I want Allen to know his Grammy. He's too young to listen now, but I try to tell him all about her. I surround him with the things she bought or made. Today, she would have been 74. I miss her every minute.
Mom was a doer, a maker, a goer, a player. She lived for the experience. She made friends everywhere she went. I can't count the times we went somewhere, and -- by the time we left -- some stranger knew the full story of my conception. Back seat and all. That happened once on a playground in Kentucky. Once, she struck up a conversation in a craft store in St. Louis, Mo., and discovered she was talking to a woman from Spring Valley, N.Y.
She believed in things like that. Luck, karma, kismet. Things happening exactly the way they were supposed to happen. Her youngest daughter landing the home state of her father, root-root-rooting for his beloved Cardinals. An itchy left palm means you're going to get money. Right, you'll spend it. Throw salt over your left shoulder. When you see a load of hay, make a wish and turn away. She saw wonder everywhere, and she sopped it up like gravy. (Come to think of it, she also liked to sop up gravy.)
She had no pretense. Everyone was a friend until proved otherwise. And when proved otherwise, watch out. Mom had a barb for everyone and everything she disapproved of. Usually they spilled out with that pre-dinner glass of wine (or, thanks to Macy's, sometimes two glasses).
Mom loved fiercely, and without question. When I brought Steve into my world, that love enveloped him, and I think it's fair to say that the fierceness took him aback. Then came Emilyn. And Allen. She loved them all. Not just because she loved them, but because they were mine. They were mine, so they were hers.
When I had Emilyn, she gave me a loving push. Your kids are your kids, she said. You'll do fine. Seemed kind of harsh at the time, to a hormonal, stressed, C-section victim. Sink or swim, kid. And I swam. And when I swam, boy... no one was more proud.
Yet she was the consummate caretaker. And, let's face it: It annoyed her less to do everything -- at least, in her house -- herself. She never stopped moving until all the work was done. And when it was done, it was time to doze on the couch in front of her favorite TV dramas. JAG. Without A Trace. House, M.D. With a cup of tea in hand that, with luck, didn't end up on the floor.
And Grammy loved her games. Cards. Mahjongg. Rack-O. Bingo. Huckle-buckle-beanstalk, a great way to keep a little kid smiling on a rainy day. Everything that wasn't work was play. And some things were both.
And her pigs. But it wasn't about the pigs. It was the story behind them. The places she got them. The people who gave them to her. To Mom, everything was a talisman, to be imbued with power and meaning if enough love and work went into it. Like her quilts. Besides her kids, and grandkids, and great-grandkid, her quilts were her bid for immortality. She knew she couldn't live forever, but she damn sure wanted to live on in what she left behind.
I loved her, and she knew it. And I knew she knew it. She was proud of me, and I knew it. And she knew I knew it. When she was gone, in a blink, I found peace in that I had no regrets. To all of you, I suggest you "get right" with the people you love. Someday, you're going to want that same peace.
So, what did she leave behind? I like to play. I like to go. I like to make, but I'll never be as good at it as she was. I see wonder everywhere, and I sop it up like gravy. I love fiercely, and without question. And my children will never have to wonder whether they make me proud.
And I'll teach Emilyn and Allen to find the joy in every day. To have fun, and be funny. To learn, and to teach. To love, and be loved. My girl already has a heck of a head start.
I'll close with what I wrote in every card, and to me it never got tired or trite: Happy birthday, Mom. We love you and miss you.