July 20, 1969 was Sunday

Forty years ago today, Neil Armstrong walked into history as he stepped on the Moon. The declaration of President John F. Kennedy that a man would walk on the Moon by decade's end was no longer a wish, nor science fiction--it was now fact.

And where were you?

I sat with Mom to watch the grain,y black and white pictures across our brand spanking new color TV. I felt gypped. Mom and Dad had fished earlier. Dad was beat and didn't feel the best, so he headed to bed. At the time, we didn't realize an ulcer was begian its peskiness inside Dad. Anyway, while Mom and Dad fished, in some Iowa stream, for carp and catfish. I wanted to surprise them-like Mom surprised us with great desserts. Now MY turn!

I baked my first apple pie. Yep. We had a Johnathon apple tree in our back yard. How many times had I watched Mom peel apples and make her own crust? ZILLIONS! So how hard could it be? Forget the fact, I never peeled an apple before. I mean, Dad did it with such ease, so I could too.

Wrong.

I musta peeled about two dozen apples to get enough to make the pie-which called for about six cups. About six nice sized apples. The crust? I made it. It was more in puzzle pieces and pat in the pan, than the perfect circles my mom would make. Got it in the oven and cleaned my mess, while my pie runneth over. The top was not sealed--and well--bubbled, spilled- yet it did smell like a pie Mom would make.

As Neil Armstong walked the Moon to take a giant leap for man kind, Mom gently suggested hints for my next pie. I hung on to every word. And my Dad? He felt good enough after a short rest and cut himself a piece. And I remember to this day what Dad said: "Your pie is good, honey."

The pie might have been cardboard or not cooked through and through or accentuated Dad's ulcer. No matter--the Man on my Moon liked it!

History made every way you sliced it that 40 year ago summer night.

We are blessed.

July 9, 1928 was Monday

And the day my mom was born. Eighty-one years ago. If Mom had lived I try to picture her at this age. Would she still be as fiesty as I remember? Still savor her gin? Let her hair go naturally gray? That part I kinda doubt. Would she still love me as much?

I know this part to be true. I wonder if Mom would be as proud We didn't have time to get into 'chats' about what I ought to do as a grown up. Mom died of complications from weight loss surgery in 1971. Yellow liver atrophy got her on a Friday and by Monday Mom was gone. So I always think of how it could be. I do remember my interest in taking French in high school, while Mom thought I should type and such--it was the 70's.

When Mom was second of five kids, plus second daughter I wonder what her parents thought? I can imagine Mom being a fussy baby--needed stuff done that second. Her family was poor--and I'm not sure of how much love was shown. Mom's mom passed when I was a year old. While by the time Mom died, she and her father were estranged. I later asked my own Dad if my grandfather attended his second daughter's funeral. Dad said he did. I still wonder.

With the deaths of Marilyn Monroe, Elvis and now Michael Jackson, maybe Mom wasn't suppose to get old. Maybe she always knew. Mom told me how she wanted to be buried when I was about 11 years old. Mom died at age 43 when I was 13. I've since crossed that 43 plateau and gone onto territory Mom never had a chance to get to. That's why I wonder what she would think? Honestly, I picture Mom's stare and then squint while asked--using my FULL name-"Just what are you doing?"

Nonetheless, on this day I do smile to think Mom and Dad sit on some cloud. A cloud with a pond so they could fish. Hey, it's Heaven--so everything is possible! And in this picture where Mom gets our food ready on one of many weekend fishing jaunts. Now back on that cloud, Mom and Dad watch over me as they cast out their line. I hope they smile. They loved to fish together. And they loved me--together.

So just what am I doing?

Stay tuned.