A Tribute (rough draft, but I wanted to get something up)

As you all know, my mom passed away on Monday, September 26^th, 2016 at around 8:25 pm. When I got home from work, the caretaker said she’d had a quiet day, and everything had stayed the same. 

I took a bath, and around 7:45, I had a strong urge to get out of the bath and go sit with her.

And that’s what I did. I took her hand; it felt a little cool. I noticed her oxygen cannula had slipped from her nose. I put it back, and got the pulse oximeter. She was at 77 % and her pulse was 68. Which wasn’t too bad, because sometimes when she swiped her oxygen cannula off, her sats would be as low as 39 or 40. Her heart rate, though, concerned me, because I’d never seen it that low. Usually, she has a fast heartbeat, even in normal conditions.

And she seemed paler than normal, and I could barely see the rise and fall of her chest. I think I knew then that she only had minutes left. I rubbed her hand, smoothed her hair and talked to her, once again reassuring her I loved her, and that I wouldn’t let her go until she had slipped safely into the arms of Jesus. I told her she was beautiful, and I brushed her fine blonde hair. I assured her that we would all be okay, and that she had done a great job taking care of us. I told her to say hi to my dad and grandparents. I put some cherry Chapstick on her lips to keep them from looking blue. And I assured her that my brothers and her brother all sent their love. I told her I would never forget her, and that I would see her soon enough in heaven.

Joe came out of his room and said a tearful goodbye. And then Aidan got home and said her final goodbye as well.

After that, I put the pulse ox on her finger again, and I couldn’t get a reading, but the bar that represented her heartbeat was still going up and down, erratically, with long pauses between heartbeats. I tried to find her pulse on her wrist and neck, but couldn’t. I also could no longer see her chest rise and fall. I sensed she was gone, and called my boss, Karen, to bring over her stethoscope. She hurried over. As she bent over my mom, listening for a heartbeat, I could read her expression.

My mom was gone.

The last few days have been eerily silent, and I keep expecting my phone to ring. It’s hard to believe she’s gone.

But now, I want to tell you about her life, as much as I know of it. She wasn’t exactly fond of recalling her childhood, so I don’t know very much, and what I do know isn’t exactly “happy.” However, I want to write it all, so people will understand, and maybe gain some insight into their own family relationships. 

And most of all, I want to remember, and make a record of her life for my kids, their kids, and future generations. And at first, I was going to make this a tribute to just my mom, but I realized it wouldn’t be complete, so although I’m writing this in honor of my mother, I’m also writing this as a tribute to my family. We weren’t a perfect family, and we weren’t a particularly emotionally demonstrative family, but we were a family, and that’s what counts, right?

Carol Ann Greenwood, was born in Gardner, Massachusetts, on July 30^th, 1945 at 10:35 pm. Her mother was Mary Yvonne Binnall, the daughter of a prominent Gardner family.

My grandfather called his wife, "Eve."

Her father, Leland Alfred Greenwood, was my hero.

My grandmother called her husband "Dinny."

He was out of the country fighting in WWII as a radar specialist when my mother was born. I always thought her birth announcement was romantically mysterious because it said her father was “somewhere in the Pacific,” at the time of her birth.

I’m looking through my mom’s baby book now, and am noticing many things I haven’t really paid attention to before. Like my grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood, lived at 180 Greenwood Street.

And I’m looking closely at her little foot and hand prints, and her locks of hair. Those little blonde curls are the only tactile evidence I have left of her, and I’m really glad my grandmother took good notes. My mom kept the tradition of the “baby book,” and the one she made for me is also pretty detailed. And I’ve kept the tradition, too, and have a baby book for each of my three kids.

I wonder who made this?

The human life with all its wonders constantly amazes me. 

My mom was 7 lbs 4 oz when she was born and 20 ½ inches long. When she died, she was about 100 lbs, and about 5’2”. I, on the other hand, took after my dad, and was just under 9 lbs at birth, and as of this writing, I’m 5’10” or so tall.

