49 Years Ago Today
Today my Mother, Irene Frances Mulroney, would have turned 49. That probably would have freaked her a little, the last year before fifty. It puts things in perspective for me, too...I always knew her as a relatively young woman. She was 18 when she gave birth to me. I was 18 when we had our major falling out. There's no reason to dwell on the negative here, other than to make clear she passed in September of 2001. The last time I saw her was as a sophomore in HS when I went to visit her in Alaska. On the day I was to return home to Tulsa, she began to tear up and claimed she felt it was the last time she was going to see me. Hindsight, of course.
Irene was a dreamer, she fancied herself as a gypsy, even if it meant laying important things to the wayside. If she had an inclination strike her, she wasn't one to argue. She picked up and went. For the most part of my childhood, she was there, so I knew her differently than a lot of people. I wouldn't say better, not now anyway. Once I would have, but age and maturity open your eyes over the years. Being that she did pick up and go and lived in more states than I'm even aware of, Irene was an ever changing butterfly. She fostered dreams in others, too. I remember being a kid and giving her a dandelion to make a wish. She wished I would be a doctor. I think that was because she just wanted me to be successful and secure. But no kid listens to their parents. Later, when I started writing with regularity, she was very supportive, gave me pointers, helped me along, introduced me to an editor of a local magazine and a writer friend of hers who I then corresponded with for a few years.
I write because I can. I hope I'm even good at it. But I also write thanks to my mother. Yesterday, and today, and tomorrow I'm sure, I've been working on a story I intend to sell. Not my novel, not yet, that's still growing, but I would like to get my name back out there. I do this because I like it, but every word I put to paper is, again, thanks to my mother's support, and therefore a continuation of her spirit.
So, wherever you are, Irene, I hope you're celebrating your Earthly birthday with a bright smile and awesome company.
Irene was a dreamer, she fancied herself as a gypsy, even if it meant laying important things to the wayside. If she had an inclination strike her, she wasn't one to argue. She picked up and went. For the most part of my childhood, she was there, so I knew her differently than a lot of people. I wouldn't say better, not now anyway. Once I would have, but age and maturity open your eyes over the years. Being that she did pick up and go and lived in more states than I'm even aware of, Irene was an ever changing butterfly. She fostered dreams in others, too. I remember being a kid and giving her a dandelion to make a wish. She wished I would be a doctor. I think that was because she just wanted me to be successful and secure. But no kid listens to their parents. Later, when I started writing with regularity, she was very supportive, gave me pointers, helped me along, introduced me to an editor of a local magazine and a writer friend of hers who I then corresponded with for a few years.
I write because I can. I hope I'm even good at it. But I also write thanks to my mother. Yesterday, and today, and tomorrow I'm sure, I've been working on a story I intend to sell. Not my novel, not yet, that's still growing, but I would like to get my name back out there. I do this because I like it, but every word I put to paper is, again, thanks to my mother's support, and therefore a continuation of her spirit.
So, wherever you are, Irene, I hope you're celebrating your Earthly birthday with a bright smile and awesome company.
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