My Blessed Mother Mary

If self sacrifice and martyrdom and 101 well lived years on the planet are indicators of sainthood then my mother is soon to be beatified  by the Roman Catholic Church.  To me she was just my mom, the person that is supposed to accept you as you are.  But I really liked her as a person, too.  It didn't occur to me until I was trying to write something comforting to say at her funeral that I realized she was not like other mothers or more specifically not all mothers were like mine.

I took it for granted that all mothers loved unconditionally, encouraged to the point of annoyance, valued education above stuff, thought you were the prettiest girl in school, had respect for all living things, fed every stray in Josephine county, whether it be cats, dogs, birds or people.  And walked on a road paved with love.

She taught me how to make an informed decision and live with it, look strangers in the eye and smile, don't use you fingernails as tools, never bite the thread with your teeth, chill pie dough in the refrigerator before you roll it out and when baking in glass remember to reduce the temperature 25 degrees, keep your pencils sharpened and throw away the pens that don't work and there is a difference between being unwanted and unexpected.

I was the youngest child of 4 and a surprise at that.  You would think I grew up in a different household than my siblings.  My parents thought they had done their job raising 3 kids and when I came along, it seemed more important to enjoy the life we had.  There were several years when my three siblings were working their way through college and the financial strain was terrible.  Times were tough and my mom did what she knew.  She worked hard in her job and worked hard at home, whatever it took.  And she found joy in the unexpected.

One of the reoccurring themes from my mother in later years was "If we had just stayed in Portland, we would have been able to give you kids so much more"

How much more is there to give then hot summer days spent at the river having watermelon, fishing for catfish in the pond, the whole family hauling hay from the lower field to the barn before it rains, eating out of a science fiction sized garden, going mushroom hunting in the woods, picking the first daffodils of spring, always eating dinner as a family, spilling your milk and no one getting mad.

After breaking both hips 4 months apart when she was 98, my mother's dementia began to show up frequently. Later, when asked how my mother was, I wrote this email...."Usually Mom knows who I am.  But on confused days my mother knows I fall into the category of "someone I love and trust" but it could mean I am her sister, mother or daughter. She recognizes me but isn't sure which one of the three I am but with dementia things are reduced to love and trust, not names.  We should all be so lucky, as our lives would be greatly simplified."

People tell me my mother is in a better place and I like thinking that but I can tell you without a doubt she always felt she had found heaven on earth.  That was apparent in the last two words I heard my mother say before she died and I choose to believe she meant them in the broadest sense....Those words were "Thank You".