My grandmother noted that my mom’s behavior on the first day home was “quiet,” but cried “a little.” One thing I remember about my mom is that she wasn’t a crier. I don’t remember her crying very often, although I’m sure she did at times. Like me, she probably held her tears until she was alone, so that no one else would see them.

There was one time she cried that I can’t forget, and the story has affected the way I speak to others, especially my kids. I remember sitting in the recliner, and I don’t remember what prompted my mom to do this, but she gripped my hand very hard, and tears flowed freely as she said, “One time, my mother took my hand like this, and squeezed it, and dug her nails into my skin and said, ‘You are a very, VERY bad girl.’ That was one of the worst days of my life, and since she said that, I never felt I was good enough.”

My mom would grow up to be a salon owner/hairdresser. She wasn't the only one with uneven bangs.

That moment will live with me forever, but I’m glad she told me, because it provides an insight into her psyche and why she did some of the things she did. It’s hard to think the teenage beauty queen could ever have thought she wasn’t good enough.

But, anyway, back to her baby book:

She had blonde hair and blue eyes, and thankfully, a “round head,” which hopefully proves I’m not of alien descent.

She was one of those perfect, adorable kids that could’ve been on a Campbell’s Soup ad.

There’s a page that documents my mom was named “Carol Ann” on August 12^th, twelve days after her birth. I wonder why. Like many parents today, I’d named all my kids months before they were born. Was the delay in naming my mom because my grandfather wasn’t home? Or was it a tradition back then not to name babies before birth? That’s something I’d like to find out.

She received a lot of gifts when she was born. Nowadays, new parents receive things like baby monitors, fancy car seats, and all kinds of electronic “soothers.” In times past, it was a mother’s duty to soothe her baby, using her hands, a wood rocking chair (not a glider), and her voice. I still have the rocking chair my grandmother rocked my mother in, and my mother later rocked me in. It’s in the garage, but I think it’s time to bring it in the house, because it represents something now important to me. It’s a physical symbol of the “hands on” loving care my mom gave me as a baby and young child.

That rocking chair is listed as one of the gifts my mom received. Other gifts included silk puffs (whatever they were), woolen blankets of all colors, Castile soap, a kimono, carriage clamps (again, I don’t know what those are, except that it has something to do with a stroller), 2 Vanta bath kits, 5 silver dollars, a gold ring, mosquito netting (wondering why she got that living in MA), rattles (including a “telephone” rattle), nightgowns, bibs, dresses, and a quilted crib blanket made by my grandmother’s sister, Dot.

This is a picture of my mom, grandmother, great grandmother, and great-great grandmother:

On my mother’s first birthday, my grandmother put an announcement in the newspaper. You don’t see that much nowadays, probably because there’s more than enough bad news to report on, and no one seems to want to read about the happiness in other’s lives. That’s a tragedy, in my opinion. I wish birthday announcements were still a thing when I was growing up, because I would be really curious to know about those early birthdays I don’t remember. My grandmother also included announcements for my mom’s second and sixth birthdays as well.

Her guests included such little characters as Cappy, Butchie, Patty Pease, and Sonny. How could you not be a loveable tiny scamp with those names? Cappy’s birthday gift to my mom was a “luminous elephant picture.” I would love to see that!

One cool thing—my mom had a friend named Lyndi. My best friend since the fifth grade is named Lyndy.

I think it might have been her first birthday that cultivated my mom’s lifelong love of cake. Looking at family photos, you would think that cake was the single most important aspect of a birthday, and with her, it probably was. Sometimes, she’d get her kids two cakes, because she couldn’t decide on just one. And with my mom, bigger was always better (in everything, from hair to diamonds to televisions!). I’m sure my extreme pickiness with food, which included not liking cake in the least little bit, must have been frustrating. I can’t see her being too disappointed though, because it just meant more cake for her.

Cake:

With my older brother, John, whose birthday is July 1st.

