My mother would have been 93 years old this year. Sadly, for her and for me she died in 1983, aged 57.
At the time of her death, each of her children had moved out, and she and my dad were the only ones at home.
Mum was an active woman, she played tennis until arthritis in her hands stopped that, but she found an outlet in playing lawn bowls and on the day of her death she had taken herself off to bowls.
My mother I suspect had a kidney disease that led to her laying down that afternoon for a nap and never waking from it.
Losing a parent is always a hard thing no matter the circumstances but losing a parent so suddenly brings on a numbness that stays with you forever.
My mother was a housewife, she came from a period where being the keeper of the house and looking after the kids was what mothers did. Every morning as I grew up she would have some kind of cooked breakfast for me. Often left overs from the day before. She would have to radio on (we didn’t have a TV in those days), and there was the morning newspaper delivered to our front yard.
The one thing I recall was the futility of telling mum you were sick and couldn’t go to school. Unless you were covered in spots or had a limb missing her reply was always the same: “You’ll be alright once you get going.”
To my eternal annoyance, she was always right.
She read romance fiction, but not Georgette Heyer, I suspect Georgette was a tad risqué for mum. She had us up at 6.30 every Sunday morning to have us to Mass at 7 am. Afterwards, there was always bacon and eggs for breakfast.
But she had a sense of humour; she encouraged us to play sport, play outside and to on occasion read. I think she was pleased to see how each of her children turned out. We all have traits of our mother about us, and I think that is a good thing that she lives on inside of us.
Today down here is Mother’s day and even though I have posted the above before its good reflect on my mother once again.
Morpethroad 