This weekend we took a quick trip to visit Randy’s mama, Louise, as she recovers from hip surgery in a small town in western South Carolina. After spending the day with her, we hugged family goodbye, knowing someone was there with her as she fell asleep for the night. We enjoyed dinner with some family and headed to mama’s house to sleep. We fell asleep in freshly changed sheets, comfortable yet painfully aware that her battle is not over, and grateful that so many provide so much for her each day.
This morning, Randy walked through and around mama’s home. The place he grew up. A simple two bedroom-plus-den brick ranch home, still with its original bathrooms, kitchen cabinets and linoleum floor. The house is immaculate. The kitchen pantry efficiently shares its tiny space with the hot water heater. It is kept perfectly clean, stocked with all the usual basic needs, including the ever-present box of individually-wrapped raisin cream pies that countless grandchildren and now great-grandchildren scurry for when they visit. Which, by the way, is often. The refrigerator is neatly lined with their pictures and cards, one for “The Greatest Great-Grandmother in the World” hand-scribed in crayon. Out back, the chairs are neatly tucked ’round the patio table. Flowers bloom, those long-nurtured cuttings of red-hot pokers from his grandfather’s yard,
transplanted here fifty years ago, accented by recent additions of assorted flowers in neatly lined pots along the driveway. The lawn is recently mowed, weeds at a minimum. Trees are groomed beautifully. A simple home, a precious place rich in memories, obviously well tended.
There is no way mama has been able to keep up any of this. Read the rest of this entry