More cake (I’ve got about 1000 similar pics):

I’m pretty sure I just ate the frosting:

One other thing about food—when I was little, I wouldn’t eat very much at all. My parents and grandparents said I “barely ate enough to keep a bird alive.” I also could not eat food that touched another kind of food. According to my uncle, my mother was the same way, and also couldn’t eat foods that touched. I find that really incredible and amazing that we shared that trait.

Here’s me demonstrating my usual refusal to eat:

In her first months of development, my mom seemed above average. She walked alone at age 10 months, 27 days.  She “cooed” at 8 weeks, and “babbled” at 10 weeks.

Her first words were “ma ma,” “da da,” “bye bye,” “hi there,” “pretty,” “kitty,” “peek boo,” “clothespin” and “where’s the bow wow?” Another first word was “shoes.” She would love that particular word her whole life, and over the course of her 71 years, she probably owned about 71,000 pairs of heels, sandals and boots. I differed in that I love sneakers and “comfortable” footwear. My mom probably had just two pairs of sneakers her entire life. Obviously, my dad preferred her choice of shoes over mine, because whenever I’d come home with a new pair of shoes, he would good-naturedly say, “Those are the ugliest shoes I’ve ever seen.”

Here’s a photo taken shortly before my grandmother passed away. My mom had the fancy shoes, and I had the size 11 clodhoppers.

I just got off the phone with my Uncle Tommy, who related another story about my mom’s preoccupation with shoes. When she was little, having a pair of shoes pointing at her was disturbing and intolerable. If a pair of shoes were on the floor, she would always turn them so they pointed away from her. My uncle said that one night, he sneaked into her room and took all her shoes out of her closet, then placed them in a circle around her, pointing toward her. He said when she woke up, she “just about killed” him. I can totally picture her chasing him through the house, much like I would chase my own younger brother through the house when he angered me.

Here’s my mom and my uncle:

And me and my little brother:

And yes, I was always being reminded to “sit like a lady.”

Me and my two brothers on a trip to the Palm Beach Zoo.

Another trait my mom and I shared was a love of animals. Her first sentence over four words long was “Is there a bow wow in there?” I don’t think her parents allowed pets in the house, so the first dog she owned was Sam, a black lab we had when I was born. Then we had Snuffy, a Scottish Terrier (I missed two days of school due to the grief I experienced when he was run over by a car and killed), and later, Rocky, a miniature schnauzer. 

Even after my brothers and I moved away, my parents still always had a dog in the house. The last two were Max, a white Mini Schnauzer, and Life of Riley (known as Riley), a Blue Kerry Terrier. My father broke his elbow when Riley ran around his legs with a leash on, causing him to fall on the concrete driveway.

Here’s Max:

And Riley:

Most recently, we had Monet, a silver/black toy poodle, who was very special to my mom. In fact, Monet was one of the main reasons she wanted to come home from rehab after breaking both hips. She wanted to make sure her “honey bunny” was being taken care of, and she believed no one could care for Monet like she could. And she was probably right. Monet was very protective of her, and would bark and growl at anyone she didn’t know who approached my mom. One of my promises to her before she died was that I would give Monet a treat every day for her, and I will keep that promise.

Here’s a pic of my mom and Monet at the rehab center not too long ago:

Okay, back to the baby book: Her favorite toys were a “sleepyhead” doll, and a “magic skin doll.” Again, I’m going to have to look the latter one up, because I have no idea what the concept of “magic skin” was in 1945, and how it would appear or feel like on a doll. It sounds a little creepy to me. I imagine “magic” meaning “disappearing,” and the thought of a baby’s skin disappearing to reveal the bloody muscles and veins underneath is disturbing.

At one time, I must have had a favorite doll, although I don’t remember it. Maybe my mom planted it there while I was asleep so that just for a moment, she would have a daughter that liked dolls.

When my mother was a year old, she “danced and tapped foot to music.” My mom loved music, but she never sang. The reason is sorta sad—when she was about nine, she said she was singing “loud and carefree,” when my grandmother came into her room and said, “Carol, you can’t keep a tune in a bucket.” My mom said she never sang again after that. I think that’s one reason why it’s so important to be careful what you say to your kids. I’ve always remembered that story, and it helped me to remember to never use negative words of judgment on my kids. I’ve always strived to use words that encourage and lift up. I would hate to think my careless words caused my child to suppress her singing.

