We're all very lucky to have so many people who care about us. Those who have influenced our lives in some way. Some of my earliest memories are fables Mom told to my brother and I just before bed. And stories about her childhood growing up in the thirties, like what kind of games she played. There was a chasing game called 'Mad Dog.' And how engrossed she became in the game she ended up with a black eye trying to outrun the 'mad dog' when she cleared the porch step only to get hit with the screen door as her daddy came out to see what all the yelling was about. I've imagined the flour sack dress she wore to school my granny made for her and the lard buckets that held her lunch. I also wondered what Don, the chicken man must have looked like. Mom's still going strong at seventy-five years old. Last week she rode the paratrooper plane. Her excitement was contagious and my sisters and I envied the view as she flew over the country side.
I hope to hang on to the zest for life she has and to find joy in the everyday events that make up our life.