I wrote a story when I was about eight years old that, unknowingly to me, my mom had saved for decades.

 She had given it to my husband shortly before she passed away.

I didn’t find out about this until she had been gone a couple of years and my husband actually came across where he had hidden it.

I had totally forgotten about the story until he presented it to me, and then it all came rushing back!

It was written on a small writing pad that also consisted of what looked like third grade vocabulary words in the back, meaning I most likely wrote it while I was in school.

Thank you God for not letting the teacher discover it.

There were also some sorry excuses for “illustrations” drawn on the pages. I have never been much of an artist.

My mom had told my husband to hide it until around Halloween as it would act as the main entity of a clever little prank she was scheming.

You see, if you had to categorize this particular story that I wrote at the wee, innocent age of eight years old, I guess it would most likely fall into the “horror” genre…

I remember when I gave it to her.

 

She read it, giving it her most undivided attention.

Now, I can’t help but imagine what was going through her mind as she read this “descriptive” and almost graphic piece of literature that her sweet, smaller than average, pig-tailed, buck toothed little girl had so proudly presented to her.

She didn’t freak out (as I most likely would have).

Nor did she take me to see a child psychologist (which I probably would have done, too).

Instead, she encouraged me.

In fact, she told me it was the best story she had ever read!

And she obviously cherished it all of her days.

Another treasure of my mom’s that always remained displayed in my parent’s home was a plate I made when I was five.

My teacher at “Kiddy College” (aka preschool) had told us to share a memory on the plate by drawing a picture that would mean something special to our Moms, as this was a gift for Mother’s Day.

My picture was of Dorothy (actually it was me) and Toto walking down the yellow brick road.

I chose this not because “The Wizard of Oz” was one of our favorite books to read together, or because it was our favorite movie.

The drawing was to remind my mom of how much I appreciated the excellent care and love she had recently given me when I had been hospitalized for weeks and was extremely ill with pneumonia.

Apparently as my fever rapidly climbed to dangerous heights and before calling the ambulance, I had begun having hallucinations that involved the Scarecrow chasing me down the yellow brick road- thus the Dorothy/Toto picture.

Happy Mother’s Day Mom!

Despite the memory that I’m guessing wasn’t a pleasant one for her to remember on a daily basis, the plate hung in all our homes, all those years, up until I did the final pack up after both my parents had passed away.

My Mama felt like her most important of motherly duties was to make sure I was in church, so like it or not, every Sunday, I was there.

Church consisted of sitting within the walls of a little country sanctuary nestled deep amongst the cow pastures and curvy roads of rural Virginia.

I remember she would always wear the dressiest of dresses and she would always change her purse and paint her nails on Saturday night to match.

I was so proud to sit beside her. I knew I had the prettiest Mama in the whole congregation!

If I would start to wiggle or get restless, she would put her arm around me releasing the familiar Sunday morning smell of Chanel No 5 and her peppermint gum.

Strangely enough, I can remember almost every last detail of the last day my mama was here on this earth almost nine years ago.

I remember talking to a friend on the phone who was a bit irritated with her mom.

Ironically, I can remember telling my friend, “Yea, they get on our nerves but we gotta love ‘em while we can, ‘cuz they won’t be here forever!”

This was contrary to my unrealistic belief that my mom would always be here and wasn’t going anywhere, anytime soon.

I can remember the severe thunderstorm that day, and looking out the window of my office and for the first time in my life actually seeing lightning strike the ground.

I called and told my mom about it. She had seen that too.

I can remember that she had called me twice that day, the last time asking if I was going to come up and see her that evening.

I told her after a long day of work and running with the kids to their activities, it was late and I was tired. I’d come up tomorrow.

And worst of all, I can remember that frantic early morning phone call the next day from my dad saying that she had unexpectedly left us.

Just like that, she was gone.

Man, I miss her every single day.

A mom is your first best friend.

She is someone who tends to know you better than you know yourself.

She is your go-to person for advice, opinions, encouragement, love, and even recipes.

She is your ‘safe-haven’. When things go wrong you run to her. No matter your age.

She is the voice of logic. She puts things into perspective when you can’t see beyond that first blinding obstacle.

She makes everything better. Always.

My mom was there with me through all my weird phases.

No matter how ridiculous she may have thought I looked, she continued to purchase those high-top converse tennis shoes that made my feet look like boats and my legs look like spaghetti whenever I insisted on wearing them with dresses.

She paid for and supported the drum lessons, instead of the preferred dance lessons she so hoped I’d catch onto.

She even somewhat tolerated the boys I chose to date, even though deep down I knew most of them made her cringe.

She took the time to listen to me and hear my problems- not to solve each one-but to teach me problem solving skills.

There were lots of times I disappointed her, but she continued to love me anyway.

Yes, it was clear, even from a young age, I marched to the beat of a different drum, but my Mom was always there to help me keep the rhythm.

My mom let me be me. She accepted me for the unique individual I was, and she even applauded it.

My Gramma used to say, “No matter how old you get, you always need your Mama.”

Those words couldn’t ring more true in my heart than they do today.

If you are blessed enough to still have your mama, love her.

Drop what you’re doing and spend time with her.

Take lots of pictures with her.

Take her to Disney World for crying out loud! (If she wants to go, that is)

Tell your children, and grandchildren all about her so her legacy will live on in them for generations!

Do all the things you have always wanted to do with her-but do it today.

Don’t wait ‘til tomorrow.

So today, Cinco De Mayo 2017, I say “Happy Birthday to ya, Ma!!!

Thank you for all you have ever done for me and for all that you’ve taught and instilled in me!!!

I’m blessed to say that I see bits and pieces of you in my kids and grandkids every day! (Especially that great-grand daughter of yours!!!)

From your witty sense of humor, to your ability to talk common sense and put things into perspective to their otherwise one-sided Mom/ NeNe-it’s all there- in THEM!

I cherish these moments because it’s like you never left!!!

Thank you for continuing to be an amazing guardian angel to us all! (Might want to keep an extra eye on Butch though, he’s wide open!)

I have no doubt you are here with us often, and I love that feeling!!!

We’re all still here, holding down the forts and doing just fine!!!!

I miss you every day, but thankfully I know that one day I will see you again! (I learned that at an early age during those Sunday morning sermons you dragged me to-Thank you).

Enjoy your special day in Heaven today Mama!

I love you more than you know!

Oh, and kiss the Dads (the both of them) for me!

I love ya bunches,

“Val Gal”