Saturday, May 2, 2015

my mother

I must admit, and regret, that I seldom think of my mother.

Her name was Marion Cleo Jones Bradley. Everyone called her Cleo.

Her name should have been Marion Cleo O'Connor Bradley, but her grandfather came over from Ireland with two brothers and they got into such a fight on the boat they all gave false names at Ellis Island so they'd never be able to find each other in this new land. My great-grandfather gave the name "Jones", a double insult to his brothers since 'Jones' is Welsh. Don't tell me the Irish don't know about grudges....

She died when I was just 25.

The only thing I could do for her as she was dying was feed her vanilla ice cream with a little wooden spoon. Her stroke altered brain didn't allow her to know who I was, but she loved the ice cream and I fed it to her whenever I could.

I'm sorry I don't think of her more. But I don't. I'm 6 years older than she was when she died. I'm 15 years younger than my father was when he died.

Maybe I'll be lucky and live like him.

I'd like to live 15 more years--to see my older two granddaughters graduate from college. That would be a treat...unless I'm drooling and don't know where I am.

But there's time to think of all that.

What I want to do tonight is remember my mother, since I so seldom do.

So, that's what I'll be up to after I click on 'publish' for this post.

Maybe you'd like to remember your mother for a while when you read this. Even if she's still alive, a little remembering can go a long way.

Check it out.

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About Me

some ponderings by an aging white man who is an Episcopal priest in Connecticut. Now retired but still working and still wondering what it all means...all of it.