My Mother, My friend.

It was the weekend before Thanksgiving break. What a pleasure it was to talk to my Mom on the phone long distance from the University of Arizona. Our relationship was different now. She was no longer that tough lady that cared for five children all day, cooking and cleaning and waking before the sun was up to make sure we had breakfast. She was my friend, a woman, just like me, with real life fears and dreams and a sensuality of all her own.

At 61 years of age, she still could walk in four inch heels, chest out, back straight and could still turn a few heads around town. Her long red nails and bright red lipstick and self-confidence fascinated me. All of these things, but what she did best was being a Mother and a Grandmother. She always had something cooking on the stove and always had enough to serve who ever came to visit. Beds were always made, floors were always clean, walls were never dirty and somehow there were never dirty dishes in the sink. In fact, there were never dishes drying in the sink. We didn't have a dishwasher. How did she do that?

She cut our conversation short that Saturday afternoon. She said, "I think I ate a bad sandwich from Safeway yesterday. I need to go Patsy. You save your gas money for Thanksgiving on Thursday. You don't worry about coming home this weekend." I took her advice but something was pulling hard at my heart. Yet, I stayed in Tucson and studied.