Happy Birthday, Mom

As long as I live, May 24th will be my mother's birthday. It's been almost nine years since I lost her. I wrote the following essay in a letter to my stepdaughter, a couple of weeks after Mom passed away. I wish I could have written it before her funeral; I would have read it there as a eulogy.

Barb. It was a perfect name for her, Barb -- she was steely and sharp and incisive, right to the point, and very tenacious in her way. She was witty, irreverent, and down-to-earth; nobody could crash to the heart of the matter like she could. God, she was fun. We had more damn fun together, just out shopping or whatever, both of us with such a zany sense of humor.

There was one time when I was eighteen or so, we went shopping for shoes in Peoria, and the shoe salesman seemed to be on drugs. He was very attentive, as though he were trying to act normal and thought he was succeeding, but he kept doing weird things like trying to take the shoe off my foot when it was already off. Mom and I didn't dare look at each other, and spoke as little as possible, all through buying the shoes -- then as soon as we were outside the store, just went into hysterics laughing. There we were on a busy sidewalk in downtown Peoria, with people and cars going by, and we were shrieking with laughter, doubled over, holding our sides, tears rolling down our faces. Ever after, all either one of us had to say was, "Remember that guy in the shoe store?" -- and we'd be laughing again.

She was utterly unsentimental, and would avoid any story or show that was supposed to be "heartwarming" or a "tearjerker". In the summertime when I was out of school, the daytime TV she and I would watch was not soap operas (she couldn't stand 'em) but game shows. She didn't drive, so we walked or rode the bus, or in the event of an emergency, took a taxi. I loved those walks with her so much that when I was married and a mom, and Firstborn was little, he and I would leave the car parked in front of our house and walk three blocks to the ice cream stand, or five blocks to the store, so he could have the same experience I had.

She loved springtime, and butterflies, beauty and peace and contentment... and me. In her last years she used to say, "I'm so lucky to have you." I always felt like I should have been doing more; wished that I had more time to spend with her, or to do things for her... But I'd just answer, "And I'm lucky to have you." And I was.