As far as I know, I have no Irish in my ancestry, but I must
admit to having a special feeling for Saint Patrick’s Day. Both my mother and
my son were born on March 17, so the day has a significance all its own. So, each year, when the day comes, I’ll wear
something green and hope I don’t get pinched, but mostly, I’ll spend some time
thinking about these two amazing people.
My mother has been gone for many years, but I still think of
her often. Mother’s Day, of course, and most holidays, but always on her birthday.
Memories begin to get a little fuzzy beyond a certain age. Some begin to fade,
while others are already gone for good, but many remain strong and vibrant,
despite the passage of years. I have pictures of my mother as a young woman,
and I am fascinated by this beauty I never knew. She almost seems like a
different person. Most of my clearest memories begin with my teen years, but
even those are fleeting. I remember her most vividly in her later years, the
grandmother to my kids, the matriarch of the family, the glue that held us
together through the difficult passing of my father.
She made wonderful fried chicken and in my mind, I’ve never
had better. She smiled and laughed a lot in my recollections. She hated that I
moved out of town in pursuit of different job opportunities. She understood and
she supported my decisions, but she hated that I would be away from home, and I
did too, but she wrote letters and we talked by phone and I never doubted her
love for me. She smoked too much, especially near the end, she went out to play
Bingo, and she always had a Dr. Pepper close at hand. And she was thrilled when
my first born arrived on her birthday!
I was fortunate to be able to spend a few days with my son
and help celebrate his most recent birthday. I am very proud of him and all he
has accomplished. I won’t embarrass him with lavish praise, but I could. (My
daughter, as well, but I will save all that for another day.) Memories, again,
so clear and yet so fleeting. I can remember holding him as a baby, begging him
to sleep, marveling at his infinite curiosity. Later, listening to him read,
watching him draw and learn to play the guitar. I’m amazed to know the man he
has become. I recall so many moments with him and pray for more to come.
So, Happy St. Patrick’s Day! And Happy Birthday, Mom! And
Happy Birthday, Scott! Irish or not, I love the day and all the great memories
it brings.
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