Day: September 15, 2020

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This Photo Is Entirely Different From The Ones You Saw In This Morning’s Post

Mom’s got more of her eye-catching garb on, and her hair has been recently “did.” Heck, her socks match, and that doesn’t happen much. She’s got her glass o’ Pepsi in one hand, and her phone in the other. This is my mother, in a nutshell.

I vividly remember taking this picture of Mom. It was in my living room in Delta, about two weeks after Dad died, in 2007. I can see the anguish in her features. And she’s cried out. I forget who she was talking to at the time I snapped this, but I do remember it was someone offering her their condolences on Dad’s passing. From listening to her side of the conversation, I could tell she had a close relationship to the caller. She bared her soul and—based on her responses to the caller—it sounded to me like the caller did the same. To my ear, it sounded like Mom did much of the comforting in the conversation.

I have always admired Mom for her ability to be a true and deep friend to so many people at the same time. Sometimes I think everybody she meets is her best friend. She doesn’t just pretend to care. She authentically cares about you, and wants to know you, and wants to know what’s going on with you and your family, and your pets, and your crops, and so on. I know my mother is far from perfect, but I think I’m not exaggerating when I say that Mom is a woman who fundamentally loves like Christ loves. Every person Mom encounters, she simply loves—no matter what tattered shape they’re in, or what mistakes they’ve made. She’ll make sure you know you have to correct your wrongs, but she’ll be nice about it. To Mom, every single person is worthy of love and laughter.

Here’s an afterthought: Now, imagine you have Mom’s name, and you’re expected to live up to her example every day of your life! I do try, but she’s so far ahead of me in the Christlike love department that I don’t anticipate I’ll catch up to her, no matter how long I live. And I’m counting eternity in the equation, too.

FYI Send her a card or note for her 90th birthday @ Helen A. Wright, Millard Care and Rehab, Room #104, 150 White Sage Ave., Delta, UT 84624. Skitter thanks you.

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Pix O’ Mom With A Glass O’ Pepsi In Her Hand

After Dad died, whenever I was in Delta, Mom made two or three daily trips across the alley to my Delta house—carrying her little glass of Pepsi. If weather permitted, we hung out on the front porch. In inclement weather, she sat in my living room—where we chatted and laughed and solved the problems of the world. Then Mom would be off to her house again to cook, or read The Chronicle or The Tribune for the umpteenth time, or otherwise putter around her full, but empty, rooms.

Mid-evening, Mom would show up at my place again to spend the night. She never slept in her house alone after Dad was gone. She wasn’t afraid of being alone at night. It just made her miss him too much. I always offered her a bed, but she liked sleeping on our couch, where she could hear the noises of our house: the tv, dishes being done, the washer, dogs being let out to potty, etc. She would wake early and walk the 40 feet back to her house, where she climbed into a bed that wasn’t hers and Dad’s, in a bedroom that hadn’t been theirs. She would sleep a few more hours, and our routine would begin again.

Such a simple sight to see: Mom, in her outfit of mixed pj’s and coats, holding a tiny glass of Pepsi, strolling up the sidewalk—just to sit with me, so we could share good gossip and cure the ills of the world. Memories can be quick snapshots in your head. One of my deepest felt “snapshots” is simply Mom walking slowly to my front door, glass in hand.