My Crazy Uncle Wears a Kilt

My mother married very young. Born Minnie Ada McPherson on January 31, 1928, she became a war bride on July 3, 1943. I was born on May 29, 1944, when mom was four months into her seventeenth year. She had a ninth-grade education and was fresh off of the farm, literally, when she married. She and dad had met at a USO dance while he was training in the Army Air Corps in Amarillo, Texas. I missed being a baby boomer by about two years. I don't think that there is a name for my generation.

Mom was smart as a whip. She didn't let her lack of formal education get in her way. She was first a mother, and looking at her children today, a fine one at that. But even though she had a tendency to measure her success by how her children were doing once they left the nest, and at times felt herself to be a failure, she was no quitter.

I was the first born, and her only son among seven children. When I ascended to adulthood by marrying at 23, my mother was only 39. Suddenly we were both young adults, and soon after both parents. A seismic shift happened in my relationships with my parents at that time. I had never had a close relationship with my father. We were practically strangers. That changed dramatically when I married. We became life-long friends at that point. We seldom lived close, but we were warm when together.

But with my mom the shift was more subtle. We had been close since my birth. I worshipped her and don't remember ever saying a cross word to her. Of course, life got in the way as I had two failed marriages and four wonderful children (a silver lining), but we never lost the bond. However, as we got older, and our slight age difference made less and less difference, our friendship grew. We confided secrets that no one else in the world knew. We were best of friends. There was a twinkle in her eye just for me. I suppose that it is a sad commentary that I had a closer spiritual bond with her than with either of my wives.

Toward the end of her life, in fact only a month or so before she died, we had a dinner date. She dressed up and one of my sisters did her makeup, perhaps Laura. Mom was very unsteady, and as I walked with her into the restaurant, her leaning on me as I had done with her as a child, I was terrified that she might fall. We had the best date of my life, two old friends and soulmates enjoying a meal and remembering old times. I could tell that she loved it. I don't remember what we ate, a detail too minor to remember in the glow of the love between mother and child who were also best friends. I weep even now as I feel it again, undiminished over the years. She died in 2009. I was a little sad for myself, but not for her. I can close my eyes and see her laughing and enjoying the company of her favorite people; dad, Ralph and Ines, her parents and siblings. I am comforted by the fact that every breath I take is one less before I see her again.

As I said, she was smart as a whip. She taught herself what she had missed in school, did more than 30 years worth of genealogy and taught it to me, and wrote beautiful stories. I don't know that she shared them with anyone other than me. I don't know what happened to them.

My mother gave me a glimpse of what unconditional love is. She loved each of her children equally without reservation, no matter what. In that regard, she was closer to being like the Savior than anyone else I have ever known. Every moment of my life with her was precious and a privilege.

Mom, I know that birthdays might not mean much to you now, but Happy Birthday. Leave a light in the window for me.