Mom died on June 30th, 2018 at the age of 97 years. She would be 99 years old today. It is a bittersweet anniversary for me. It is remarkable as to how many lives she touched over the years. Gracious, well-mannered (as kids we didn’t have the “Golden Books” for stories that other kids had, we had books on manners and how to eat at the dinner table), intelligent, loving, and a wee bit anal compulsive (she has the cleanest dirt on the block), she was the perfect companion for my dad.
As my hair has been growing longer over these Covid-19 days, I was fondly remembering the time when I was in college, when I started wearing denim shirts, blue jeans, boots, grew a moustache, and grew my hair longer that she accused me of being a hippie. I told her there was a little more to being a hippie than wearing boots, denim shirts, blue jeans, growing a mustache, and growing my hair longer. I, of course, didn’t tell her I was smoking pot every now and again (I am a musician after all, and I had to maintain the tradition of many American musicians including Louie Armstrong, Gene Krupa, and other musicians). She thought I cleaned up considerably after I married Ruthie, and started my career as an educator.
Day after day, I see within myself the great influence that she and Dad had on me in my life (even if I inherited the recessive Swedish genes that have attacked my joints … according to my Irish Aunt Mary). I am forever thankful to this wonderful woman and celebrate this anniversary of her birth with great joy.
Below is one of my first piano compositions that I gave to my mom on her birthday in 1972. Happy birthday, Mom!
