Not Just A Birthday Card

My mom and paternal grandmother both had something in common--neither ever forgot a birthday, and most importantly, neither ever chose a card to celebrate it, that didn't show relevance and meaning for the receiver.

It was something that I admired, because I have never been much for cards. I seldom miss a gift, and I often call someone on the phone, but cards were not that big a deal.

However, it was a big deal getting one from someone who took that much time to select it, from someone who took that much time to seek out something that said so much about your wishes, your hopes, your desires.

My mother knew about my love for the coast, especially California. There is something about water that seems purifying. In summer, I sit and listen to leaves of quaking aspen. They sound like the gentle flow of a mountain brook. Massive poplars, however, are something else entirely. The massive branches filled with leaves make a sound like the ocean.

I turned 59 on October 27, 2011--just four days after my mother's massive stroke. The Saturday before that happened, I stopped in for what was intended to be a quick visit, but I stayed for almost four hours, and I am so glad I did.

Life changes. Nothing is ever the same, yet my mother remains the person she always was. There is a sadness about her, a coming to terms with a medical problem. But at the same time, her strong-willed nature presses her to work so hard to regain mobility and independence.

My mom's presence was always there for all of us, and it always will be. Just like the picture above, where we were dressed and ready to go with my dad to feed cattle in the hay lands south of Malad, my mom's influence will be ever-present.

When I visit her now, she tries so hard to focus her eyes, and I see her thinking of the past. She tells stories about my youth. Each one reminds me of the good times.

There were times when my family lived on a ranch with basic things. There was a roof over our heads. There was a stove. There was a shower.

The toilet was in a small separate building about 75 feet from the house.

I felt shame about that fact, when I was young. However, our farm had the best machinery on any farm in the area. Indoor plumbing do not make a farm profitable.

We had a new home in Malad. The ranch house, although primitive, was where we spent summers, and for me, I was never there that much during the day. We had meals. We slept.

And although the old house was primitive, I still dream about the summer nights, a breeze from a mountain hollow billowing white curtains in the night amid the blue shades that faded to black. It was an easy sleep there, one without concerns or worries. It's the way you hope life will always be.