My Fabulous Mother

By: Honey Good

In the sweet drift before sleep each night, my mind sifts through memories until it settles on something definitive.  Last night was no different. I was trying to recall a special Mother-Daughter Good Morning Story to write for Mother’s Day.

My whirling thoughts reminded me of my old rolodex as I searched for one of my favorite memories. I have thousands of these stories stored in my mind. Fortunately, I add more and more because I am blessed to have my ninety-four-year-old mother.

Through all of our high hills of laughter and our potholes, when we stopped talking, our Mother-Daughter bond is unbreakable. The chemistry between my mother and me is fierce and no matter how angry I have been with her there has never been a time I did not pick up the phone and call my mother and say, “Please let’s not argue. I am sorry this is happening between us.”

The reason: My mother is the most important woman in my life.  I love and respect her unconditionally.

My mother, Elaine, was born on April 14, 1921 under the sign, Aries, the Ram!  This zodiac sign was an indication of things to come. She was strong willed, beautiful, bright, graduating from high school at the age of sixteen and popular. Her only bad luck was being born at the wrong time.

That did not stop her from leading a fabulous life. My mother did everything well; not because she was a perfectionist but because she had tenacity. She loved life!  She was eager to explore all of its facets. She played Scrabble, completed the daily newspaper crossword puzzle, needle pointed, knit and crocheted. She played golf, skied, played every card game well, was a devoted wife, mother and homemaker, traveled, had style and to this day has many of her childhood friends.

My mother’s most significant gifts to me: I am the recipient of her knowledge, her enthusiasm and her set of values.  

My rolodex stopped at a Thanksgiving Story that took place last November. It is a Mother-Daughter story.

Our family’s Thanksgiving dinner took place at a festive table decorated in shades of orange. My glamorous mother dressed to the nines presided over her brood. All eyes were on this mother of mine as she laughed and enjoyed the family festivities with her loves.

After dinner my mother and I stood in the lobby of our building laughing and chatting about the evening event, when suddenly, the doorman standing outside, accidentally pushed his clicker. The automatic doors swung outward, throwing my mother about four feet onto the granite lobby floor, breaking her hip and knocking her unconscious. She lay there looking dead; her eyes glazed and staring into nothingness.

I rushed to her side, screaming,

“Mom!  Mom! Talk to me! Talk to me!”

“Shelly, I think she is dead!”

There was no response for what seemed like an eternity.

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