According to my mother, my grandmother was very strict and frugal. Meat was only allowed on Sundays, and ice cream was a very rare treat. My mom told me that when the first soft serve ice cream place opened up near her house, my grandfather waited in a line that went halfway around the block for over two hours to get her a cone. She loved him for that.

I found a list of “Home Rules,” which I’m sure my grandmother made my mother write out:

While my grandmother was strict and sometimes judgmental, my grandfather was kind, had a good sense of humor, and was very protective of his family.

He adored my grandmother, and I remembered he still held her hand when they went on their daily walks around the lake. They were true soulmates, and I hope that one day, I will have someone in my life to share that special kind of love.

My grandfather loved pancakes, and loved to tell stories about the war. He especially liked to tell a story about waking up extra early so he could go to the mess hall where the cook would make him pancakes cooked the way he liked them—burnt.

To me, he was the most handsome, the funniest, and the most inspirational person in the world. I still have dreams about my grandfather, where I spend time talking to him about what’s going on in my life. People have told me those kinds of dreams are “visitations,” and I hope they really are. It’s very cool to think that in my dreams, I can still converse with loved ones. If that’s true, I’ll look forward to chatting with my mom in dreams, too.

Both of my grandparents were extremely intelligent and creative. My grandmother was an expert at macramé and ceramics, and my grandfather built intricate model airplanes and warships.

Here’s my grandpa in his “study”:

Here is a ceramic gnome my grandfather painted. I call him “Jerome the Gnome.” Aidan calls him “Gnomey the Homey.”

My mom was “forced” to learn the piano, but she didn’t like it. She did like to draw and paint, and I still have a couple of her drawings, which are very good, although she never thought so. When I was about thirteen, I also had to suffer through piano lessons, and my mom bought a baby grand for me. I didn’t like piano much, but reluctantly kept up with the lessons for a couple years. I’m grateful for those lessons, though, because learning to read music helped when I taught myself to play guitar when I was about 18.

My mom also liked ceramics and especially macramé. Once she learned the craft, she did it as she did many things—to the extreme. There were macramé plant holders, macramé octopi, macramé pot holders, macramé everything.

One day I remember being in my room when she started screaming as though someone had lit her hair (always coated with about 5 layers of Final Net hairspray) on fire. I ran out and found her in the kitchen, exclaiming about a googly eye stuck to her finger with super glue. And that thing was really stuck. I don’t remember how we eventually got it off, but I don’t think she ever finished the octopus the eye was intended for, and that pretty much ended her infatuation with macramé.

Here’s a couple pictures of what hair looks like with five layers of Final Net on it. Remember, my mom’s philosophy about everything was “bigger is better.”

Big Hair and Big TV

This pic shows two of my mom’s favorite things: macramé and Christmas (the piano, not so much):

As I said, my mom, when she liked something, she liked it to the extreme. She liked clocks, and as a result, we always had about a thousand clocks in the house, including cuckoo clocks and grandfather clocks. All of them made some sort of noise on the hour and half hour. After a while, you didn’t hear it anymore, but I remember how noticeable it was when I would come home to visit after I moved out. It was so annoying that the first thing I would do after entering the house was stop about half of them. She liked to play Scrabble, too. My grandmother was a Scrabble champion, and my mom was pretty good, too. So when the Franklin mint came out with the gold edition of the game, my mom bought two of them.

She also collected nutcrackers, and like everything she collected, she had to have about a thousand of them. Hauling them out at Christmas (her favorite holiday) was one of her favorite things. I remember how they had to be arranged just right in front of the fireplace, and she would immediately notice if we moved them. She was always a big holiday decorator, especially at Christmas. The house would be chock full of nutcrackers, giant red velvet bows, thick garlands, bright red poinsettias, and elaborate wreaths. 

