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I could write a whole book about my parents and my relationship with them. Actually, I could write three or four books. One about my dad, one about my mom, one about them, and one about them and me. At least. That doesn’t even count my two brothers and one sister, and how they fit into this family picture. But for now, I will try to condense just a little bit of the essence of my relationships with my parents into this small space.

First of all, there was love. Before I say anything else, I will state unequivocally that my parents loved me, and I loved them. They are both gone now, my dad from pancreatic cancer in 1990, and my mom just last July (2006), her body and spirit just flat worn out with the ravages of type 2 diabetes. I miss them both every day, but also continually feel their presence in my life. How such two totally different people ever got together–and stayed together–continues to be a mystery to me. I suppose you can attribute it to the 50’s, to small town life, to any number of reasons. My father, tall (6′7″), Libra, slender, quiet, smart (college double major in mathematics and engineering), life-long early riser and afternoon napper, in love with airplanes from the first time he ever saw one. On the down side, he hated conflict and his solution for dealing with domestic differences was to simply disappear into the bedroom and go to sleep. He rarely showed his lifelong depression and discontent with life, but I firmly believe it’s a huge part of what led to his cancer and death at age 63.

My mother, short (5′4″), fiery Aries, always fighting the weight battle, daughter of a charming, alcoholic father and a martyred mother, vivacious, interested, curious, talkative, always questioning everything, wanting to know more about any subject she encountered. A night owl, I don’t think I ever remember her being awake before me from the time I started school. I inherited my father’s love of the early morning, and even today, have an internal clock that wakes me before dawn whether I need to get up or not.

My father was in the aviation business, and we moved around a lot before I hit high school. The moves were not easy for me, a shy, awkward, and after about age 6, a relatively unattractive child. Buck teeth and cat glasses at age 7 didn’t help the picture. But even though there were times that I hated my schools, and I hated my classmates, and I hated where we lived, always under that discontent was the sure knowledge that my parents loved me and supported me. That when I was at home, I was safe. I learned much later how rare and extraordinary that was.

My relationship with each of my parents was totally different. I was the oldest child, and, I think, the most compatible in personality with each of them. Some memory highlights of my father: When I was around 7, I was diagnosed with major allergies. I had to take shots. It became our Saturday ritual that he would take me for my shot, then take me to the library to get books. I was completely and utterly in love with horses, as most girls of that age seem to be. Even at age 7, I knew we could never afford to own a horse (baby brothers are WAY more expensive!), but the first time I ever cried from happiness was the day my dad told me he would take me to the locak riding place and let me go riding every weekend. On my 8th birthday, my father, who spent his entire adult married life avoiding any kind of domestic chore, took me to the local park, build a fire in the grill, and cooked me breakfast–bacon fried in a cast iron skillet, eggs, and toast buttered on BOTH sides, also browned in the skillet. I will never forget that birthday as long as I live. In fact, only a few years ago, I told my youngest brother about it, and he just looked at me as if I were talking about an alien–OUR dad, COOKING??? And then, in college, my first job away from home, cooking in Colorado. My mother, the talker, sent me huge envelopes, and I tore them open eager for news of home, only to find them stuffed with recipes and a post it note, “Thought you could use these! MOM” My dad, the quiet one, sending me letters that talked about how much he missed me when he went out and picked the blackberries that had been our summer ritual all through high school. And, finally, dad in his bed at home in the last days of his life, me rubbing his swollen ankles, rubbing his neck and back as I always did when he was tired, and him thanking me for my “magic hands”. He died in that bed just a week or so later, and until my mom passed last summer, every time I was in that house, it just seemed like he was back there, taking a nap, and could appear any moment.

As for my mom, well, there just arent enough words. She was an amazing woman. She could talk you into submission on any subject. She loved her family fiercely and sometimes to a fault. She was a true Southern woman in that she was polite and courteous, and prized good manners, but you did not want to get on her bad side, or show any kind of prejudiced or ignorant behavior in front of her. If you did, you would be educated out of it right quick. There was no “not talking about it” around her. Everything was in the open. There were no secrets, no “what will the neighbors think”. My poor father, the child of a Presbyterian minister in a small town in the South, married to this woman who truly did not CARE what the neighbors thought. How DID they manage to stay married for nearly 40 years? Some memory highlights of my mom: her telling me “the facts of life” at age 10. Ugh, wow, yuk! But, she pulled no punches, and told me everything, even if I didn’t want to hear it, and she answered all my questions, and later, I couldn’t BELIEVE that I had friends whose mothers told them NOTHING about their periods, about sex, about anything. I just couldn’t imagine a mother not being like mine. Having my 16th birthday party at my house, wanting to invite my friends to my house to meet my mom. First of all, it was a new and exciting thing for me to HAVE friends, after my nomadic childhood, but how many 16 year old girls want to bring their friends home to meet their mother?? That’s how she was. Sitting at the table, snapping beans for dinner, and talking about every subject under the sun. Sitting on the couch on a Sunday, having big plans to help her “get organized” and then an old movie comes on TV, and 3 hours later, we’re sitting and sniffing into our Kleenex. Her taking me to work before I could drive, and needing gas in the car. We piled together a small margerine tub full of pennies and got enough gas to get there and back. As we drove off, she yelled out the car window, “I have millions in Confederate bonds in the attic!” I’m sure the teenager in the service booth had no idea what she was talking about. Having absolute hysterics of laughter over nothing at all. Her being “second mom” to many of my college friends whose own mothers were less than accepting of their daughters. Her becoming “Meeps” thanks to my own daughter’s christening. From the time my daughter was 4, until the day my mom died, she was Meeps, and always will be. Taking her to England, Scotland and Ireland for a month in 2000. She had wanted to go there her whole life, and my father hated to travel. So, I decided we would go. The planets aligned correctly, and we had the most fabulous trip, never a cross word, and more fun than should be allowed by law. And finally, me in Colorado, and her in Georgia, after leaving my 2nd husband because I could not stay and watch him drink himself to death, and because I knew if I was going to be with anyone, it would be a woman, telling her that I had “met someone and was really happy”. “Well, Linda,” she said, in her “telephone voice” “Who is he?” “Well, Mother, it’s not a ‘he’”, said I. “Well, LINDA!” she said again. And then I explained to her that finally, FINALLY, I felt “normal” whatever that meant, and that I felt like I truly had a chance at a “real” relationship, just like all my other friends did. After a moment, she said crisply, “Well, you’re 45 years old, and I’m 70. What am I going to do, run out in the street and shoot myself? I don’t think so! If you’re happy then I’m happy!” My greatest joy was that my mom got to meet my wife, and mom told her at our last visit back to Georgia that she felt like she had another daughter, that she was happy I had found my true love, and that she (my wife) was part of the family. Two remarkable people in their own special ways. Perfect? Hardly. But amazing parents nonetheless. I definitely would not be who I am today without them, and I will love and miss them forever.

Grumpy Granny