Happy 99th birthday to Mama

A toast

This lovely woman was my mother, who would have turned 99 yesterday, if she had lived that long. Unfortunately for her, and for all of us who loved her, she's been gone for thirty years. Gone, but not forgotten.

I feel like there are women who are genuinely born to be mothers, and women who are born to be aunties, and women who really probably not should be allowed near children. The tragedy that happens is when any one of those women ends up in the wrong category. —Elizabeth Gilbert

Mama was one of those who was born to be a mother. She was born in 1923 and managed to raise six children and give birth to seven. (Tina Marie was born prematurely and didn't have fully developed lungs; she only lived one day.) I was the oldest child, one who was blessed to have the undivided attention of both parents for a couple of years, and then who found a kindred spirit in my sister Norma Jean. We grew up together.

Mama was one of those people who was a genuine homemaker, and since we moved around a lot, with Daddy in the Air Force, she had plenty of chances to create a home that helped to nurture all of us who were in her care. Sometimes I wonder what she would have accomplished if she had lived longer; I know some people who are still alive who are 99. I don't think Mama would have liked to see herself grow old and frail; she was vibrant and active long after many souls less determined than she would have given up.

She survived heart attacks and breast cancer, and she raised the six of us to become strong, self-sufficient and productive people. She especially taught me the value of reading: she read constantly and widely. Those who worked in the local libraries always got to know Mama, who would check out so many books at a time that she would need a box to carry them out. And she read them all.

Mama lived to be 69 and died four months prior to her seventieth birthday. I remember talking to her on the phone about the big day, but I think she knew she would not live to see it. Mama had developed breast cancer in her forties and, although she survived it, her heart was damaged from the radiation they gave her. She suffered numerous heart attacks over the years that followed. She always rallied and sometimes came back from her trials seemingly hale and hearty, but she took a massive amount of powerful drugs daily to keep her that way. Mama was a fighter. She was the center of my universe in so many ways, but I didn't know it at the time. It was only when she was gone that I realized how bereft I was.

Mama in Boulder

I took this picture of her one fine summer day when she came to visit me in Boulder. She's wearing my scarf and shirt, which she picked out of my closet, wanting to wear something new that was not her own. It was a lucky capture, which I took once I arranged her posture on the bench, with one of the Flatirons that define Boulder in the background. We went out to breakfast that morning and then drove to the mountains so she could visit them. Her ability to walk very far was gone by this time, and she was very short of breath from the altitude (I think we were above 8,000 feet elevation.) Even  so, she looks the picture of health, and that's how I'm remembering her now, on the occasion of her birthday.

There are moments from my childhood that stand out in my memories, and almost without fail they involve my mother. I remember once when I was very sick and she was taking me to the hospital. I was feverish and felt awful, but she put my head in her lap (someone else was driving) and she stroked my forehead with such love and devotion that I remember it to this day. Once a child from a large family no longer needs that kind of care, it's memorable when it happens again. Mama loved me, and all of her children, I have no doubt whatsoever.

Mama never felt like she accomplished much in her life, since she never brought home a paycheck, never worked outside the home except for volunteer work. I think she had the idea back then that somehow her life was lacking an essential ingredient because she never developed a career. But she was so wrong: the career of motherhood at the center of her life gave every one of us the best possible start in our own lives. And we all end up having our children grow up and away from home in any event.

If I could invite myself to her party to celebrate her birthday, I'd be sure to have her immense fan club be invited, which would include all her children and grandchildren. It would also include Daddy, who was only 62 when he died. She had become a widow at the age of 55. He'd be there, but Mama would be the center of attention because of who she still is to all of us. I would dress her in jeans and jewels, and her hair would be long and tinted auburn, the way she wore it when she was young. We would have plenty of good food and martinis, the drink she and Daddy enjoyed for so many years (and is probably in that first picture). We would tell stories and laugh uproariously, keeping the memory alive of our very fortunate life together, which ended too too soon.

And I'd be sure to tell her that she is still missed, and that of all the possible mothers I might have had, she was the jewel in the crown, and I would not give up even one moment of the time we had together. Happy birthday, dear Mama, and don't forget to smile down on us today, as we raise a glass to you. 

And with that, dear readers, I leave you with a smile on my face, with my dear partner still asleep next to me, and the day to come just emerging from the dawn's early light. I know that many of you do not have mothers still around to celebrate with, but we don't need to let that stop us from having a fabulous day and remembering our one and only mother. Until we meet again next week, I wish you all good things. Be well, dear friends.