April 13, 2015
It’s my mother’s birthday. I didn’t realize it until I typed the date just now. She would have been 98 years old today. She died a week after Mother’s Day in 1981.
I don’t wish Mom was still alive, not in the state of health she was in during those last few difficult years.
But I do wish I could talk to her again, just to tell her what I’ve been doing.
I don’t need to guess how she would feel about this vandwelling thing; I know she would approve and want to come along with me and Scout.
That would be awesome.
We could get an RV so Mom would be comfortable, and then we could travel North America together, just the way we dreamed of doing when I was a teenager.
Mom was one of those people who encourages dreams. She never made you feel small.
When I asked her what she wanted me to be when I grew up she replied, wistful, “Oh, I would love it if you became a writer. You’re such a good writer.” My answer: “Are you crazy?! Do you know how much WORK that is?!”
When I was fourteen Mom put me to work in her diner, in spite of my distinct lack of enthusiasm, and taught me to take pride in my work.
I learned to flip burgers, fry perfectly sunny-side-up eggs, and run an industrial dishwasher.
I also learned by osmosis how to kid around with men with blue collars.
When I whispered shyly that I wanted to be an actress someday, Mom arranged with the school counselor for me to get into drama class.
She took me to a community theater audition and waited patiently in the car with me while I tried, unsuccessfully, to work up the nerve to go in. (Good thing the director saw us and came out to get me. I got the part.)
Mom had a rule at the Diner: if someone comes in and says they’re hungry but have no money, feed them. Give them a full plate of whatever is on special, with a roll, butter, and a cup of coffee. And a smile.
At home, she took in strays: a pregnant teenager, an abandoned boy, a young woman with a baby, her own grandson when I was off playing hippie.
Mom loved my stepfather with all her heart.
When he became disabled, she took care of him, and fought fiercely for his dignity when others treated him like a cripple.
Years after he died, she cried when she told me she still missed him.
And I still miss her.
Thank you, Mom, for having me. I love you.
Dorothy George Carr Frei, RIP
April 13, 1917 – May 23, 1981
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She was a beautiful woman, LaVonne, and your tribute was lovely. My grandma was that way for me. I’m lucky I had that but it is bittersweet for me that I didn’t have your kind of relationship with my mom. No wonder you are such a special person. Good job.
Thank you so much, Charlene! A teacher once told me that all any child needs is one adult on their side. I’m so glad you had your grandma.
What a sweet story about your mom! I didn’t have a mother (or a grandmother) who was there for me at any time while I was growing up, and reading stories like yours lets me know that not everyone had that disconnection with their maternal influences. I love your mom! She’s awesome 😀 …and so are you ♥
Thank you, Lois! I have been saddened over the years to hear many stories of less-than happy relationships with mothers. I feel so lucky to have had my mom!