It’s my first Mother’s Day without Mom. Odd, that. Like Noon without sunlight; Midnight without the moon. Spaghetti without meatballs.
It’s not like Mom was a sentimental soul. She was a tough-as-nails, take-no-prisoners, wooden-spoon-wielding, daughter-of-an-Italian-immigrant, disciplinarian. She survived “The Great Depression,” WW2, the birth of four rambunctious boys, the death of a man she loved.
And then some . . .
Last time I mouthed off to Mom I was 17 — and she smacked me on the head with her shoe as I walked away. (Note to self: “Never turn your back on an Italian Mother after mouthing off.”)
Is there more? Of course.
Like the time I washed our dog Spot with lye …
Not everyone had a great Mom. I did. Not everybody had a great family. I did. Which isn’t to say it was easy. It never is/was.
Like when Dad spent weeks at the VA Hospital getting shock treatment, and we almost lost our house. Or the many times Dad was out of work, and we lived on government provided, generically brown-bagged, food stuff — flour, corn meal, powdered eggs, powdered milk.
But life isn’t supposed to be easy, is it? What tales would we tell if it were? None — or, at the very least, none worth telling.
Mom died last year at age 90 — having lived a full life. She served her family well. Her church and community, too.
It’s my first Mother’s Day without Mom. Odd, that. Like no sun at Noon; no moon at midnight. Or peanut butter without jelly.
I’d be bawlin’ like a baby except I believe in “life after death.” William Penn put it this way: “Death cannot kill what never dies.”
See ya soon, Ma. Take care until then . . . and tell Dad I said, “Hello!”
Jim Lamb is a retired journalist and author of “Orange Socks & Other Colorful Tales,” the story of how he survived Vietnam and kept his sense of humor. He misses his Mom. For more about Jim and his writing, visit www.jslstories.com.
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