagine Mom's life ever being very pleasant there, but at the time it must have been my grandpa's only option.

Even as a small child, I knew my uncle was a bully and a mean drunk, and that he was drunk more than he was sober. I'll never forget how my aunt always looked like a whipped dog, bruises, scars and all, or how shocked I was when I found out how much my cousin hated his own father.

It wasn't until I was much older, and he was long dead, that I bothered to wonder about the way he must have treated his dependent, defenseless, little sister. I do remember her telling me fairly often that she couldn't wait to get old enough to move out, but back then I thought she might have been in a hurry to grow up or get her own place or maybe she was just mad at her brother because he made her quit school and get a job as soon as she turned 16, less than a month before the end of the school year.

So much for her childhood and teen-age years.

Mom and Dad met through mutual friends. He had come down the hill to Mom's neighborhood for the hayrides at the Baptist church and stuck around for the pretty girls; Mom, of course, was the prettiest, at least to him. (This tidbit of information came directly from Dad's own lips.)

Mom was a typical war bride. They eloped in 1943 when she was only 17; he was 19 and had enlisted in the Navy. Dad's older brother and sister-in-law stood up for them, the way they had for them only a week before. Both marriages were supposed to be kept secret, but Mom and Dad's didn't stay that way very long. My aunt told me she accidentally spilled the beans, and Mom and Dad were in big trouble with his parents for quite a while.

Dad was shipped out to the Pacific almost immediately, and didn't return until the very end of the war. Rather than go back to live with her brother's family, my grandparents decided it was in my parents' best interest that Mom move in with them.

Like my own mother-in-law, grandmother was convinced that Mom was not nearly good enough for her son, and that she and Dad married in haste due to an untimely pregnancy. Let me point out that like my mom, that child did not arrive until two years after the wedding!

Mom lived with her in-laws for a short time, but from what she told me, it was less than an amiable situation. She worked all day in a meat packing plant and was expected to "work like a dog" when she got home, plus turn over most of her paycheck for room and board. (Her words, not mine.)

As soon as she could manage, Mom got an apartment with a girlfriend from work. She worked hard and saved her money, and whatever Dad sent her, so they could have a tidy nest egg when he got back. For a little while she was an independent woman, and she loved it!

When Dad got home from the war, she became the ideal housewife. Dad got a job with the railroad, and she quit her job. They moved into my great-grandparents' shop building, and Mom did the whole "wash on Monday, iron on Tuesday" routine. I was born right on schedule, although I slightly missed the mark of my grandparents' expectations by being a girl instead of a boy. Four years later, we moved to a brand new house in a VA suburb, the heir was born, and life was beautiful, except my health was less than ideal.

In our new neighborhood, the land had been leveled to put in the prefab houses so there was no grass in any of the yards. Our neighbors planted premium grass seeds and banned everyone, especially kids, from getting anywhere near their yards. Dad planted a mixture of blue grass and clover, and all the kids in the neighborhood tromped it into the dirt until we had the best lawn of all!

Thanks to the clover we must have had every bee in the county in our yard, and every barefooted child, or so it seemed. Mom was always ready with a basin of vinegar for those who got stung!

Some of the neighboring moms gave their children ice cream treats that they didn't share. Mom made grape Kool-Aid ice cubes and all the kids had purple trails down their arms from eating them.

Mom was an expert at cutting out fancy paper doll dresses and then using those same scissors to cut out school dresses for me. The later was the basis of the first dispute I ever had with at school. When my teacher marked my answer wrong, when I said false to "My mother uses a pattern to make me a dress." I told her that just because she didn't know how to make a dress without a pattern didn't mean that my MOM didn't!, and, bless her, Mom went to school and told her that she didn't have or use a pattern.
SO THERE!! (My words, not hers.)

Mom made the best cakes and chocolate chip cookies in the world, and when she ironed my dad's work shirts, the whole house smelled like a Chinese laundry. (No offense intended; that's the way she said it.)

When I got sick with frequent asthma attacks, Mom was always there for me. There were days when she fed me ice chips when I couldn't keep anything else down, and nights when she stayed awake holding me upright in her lap so I could sleep and keep breathing, and those nights were more often than either of us liked.

When I hit the terrible teens, we had years of terrible arguments, but she never gave up on me or let anger get in the way of love.

I always knew she was there in my corner.

These are the things I know about my mom now:

She was a stay-at-home mom for as long as she could be, and tried to make every holiday and birthday special.

She went back to work when times were hard, and put herself and her needs last on the list.

She never had a mother she remembered, but everything I know about being a good mother I learned from her.

She never finished high school, but she was the best teacher I ever had. I learned to be an educator to my own children and others from her, and I didn't hesitate to tell them to "look it up" when they asked how to spell a word like she did when I asked.

She wasn't a deep reader, but I owe her and my great aunt for my consuming love of books, reading, and writing.

She wasn't a doctor or nurse, but she taught me to treat visible wounds, as well as the ones inside that are deeper and harder to heal.

Mom taught me how to color inside the lines and cut along them, but not to limit myself to common expectations, mine or those of other people.

She taught me to stand up for myself and accept my own shortcomings, but not to be satisfied with them.

Sometimes I'm a slow learner, but I keep on trying, and I learned that from her, too.

She was far from being perfect, even in my best memories, but, boy howdy, how I miss her foolish jokes and intrusive advice.

She was too young when we lost her.

I miss the way she acted too young, and too old, for her years.

I miss dancing with her and hanging clothes outside together.

I miss the time we didn't have--the years Mom missed with her children and grandchildren and everyone who never got to dance or fight with her--never got to know her the way I really didn't either.

Most of all, I miss her goodnight kisses, and the way I always knew that no matter what, she loved us all, fiercely!

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

Thank you for all you did and all you were and all you helped us become.

We still remember and love you, so much!