To Mom: R.I.P.

Sooner or later I have to come to terms with my mother's death a year ago this month.  Mother's Day, the first one without her, seemed appropriate.  I need to concentrate on all the good times we had instead of on her last few months.  Those months she was a woman I didn't know.  Alzheimer's is a dreadful illness.  It saps the strength of the family.  It destroys the lifeblood of the afflicted as well as their essence.  At the beginning, the odd behavior and forgetfulness are laughable.  Then WHAM!  Soon, nothing is left but a shell.

Mom was the Hope Diamond, the Crown Jewel of a mother.  She was the one who baked cakes for the ice cream socials, who tagged along on field trips as a room mother.  The other kids loved her (and for those lucky few, they loved her spaghetti sauce, too!).  They thought she was so pretty with her French twist that she did herself daily, the top a mass of curls.  Her handmade shirts were flawless, her earrings might be flowers one day and crystals the next.  Her smooth skin and blue eyes needed little make-up, but she wore it just the same, making her even more beautiful.

When her father came to live with us after Grandma died, Mom never complained about any extra work.  No, she loved her parents as much as I loved mine.  She made sure Grandpa Hess had his Fels Naphtha soap and his favorite treats-- the strawberry jam, the Petri sugar cookies and his horehound drops.

Mom was crafty, and I mean with her hands.  She could take a flea-market find that was downright ugly and turn it into a painted masterpiece, usually in pastels of pink, purple and blue.  She sported crocheted hats and sweaters and capes; her bed and couch boasted crocheted spreads.  She tried to teach me many a time but I lacked her patience.  Even Barbie had a wardrobe any wealthy woman would envy.

By far Mom's greatest accomplishment as a seamstress was my wedding gown.  Traditional in satin and lace, she sewed on every pearl and every sequin with her loving hands from the tiara to the long train.  She made her own dress and my sister's, too.  Nothing store-bought could compare.

Dad would take us to garage sales most Saturdays during the summer, or for a drive in the country to check out local produce.  He would  buy a big basket of apples and grin as he handed them to Mom.  He knew the next day there would be apple dumplings.

Mom loved to collect things...she had Carnival and Capodimonte, troll dolls (not Dad's favorite) and foo dogs, stuffed beagles and ugly little critters.  She kept for years the plastic fly that my son, then five, sold to her for fifty cents (he has it now).

I cherish these memories and so many more.  I did not inherit her talented hands nor her blue eyes.  I hope I inherited her silly sense of humor, her love of animals and her love of family and friends.  As I step into her shoes as matriarch of the family, I wonder if I can fill them.

I honor my mother the only way I can this Mother's Day, with words of remembrance.

I miss you, Mom.  Happy Mother's Day.