We were treated this Thanksgiving to a visit by my mother.
Following my dad’s death in 1999, mom made a decision many in her situation fail to make. (They had been married nearly 49 years.)
She chose happiness.
Since then she has had her share of reasons to choose otherwise. Friends have sickened, friends have died, some have become estranged. She lost her home of 30-plus years to reconstruction, and now lives in what she describes as a castle ruled by my little brother and his wife.
Yet she is happy. She’s 83, she’s 99 44/100th percent blind, she needs
a walker to go more than a few feet, she has pain in her hip and her
teeth are about gone. Yet she chooses happiness. She flew here from
California on Tuesday, and today leaves for Oklahoma, where she will
visit a friend she has known since college.
I have been proud to cook for her this week, and have her visit with my
kids, because she carries this important message with her wherever she
goes.
Happiness is a choice. And it’s a choice you can make.
She lost her home to — reconstruction? Now you’ve ticlkled my curiosity. The only referent I have for that term is the Civil War South, and surely the carpetbaggers didn’t come and take it from her. Or did they? Are we talking the sort of neighborhood reconstruction in which people’s homes are replaced by things that bring in more property tax dollars?
Anyway, may she live long and prosper.
She lost her home to — reconstruction? Now you’ve ticlkled my curiosity. The only referent I have for that term is the Civil War South, and surely the carpetbaggers didn’t come and take it from her. Or did they? Are we talking the sort of neighborhood reconstruction in which people’s homes are replaced by things that bring in more property tax dollars?
Anyway, may she live long and prosper.