She loved to play Christmas music, especially “Feliz Navidad.” I recently asked her why she liked that particular carol so much, and she said simply, “Because it makes me happy.” It made me crazy, hearing it on repeat for hours on end.

Yet another with a nutcracker....oh wait, that's Aidan.

Other things she liked to acquire in ridiculous quantities were plants (unlike me, she had a green thumb), diamonds and gold jewelry, fake roosters, fur coats, clothes, wicker baskets, and fuzzy animal slippers. For Christmas the past fifteen or so years, the kids and I could always expect a pair (or three) of animal slippers under the tree.

Here’s a gathering of roosters converging in the corner of the kitchen:

And speaking of the Christmas tree, my mom always had to have the biggest, fattest blue spruce on the lot. I remember what a chore it was for my dad to lug it home, haul it inside, and set it up, then move it about twenty times until my mom thought it was just right. He never complained, though.

Decorating the tree was a family tradition that involved copious amounts of silver garland, icicles, lights, and glass balls. The icicles were at first thrown on by us kids, then my mom would intervene and move our clumps to the right spots, carefully draping them over every bare space she could find. Sometimes the coating of icicles would be so thick you could barely see the tree underneath.

And every year, there were lots and lots of pictures taken with various family members sitting in front of the marvelous tree. I mean, look at the size of this tree compared to the two tiny humans in front of it!

In later years, after my dad died, she reluctantly switched to fake Christmas trees. But like most things, she had to have the biggest and the best, so every year or two, she’d order a new tree from Neiman Marcus. Last year she ordered a tree from QVC (another favorite place to shop) that has over fifty different light settings you can control with a remote. I guess she was sick of my Home Depot tree I’d bought several years ago. I’ll admit her tree is much nicer, and all the lights work, unlike my tree, where the lights on the bottom half of the tree would only sometimes come on.

My mom has one brother, Thomas, or as I know him, Uncle Tommy. I remember he was the most fun person in the world. He would wrestle with me on the carpet of my grandparent’s condo. He was one of the only family members that didn’t force me to be “girly.” Once he was old enough, he joined the Navy, and eventually married my Aunt Jane. They had four kids—“Little” Tommy, Mark, Lori, and Kimberly. I’m still close to them today, although not as close as I’d like to be. Sometimes life nowadays is too busy to promote family closeness, which stinks. I realize now how important it is to make time for that.

Tommy and my mom

Tommy and Jame

Here’s me and my cousin, Kimberly, on one of my visits to their house:

And here's me and Patrick with Little Tommy and Mark:

My cousin, Lori.

School was not one of my mom’s favorite things, but she saved almost all of her report cards.

I think she dropped out of high school in 11^th grade. In her elementary years, her grades were very good, and she received honors for reading and handwriting. Her grades in math weren’t as good, and me and her are alike in that way. Her grades started to slip in high school, and she gravitated toward the bad girls, and took up smoking. Unfortunately, this bad habit would eventually cause her demise.

I think my mom met my dad in high school. She was introduced to him by Monroe, her boyfriend at the time. My uncle described Monroe as “Fonzie from Happy Days, but mean.” He was a truck driver and a race car driver, and wasn’t well-liked by my uncle or my grandparents. My dad, however, was different. He was a Florida Boy, born and raised in West Palm Beach. My grandparents called him “Gentleman Jack,” because he was so polite. But my mom was young, and a little on the wild side, so my grandparents set a curfew. My mom didn’t like that too much, so she’d sneak out of the house, and my dad would pick her up in his hot rod to go dancing at a bar in Yeehaw Junction. Yes, that’s a real place. My mom also worked in that bar for a time.

Here’s my mom as “Ms. Riviera Beach”:

My dad, John Joseph “Jack” Montgomery, looked a lot like Elvis when he was young. Like me, he didn’t like his picture taken, so I don’t have many photos of him as a child and young man. But I have seen his high school yearbook photo, and he did look a lot like Elvis, who my mom idolized. His parents, Montague and Virginia Montgomery, owned a bar in West Palm Beach, and lived in the apartment above it.

