Last night, I dreamed that my sister, Morgana, came to me at work to tell me that our mother had died. We hugged and cried together, but it wasn’t a sad dream, and it seemed kind of eerily appropriate for this day. When I got up, I had coffee on the patio, and pictures from my childhood swept over me. Here’s the house I grew up in–in Hooper, Nebraska. We certainly had our family problems, but, over the years, I’ve made peace with that.
This morning, all the memories were good. What a different world it was back then–in a small Nebraska town in the 50s–bucolic, peaceful, and warm in lots of ways. There were so many good things–my parents owning, writing, and publishing the weekly newspaper. We knew everybody in town. There were fourteen kids on my block, and every summer night, we would play games outside until dark. I had the run of the town on my bicycle. One vivid memory is the warmth of the sun and air, as I stood outside to dry my hair after washing it. And, oh, the food my mother used to cook!
Thinking of my sis, I remember the first time I ever met her husband-to-be, Tom. I was very small. They drove out from Lincoln where they were students at UNL. Morgana led the way into the house and Tom followed. As he passed me, he paused to tickle my stomach, sending me plunging over the sofa arm in a fit of giggles. Then they proceeded on to the kitchen where Mom was cooking a big meal. I knew something was up; I just didn’t know what! Some time later, I was a flower girl in a white lace dress at their wedding, and now they’ve been married for over fifty years.
Oh, the memories are so good.