Your homemade fudge and brownies.
Horsey rides on your lap, with me as the cowboy being chased by a band of Indians, played by you.
Roller skating in the house with us “beetle bums,” well, that is until you slipped one day and cracked your elbow on our concrete tiled floor.
Racing down the hill from the car to the cottage at the lake.
Haircuts in the kitchen. And how could I ever forget the time you tried to style my hair like Duke Ellington’s? (Thanks, mom. The fellas on the block really liked that look.)
Your scoldings that could go on and on … and on, leaving me with nothing else to say but “Okayyy, ma.”
Listening to you play the piano, except when the Three Stooges were on or Bugs Bunny or pretty much any other time the TV was on.
The way you subtly bopped your head whenever you heard a nice jazzy tune. That way you called new, cool and stylish things “snazzy.”
The way you cared for Daddy and Madeline all those years.
Your authentic grace and compassion.
Your laughter and goofy sense of humor.
And the time I sought your advice to a real conundrum, you responded not with a suggestion as much as it was a directive: “Well, whatever you decide, you be nice because Wanda’s a very a sweet girl.”
The first time you held Jonathan and that look on your face. “There’s my baby,” you said.
I have just one question: What did I ever do to deserve a mother like you?
Happy Mother’s Day.
Bob Campbell, an essayist and novelist, likes his bourbon neat. His debut novel, Motown Man, was published by Urban Farmhouse Press in November 2020.