My mom, Rosemary, has given me many things. Hugs, kisses on the forehead, Cabbage Patch Kids, proof that kindness is important, quick pinches on the forearm when I was being a brat (I deserved them because, damn, I could be petulant), college tuition, and so many other things.
The most important, though, was the gift of reading. Some of my favorite memories are going to the Hoyt Library with my mom. We’d climb the squeaky, wooden steps to the second-floor children’s section and she’d let me pick whatever books I wanted, from biographies to Judy Blume to anything else that interested me. We’d load bags up with picture and chapter books and bring them back the next week, ready to get another batch stamped by the librarian. Those sounds – open the book, stamp the due date and close it. A short symphony.
She modeled reading for me herself. There was always a bookmarked Stephen King or Robin Cook book around the house. Packages from book clubs she belonged to arrived consistently. It was fun to see what would arrive, from novels to home remedy books.
So, thank you, Sweet Momma. Without you, I never would have discovered Laura Ingalls’ cold, Minnesota winters or, most notoriously, what really was happening to my body (that was a shocker of a Christmas gift, thank you very much). Without you, I never would have discovered so many new things. I love you.