Born in 1923, my mom would have been 98 today, June 8.  I am pretty sure the photo I’ve included here is the last picture I took of mom and dad together, not long before his death.  I do wish I had more photos of her, particularly as a girl or a younger woman, but she was notoriously averse to having her picture made.  

I miss so much about her. I miss her stories, her laugh, her love of family. I miss how she’d look at my dad. I miss the way she’d fret and fuss over planning and preparing family meals when all my siblings and their spouses and kids were getting together for holidays.  And oh my goodness, she was a GREAT cook.

I miss how, when my dad would make a mildly off-color funny remark, she’d look at him and scold “Dorsey!!”. (But how I knew down deep she was laughing with the rest of us.)

I miss the way she’d “go shopping” and never buy anything for herself, but come home with bags of stuff she’d bought for “the kids”.

I miss the way she’d work the garden with dad each year, grow a ton of terrific veggies, and give most of them away to old folks and shut-ins that they knew.   Even in the years when they themselves were old enough where they could have been the recipients of such kindness, they STILL kept a small garden and gave much of it away.   Once, when she was already in her 80’s, I remember visiting and as we pulled in the driveway she was in the little garden, picking tomatoes for “the old lady around the corner”.   I had to smile.

Years later, after dad died and when the dementia started to take her mind, I loved how asking her to tell stories from when she was younger or taking her on a drive through the Callaway County hills where she was a little girl could bring her back to us for a few blessed moments at a time.

She loved so unconditionally, and was always my biggest ally and my biggest defender.  Always.

But she also knew how to hold me accountable when that was needed. Like the time when, along with a fellow ne’er-do-well neighbor boy, as kids of about 7 or 8, I raided a neighbor lady’s garden.  We ate her baby carrots, tomatoes, and peppers, literally right out of the garden.

The irate neighbor insisted on punishment, and kept telling mom, “I want you to whip him!”

Mom looked her in the eye and told her in no uncertain terms that I would work to pay her back for the stolen goods, but any decisions about punishment beyond that, she would make herself. I didn’t get “whipped”, but I did have to do a serious amount of lawn work for the older lady, mowing (with a manual push-mower), raking leaves, etc. for her.

I remember the loving kindness she lavished upon her own mom, my grandma, when dementia stole her mind away.  Mom was always so sweet with grandma Sampson on those visits to the nursing home, holding her hand, singing softly to her, stroking or brushing her hair.

And I remember mom’s gentle comfort for me on those rare occasions when sorrow and tragedy hit our family.

I so vividly remember the one time years later when I really seriously screwed up, with potentially life-changing implications…. I was scared that I would be such a disappointment to both mom and dad.  But they were both there for me.  I especially remember mom in that difficult moment, literally right beside me.  Not to protect me from consequences, but to let me know I was loved, to help think things through, to talk about it honestly, and to point out the choices I had available to me, and to assure me that I didn’t have to face things alone.

Happy birthday mom. Thanks for the love, the lessons, and the laughter.

A lot of the best parts of who I am are because of you.

I miss you and think about you every day. I really wish I could pick up the phone and call you sometimes.

love,
John