This Reminds Me

When my mom died in August, 1998, about 200 friends and relatives sent me cards and notes.   At the time, I found them difficult and uncomfortable to read – the flat, static text failing to conjure the woman whose dying by inches cut me by layers.

On the middle left – my mom Wyoming, the high school yearbook editor and member of the Butler University yearbook staff.  Her college roommate sent one of the first notes I received.

But I kept those cards and notes.   I’ve reread them often, each time viewing another slivered reflection of who my mom really was.

“When my (own) mother died, Wy came over and cleaned my house.”    “Wy loaned us $100 when we really needed it.”   “When we bought her (the baby) home, Wy was the first one at our door with a good meal.” “Your mom could take anything and make it funny.” “There was never a better friend or neighbor.”  “Her ‘misplaced Baptist’ opinions in Sunday School always made me laugh.” “If  anybody had read the book – it was Wy.”

In some form or fashion, all of them said – “She’ll be missed.”

Yes.  And I miss her still.  Especially on Mother’s Day.

My dad’s mother and my mother – Bessie and Wy Hoffman. My cousin Clyde – with whom I recently reconnected on Facebook – shared this photo with me. When Rachel saw it, she exclaimed, “Grandma was a fox!”

I’d love to honor my mother on Mother’s Day but…  I can’t send her a card, or run by with a corsage.  She doesn’t have a headstone at which to lay flowers.  No university boasts a  “Wy Hoffman Chair for the Domestic Arts” wheedling donations.   The families of my sister and I don’t gather at her former home,  joining hands and harmonizing “Kumbaya.”

Mother’s Day 1983 – Judy, David, Sarah and me, with Mom in the background.  Yea baby, my ‘fro was hot.

So how to honor my mother on Mother’s Day?

I think I pay it forward.

If she could strap on David’s artificial limbs morning after morning – I suppose I can remember to reorder Julia’s asthma inhaler.

If she could mop the church floor – I figure I can attend a committee meeting or two.

If she could bring sick kids to our house from (her employer) daycare when their working moms were delayed – I guess I can make our home available to those who might need to escape an advancing hurricane.

That’s the best I can do.

Which is what she did all the time.

So tomorrow’s hon-or is on-her.

Paid forward.

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