We all have them — our mothers — and some are a dear pleasure to have indeed. This one is mine, or rather my birth mother. She did not raise me. That was left to my Dad and step-mother whom I call Mama. Right before I entered high school I went to live with my birth mother, Ms. Dee in Southern California. That summer was steamy hot and the smog was so bad I thought I was literally going to die but I did not and survived not only my mother but high school before my first marriage took me out of the situation I was in. Today, Ms. Dee lives with me and my daughter Lisa in Ohio and I am her primary care giver. She has a good life. Given the past some might say she didn’t deserve this from me but life has a funny way of turning things around on you and in the process making you a better person.
At the onset of this blog one of the things I promised myself was to write a transparent truth of what it is like to be advancing in age, I have not done a good job of this, until now in this post. Of all the whims of mind I wish to share with others — with hopes that in some small way I will enrich another to a degree that when they retire from the grind of a 9-5 job or hang up their shingle for another kind of existence — that their life will be the better for my tell them of mine.
The sad truth is that I really wanted to do a post about my mother but when I tried to do one I simply could not manage it. When both my Daddy and Mama passed on, and even when all three of my brothers and my dear sister-in-law Peggy passed on, I wrote a heartfelt eulogy that I delivered. I meant every word of those eulogies — they came by way of a lifetime of personal experiences with each one. I had stories to tell and still do. But, where are the stories of my mother? They are stacked one on top of the other in the deepest and most hidden part of my brain. I simply wish not to recall them. So, when it came time for her 88th Birthday I found it impossible to write using any form of — Transparency.