Thinking about my Mom

These days it seems that memories which had been long stored away in the files of my mind have been making their way to the present with flashes so clear they could have been created yesterday.

The latest brings me back to a time when I was barely taller than the hem of my mother’s blue taffeta skirt.  Considering my mother never measured more than five feet two inches tall, and the hemlines at that time were mid-calf you can assume my age was most likely tallied in months rather than years.

I loved that dress.  My mom, who to me was so very tall, wore this dress for special days.  On this particular day before she went out with friends, we, Mom, my older brother and baby sister,


all sat to be photographed by my uncle.  He was an amateur photography and thanks to him and the dark-room he created in the bathroom we were blessed with a great many photographs and portraits of our early years.

Mom’s dress was a blue moire with a full skirt beneath which she wore petticoats which made the skirt move and swish as she walked.  That swish fascinated me along with the watery appearance of the fabric. One of those simple things that made up my special memories of my mom.

She was only twenty-seven years of age, and even now when I see the tiny white-haired woman of 93, I still see her as she was back then…. young, vibrant, and beautiful.


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