A Rose for Miss Bonnie

My mother has lived with us since her death in 2006.

My mother hated staying overnight in unfamiliar surroundings. She was happy to go anywhere you might want to take her as long as she could sleep in her own bed the same night. It made sense to me to keep her ashes among family.

Her urn is topped by a jaunty hat that she loved wearing. She is surrounded by a Furby (She had several who talked to each another and there was sometimes a disquieting twitter—in the old sense—behind her when I called home), a frog (she collected them), a stuffed dog that taps its foot and moves an umbrella as “Singin‘ the Rain” plays, an old VHS of Johnny Carson shows and a book about “Guiding Light,” her favorite soap opera. The symbol of her devotion to Bill Clinton, a hand puppet of the former president given to her by my cousin, Alison, did not wear well and will need to be replaced. What is not so well represented in this collection is my mother’s love of books.

My obsession with books came entirely from my mother. I was the first grandchild on my mother’s side and my grandmother loved bringing me gifts. My mother didn’t like this. Her family had little money and she didn’t want me to expect a present every time my grandparents visited.

“If you have to get her something, get her a book,” mom said.

I became the owner of countless Little Golden Books and a whole series of Louisa May Alcott novels. I had many Little House books and a lot of Doctor Seuss. During my childhood and adolescence the Scholastic Book Service sold books in schools and the day the shipment came was always an exciting one for me.

As I got older, my mother still emphasized the importance of books and doing well in school. I was the only child I knew who didn’t have fights with her parents over cleaning her room. It was perfectly acceptable to befriend the dust bunnies, curl up on the unmade bed and read.

I was never told I wasn’t allowed to read a particular book. My mother assured me I might read whatever I liked. She told me she didn’t worry about my being tainted by dirty books. She worried that I would be bored. When, at about 14 I tried reading Lolita, mom’s fears were realized.

During her later years, Mom got her stories from T. V. and movies. The last book I remember her reading was Sue Grafton’s P is for Peril. Shortly before she died, she said to me, “Stephanie, I don’t know anyone who feels about books the way you do.”

“And whose fault is that?” I asked.

My mother, who was not always particularly happy during her last years, gave me the most delightful smile.

Stephanie Patterson

Tribute to a Mother

You knew her as "Betty", with a ready smile, love of friends and a good party. The lady from Tennessee who loved to dance, sing and play a good hand of bridge.

But she had a quiet side too, the inner self that loved nature, the woods, the beach called Willoughby, her beloved back yard.

She loved to walk along her beach, collect shells, pick up little pieces of colored glass and stone and fashion pretty things with them.

She loved her birds, the red cardinals that graced her porch windows, the blue jays that chattered to her. Her great joy was to sit beneath her shady trees, beside her flowering bushes, the wall of pink roses on the bank near the back path.

She loved to watch the moon over the water, the sunsets that outlined her jetty, the twinkling lights of the two bridges, as night fell upon her well-loved Chesapeake Bay.

For hours she would sit and watch the great ships that passed like giant sentinels in front of her house, the huge aircraft carriers, the tiny sailboats. And she would delight in sighting a school of porpoises, dancing in the white-tipped waves, not far from her shore.

And in the early days, how she loved her Fred. He was more than a husband to her. He was her shining knight, Sir Galahad, Rhett Butler, Clark Gable, all rolled into one.

Now her way is once again quiet and filled with peace.

Betty is now away from all harm, back to the gentle trees, the little red birds, the wild roses on the bank. . .

Thelma J. Straw