A Christmas Memory with Mom

This morning while drinking my coffee, one of the songs from "A Charlie Brown Christmas" played over our sound system.

The music, as good music has a habit of doing, took me right back to the mid-1960s and one of my sweetest holiday memories. 

I grew up fairly poor. One of the things I've always loved about my mom, who passed away in 2007, was that she always put myself and my sisters first. Our happiness was hers.

But it wasn't always easy to deliver on that happiness. My mother worked hard, both inside and outside of our modest two-bedroom house in the foothills of the Appalachians, but she did her best, along with my father, to see that we were provided for and, if we were lucky, even had some extras.

We may have not had a lot, but we always had enough.

Getting back to that Vince Guaraldi music, it reminded me of one of those special times with my mom that still remains vivid in my memory, even if what happened occurred over fifty years ago.

It was 1965. I was seven years old and was excited to see this new holiday special "A Charlie Brown Christmas" which had been advertised on TV. Typical of kids of my generation, I was often glued to the tube a good portion of my spare time, lying on the living room floor with a pillow. 

Mom had bigger plans for me than just watching the show on our black and white console TV. She knew a woman who bartended at a little neighborhood bar up the street from where we lived.

On the night the show would debut, Mom took me out. Just me. The two of us headed to the bar at the time "A Charlie Brown Christmas" was slated to air. See, the bar had something we didn't have at home--a color television. She wanted me to be able to watch this magical animated special in all its color glory.

We sat together at the bar, which was almost empty at that relatively early hour, drinking Cokes and watching Charlie Brown and his friends discover the magic and true meaning of Christmas.

Like the Christmas tree in that special, this probably sounds humble. But it was, and always will be, special to me because, for once in my life, I had Mom all to myself, just the two of us alone. That hadn't happened before and I'm not sure it ever did again.

That night was one of the most special Christmas presents I've ever received--the gift of not just a classic holiday special debuting, but the gift of quality time with a mother who loved me and who was always spread far too thin. The fact that she made time for the two of us that night will always live in my heart as the true meaning of the holiday.

Giving is always better than receiving. Right, Mom?

#MondayMemories: I Like That

Myself, Lily, Mom, and Bruce a year before she passed.

When my dad passed away at age 62, it was a quick trauma. One night, he was alive and well. By the next morning, he was dead on the bathroom floor of a heart attack.

It was a shock. The next few days, with the wake and the funeral, passed by in a blur.

And, I have to admit it, it was easier than when my mom died.

Mom took her time about it. She went into the hospital in early summer and didn't come out until late fall. And when she came out it, it was to go into a facility where she'd be made 'comfortable.'

She never got to come home.

Cancer is a horrible thing.

I remember the summer and fall of Mom's passing in 2007 with heartache...and, oddly enough, gratitude.

Gratitude because I got to say goodbye. I didn't get that chance with my dad.

My sisters and I (and a few other kind, compassionate relatives) spent a lot of time with Mom during her long goodbye. We gathered around her bedside and, I believe, made her know just how much she was loved and cared about. That there was no place we'd rather be other than this hospital room.

Funny thing was, while we were making sure she knew she was loved, she was making sure of the same thing for us.

There are many memories from that time and, although they all reek of disinfectant and sorrow, I'll always be glad I was able to be there.

But the one memory that sticks with me is one toward the end, when my my husband (then partner) came up from Miami (where we lived) to be with us all because we feared the "time" was near.

I can still see that bright, sunny hospital room. Mom was lucky enough to have it to herself. And I remember bringing Bruce in to see Mom. I'd been there with her for weeks, watching her slow, sad decline. At this point, she wasn't all too coherent.

But when I brought Bruce into the room and we neared her bed, Mom held out her hands to us. We each took one.  

And Mom said, "I like that."

She couldn't say much at that time. Painkillers and other drugs had dulled both mind and tongue, but that simple gesture of reaching out for us with her hands, holding them tight, and saying, "I like that" will always stay with me as one of my most treasured memories.

Mom, if you're listening, we 'liked that' too. And we miss you every day.

A Christmas Memory circa 1962

Happy holidays to one and all! And Merry Christmas to all who celebrate it.

I wanted to share with you this photo of myself (I'm the little cowboy with the BIG ears) and my Mom, Dad, and big sis Susan that was taken I'm thinking around 1962. I would have been four and I think that looks about right. It's a bittersweet memory--those Christmas mornings speak of so much joy, yet both my parents are now gone. Someone on Facebook pointed out to me how everyone was looking at and smiling at the camera, except for my mom, who was looking at me. I'd never noticed and it was such a touching observation that it made me cry.

So on this Christmas, hold your loved ones close and remember those who've gone ahead of you fondly.