I passed a strange rubicon earlier this week on the 34th anniversary of my mom’s passing where I have now lived longer without her than with her.
If your own mother is still alive, I hope this excerpt from the sports column I wrote back then in The Star will inspire you to reach out to her — today — with a phone call or a visit.
I feel like Lawrence Taylor just sacked me from the blind side. Like Mike Tyson punched me in the stomach. Like I hit he wall at Indy. Like Nolan Ryan pegged me with a fastball.
All at once.
I have the worst boo-boo in the world. And there is no one to kiss it and make it feel better.
My mom died of a heart attack the other night. Real sudden death, not a tiebreaker. God must be impatient. Must have wanted some lovely dinner
company.
I don’t mean to inflict my grief on you, dear readers. Yet I must; this is one column I have to write.
I would not be a writer if it were not for my mom. My paternal grandfather was a physician, and my dad and two older brothers are as well. Doctoring is the family business, so to speak. But Mom nurtured in me the courage to take a road less traveled by, and as the poet Robert Frost said, “and that has made all the difference.”
She was my biggest reader fan, my mom was. Without question. Full stop.
Life will never be the same. I cannot believe I will never hear her honey-sweet voice on the other end of the phone line, calling just to say she liked my column that day. Even if Mom knew I would be dropping by later, she would call. She wanted to lift my spirits right now, not later.
You remember funny things at a time like this. Small things that somehow seem so very big.
For some reason, out of a million golden memories, I keep thinking about a spring day when I was in second grade. At morning recess my best friend had a new magnifying glass and we were using it to burn holes in dead leaves — it was the 1960s and kids could do that.
At lunch (we went home in those days) I was a little sad that Dan had a cool magnifying glass and I didn’t. So Mom drove me to the five-and-dime and at afternoon recess I did not have to wait my turn to burn holes in leaves.
That was my mom. She never wanted any of her loved ones to be sad, not even a tad so, not even for a moment. She wanted us to be happy, not tomorrow but today. At this recess.
Mom was the Typhoid Mary of Happiness. Blood didn’t course through her veins, champagne did. She was the pinnacle of kindness. The Golden Rule brought to life.
She died two days ago, just 60 years old. Oh, but she lived them all. Mom managed to dish out five lifetimes worth of love.
She had these big blue eyes, bluer than the ocean, movie-star blue, that were happy and joyful and warm all the time. She never went a full minute in her life without smiling.
She was the laughter and smile that lit up ever room she entered. Everyone became a nicer person when she was around. And happier. It was contagious.
No one told a story like Mom could. Her tales were almost as exaggerated as her love. “Mom never lets the truth stand in the way of a good story,” we always said.
The word “lady” was invented to describe my mom. She used her best crystal and fine China all the time. Why save it? If you broke something valuable, she would insist it was already chipped anyway.
She liked linen napkins and Wedgewood and wine and Waterford, yet also liked paper plates and beer in a bottle. She was as at ease and comfortable with everybody and, this is a rarer thing, she made everyone else feel at ease and comfortable.
When you talk about mothers, she was Hall of Fame. First ballot. Three sons and a daughter, and she gave us each the attention of an only child.
I feel lucky in my grief because there were no “I love yous” left unsaid. Actually, that is not true. There were ten million more to say.
Excuse me now. I think I’ll go buy a magnifying glass and burn holes in some dead leaves.
Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. His books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.
This article originally appeared on Ventura County Star: The Typhoid Mary of Happiness | Woodburn
