July 9, 1928 was Monday

...and the day my mom was born. I wonder what my grandmother--my mom's mother-thought when she held her new baby girl in her arms. Sad to know I outlived both my mom and my grandmother. 

My mom was a discinplinarian. Yep--Mom could spank--and spank REAL good--yet I never once doubted her love for me. She called me her "Angel."

Lots of life lessons missed since Mom and I were on Earth together for just a little while. However, I do smile when I think of us getting ice cream at our town's version of a Dairy Queen, then drive all over who knows where in that old blue Chevy Mom named Daisy June. 

We'd sing to songs on the radio, laugh and have our 'girl talk time.' I hate the fact my mother died when I was barely into my teens.  I try to remember eventho our time was not long, what we had lasts a lifetime. 

I am blessed. 

Happy Birthday, Mommy.

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.