Memories

I'm fortunate that I had a time and place where I could become friends with my parents. To see them not just as Mom or Dad, but as the people behind the roles. Since they're nice people, unsurprisingly we became friends.

This Mother's Day, I think not so much on the times that Mom acted as, you know, Mom. She was great, and took good care of us. But I like to think of the times when I started seeing her as her:

A summer in Pasadena, when everyone else was off somewhere, and she and I went to lunch. First time I had a French Dip sandwich, and first time it didn't seem like "lunch with Mom".

The time that she and I painted the living room, to classical music.

The time that I (as a new driver), drove her down to Brunswick to a meeting. I was determined to be careful, and drove 55 the whole way there. Of course, we were late.

These are perhaps odd memories that stand out. I think that the reason is that they falsify Willa Cather's statement that the dead might as well try to speak to the living as the old to the young.

Mom, thanks for all you did as a Mom, but thanks especially for speaking to the young Borepatch. And for being a friend.