Mom and Me

Mom and I on the steps to our apartment, which I don’t remember.
I think this was in December, 1953, just before I turned 4 and Mom would be 36.

Happy Birthday, Mom — on Flickr

Daily Note

Every day, a photograph, a poem. Today is my mom’s birthday. She’d be 106. She passed away at age 73– smoking caused her death. It’s a travesty and tragedy what the tobacco industry did to millions.

But here she is at about age 36 with me, about 4 in 1953. No color photos then, but this was red for Christmas time. A little velvet outfit with white fur, perfect for mom’s little girl. She probably saved up for the outfit, without getting anything for herself. It could have been a gift from her sister, my Aunt Vi. It could have been a hand-me-down from my cousin, Christine, a few years old than me. I don’t remember, nor do I remember the apartment we lived in, on whose steps we are sitting. I remember the steps, though, because we moved into the house in front of this garage with the apartment on top. Both of these places are now parking lots for the hospital.

In other words, we lived in a poor neighborhood with not much to in the way of extras. But here we are, and here I am, dressed like a princess. That’s the way mom’s and dad’s are: doing the best for the kids while they go without.

And it doesn’t matter what wealth one has, because the main thing is the family, together. Playing games, walking in the snow, reading books, cooking together. Lots to do together. I remember that.

Mom stayed with us a while and taught our daughter to crochet, as she had also taught me. Well, sort of. She gave up because I’m left handed, but she guided me while I learned from the little book she gave me, a how-to of crochet.

My daughter remembered that my mom loved zinnias, so she texted me these pictures of the zinnias in her garden, which she planted because of my mom. Mom planted zinnias all along the walkway to our front door, along with bachelor buttons, sweet pea, marigolds, and pansies.

Thank you, daughter, and Happy Birthday, Mom. Thanks for giving me the best experiences a little girl needed.

Poetry

Mom and Me

Dressed up in red:
A fancy velvet
ensemble
ready for snow—
A bit of fluffy fur
Soft for Mom’s little girl;
She probably saved,
not getting something for herself,
just so her little one
was dressed as sweet
as she wanted me to be.
Moms are just that way:
Today, and in
1953.
Sheri Edwards
07.18.23 200.365.23
Poetry/Photography [See-Frame-Focus]