When my mom and dad decided to get married, my grandparents thought she was too young. However, when my mom wanted something, she would find a way to get it. So, they eloped, and were married in Waycross, Georgia. My older brother, John Joseph Junior, was born eight months later. I was born four years after John, and my younger brother, Patrick, came along two years after me.

John and Mariaelena

Patrick and Tricia

Here’s me and my mom just after my birth. How is it possible she looks so good after just doing the most painful thing ever known to mankind? After I gave birth, I literally looked like death warmed over.

My father served in the Army in Hawaii, where he got his only tattoo, on his right arm—a hula girl.

When my father got out of the Army, he got a job with Southern Bell. He began as a telephone lineman. One day, he was doing work on a telephone pole, and the lineman above him touched a live wire and was electrocuted. The jolt of electricity zapped them both off the pole onto the ground far below. My father broke his leg. As a result of that electrocution, he developed a slight tremor in his hands. It wasn’t very noticeable, and his immaculate, precise handwriting wasn’t affected. 

He gradually moved up the career ladder until he became a well-respected district manager. He worked seemingly all the time, and was a true Alpha workaholic. Once he retired from the phone company, he started several successful businesses, and worked almost to the day he died in November 2005.

My mom and dad’s relationship can be described as tumultuous. They bickered about every little thing, from the loudness of the TV to the money my mom loved to spend on frivolities. Yet, he still could be persuaded to buy her expensive five carat diamonds, and I remember how they would play a Patsy Cline record and dance in the family room. I think he truly loved her, and sometimes I think it was hard to love her. She was a beautiful lady, and she knew it, and was used to getting what she wanted. She was a master of manipulation. Not the best trait, but nobody is perfect. We all have flaws, and no one is excluded, no matter how much we love and admire them.

One time, when I was about nine or ten years old, my dad left the house in anger. My mom grabbed me and took me into her room, sat me on the bed, and told me he was going to divorce her. She begged me to beg my dad to stay. When my dad came home, I climbed onto his lap and pleaded with him not to leave (my younger brother helped me), and my dad stayed.

My mom also battled depression, anxiety and some severe phobias in adulthood.

The sight of blood was one of her most debilitating phobias. I remember one time I was outside when it started to rain. Me and a friend walked around the house under the eave, and came upon a bicycle frame my brother had leaned against the side of the house. I slipped as I tried to navigate over it, and the sprocket ripped my skin open in four deep gashes. My friend was sure I’d need stitches, and I probably did, because I still have the faint scars today. But, I couldn’t let my mom see all the blood, so I had my friend sneak into the house through the pool bathroom door to get a bunch of paper towels. I don’t remember how I kept the wound a secret, but I did, and my mom never found out about it.

Despite her struggles, she wanted to be successful. She went to cosmetology school and got her license. My dad helped her buy a hair salon, which she owned for several years. I remember the family all got involved in naming the salon. She finally nixed all of our suggestions and called it “Carol’s Hair Fair.”

With the money she earned, she gave us the best Christmas’s a kid could ever hope for.

Who needs Santa when you have Mom?

I admire her selflessness when it came to making sure my brothers and I had the nicest things. She was a good mom when it came to caring for us, even though she was rarely demonstrative with hugs or “I love yous” before we moved out and lived on our own.

She cooked dinner from scratch every night, and accommodated my picky eating habits (she was a great cook and loved to bake).

Here’s me and my older brother, John, showing exactly when we got hooked on cookies and Coca Cola:

When we were sick, she was there to make sure we had chicken soup and plenty of liquids…and always, ice cream. Special treats were coming home from school to find chocolate chip cookies just coming out of the oven. And when I joined the Air Force and went to basic training, she wrote me every single day. She was really good at things like that. I wish I had appreciated those things more.

As I approached adulthood, tension between my mom and I reached its peak. We seemed so utterly different—I was a “plain Jane,” that wore no make-up, played in the orange grove wilderness behind our house like a boy, wore baggy tee shirts, shorts and sneakers, and who cried if I had to wear a dress. I thought my mom wore too much “clown makeup,” and I thought she was vain, selfish, and mean to my dad. I thought she was too girly, wore clothes that were too tight, and cared too much about jewelry. I told myself I would never be like her.  I didn’t believe she loved me, although I know better now. I do have photographic proof that I did at least occassionally, satisfy her desire for a "pink" daughter, otherwise known as a "girly girl."

Here’s typical teenage me:

Once I moved out, though, our relationship improved and we talked on the phone almost daily for several years. With the kids out of the house, she and my dad carried on with their normal activities—my dad working in his home office, and my mom swimming with a raft in the pool or drinking coffee and watching Judge Judy or The Price is Right. Sometimes, she would call me just to let me know someone was a double showcase winner.

My parents took a few trips, mostly to Dillard, GA. My mom had a love for the annual color change of the leaves in the mountains. Even in the past several years, she always mentioned the leaves changing and how she wished she could go see them.

About four or five years ago, I took my mom to Dillard, so she could see the leaves change one last time. I rented a Cadillac SUV to haul her considerable amount of necessities like her giant oxygen concentrator, medications and fur coats. The 8 hour drive there was both exhausting and satisfying. There were many, many stops to use the restroom. And backseat driving the whole way. 

Once we arrived at her beloved Dillard House hotel, we discovered that our room was on the second floor, up a flight of stairs. She assured me she could make it up, and we did…once. She sprained her ankle, and getting her and all the stuff back down the stairs the next day may have been my most strenuous workout ever. I bought a wheelchair at a local drugstore, and we spent the rest of our stay on the first floor of a Comfort Inn and Suites down the road. My mom loved the idea of driving along mountain roads, where the burst of colorful leaves surrounded the car.

But really, it was just the idea she loved, because in reality, as we increased elevation, her anxiety skyrocketed, and whenever we emerged from the trees to see a beautiful valley vista spread out below us, she turned white, gripped the seat, and swore we were going to careen at twelve miles an hour right over the edge of a cliff.

Here are a couple of pictures of her enjoying the fall colors:

Another thing my mom loved after the kids were grown were her grandchildren. She has nine, including Brenna, the daughter of my sister-in-law, Mariaelena. First was Andrew, my brother Patrick’s son, then my daughter, Aidan, who had a very special relationship with her Mimi. Mimi used to take Aidan to the beach, and taught Aidan how to bake.

Here’s a picture of Mimi and Andrew. You can see how Andrew adored her.

Her other grandchildren are Gabrielle, Isabelle, Hope, Daniel, Callie, and Joe. She loved them all very much, and as she did with her own children, she spoiled them rotten at Christmastime.

Patrick with Gabrielle and Andrew

Isabelle with a pet chicken.

Daniel

Gabby, Izzy, Hopey, and Dan the Man

Mariaelena and Brenna

Callie and Joe

Aidan saying goodbye...

I often think how her life would’ve been different if she hadn’t developed COPD. I think she did, too, and often talked about how much she regretted smoking. It was difficult me to hear her speak of those regrets, because I didn’t know how to answer other than truthfully. Her life probably would have been more satisfying if she hadn’t smoked. But, at the same time, I also told her that the past was behind us, and what mattered was making the most of what we had now. I think she took this to heart, and although she never wanted to go out, she frequented Facebook to keep up on her friends and family, and although she never posted much (she didn’t really know how), she did read all about what was going on in the family and often commented to me how she loved a picture her niece, Lori, posted, or how she loved the pictures of Wally, John’s dog.

I’m not really sure how to end this tribute, except to say that at the end, she was comfortable and at peace. Comfort and peace were things she’d struggled with over the past several years, as the COPD progressed. It is a blessing to both her and those she leaves behind that in her last days, she had found what she had strived for all her life. I had the chance to pray with her, and in that prayer, she asked for Jesus to forgive her of all her sins, and to take her into His arms when the time came for her to leave the earthly plain.

And I believe, with all my heart, He answered her prayer.

Rest in peace, Mom. We all love you so much. You did a good job, Mom. An awesome job, and we will never forget.