To my nifty-keen mom, on her birthday.

I'm sitting here in front of the computer, sipping my hot, bubbling wellness drink in hopes that the cold that decided to insinuate itself into the deep recesses of my sinuses a few nights ago is alleviated so I can think clearly without all the cotton balls in my head.  My nose itches; Mom would say a crinchy (yes, crinchy) nose meant you were going to receive money soon.  That would be pretty swell, methinks.  I'm open to that flow of energy bubbling right up to me, like the streams that wind through the Colorado mountains, ever frothy and full of motion.

My mom would be 83 years old today; she passed in 2001 and I miss her every day.  I owe a lot to my mom, besides my height and green eyes.  For instance, there's the bevy of vintage clothing, which sparked my interest in the style genre "New Look", a.k.a. clothing from the late 40s to early 60s.  Mom's wardrobe from the 50s and 60s came mostly from a shop called "Tall Gal", a division of Lane Bryant.  Mom was very stylish; just look at the photo above.  Just-so slacks and a natty little sweater.  Oh, and the dog.  That's another thing I inherited from Bea Turlow (nee Novak): a thoroughly rich interest in and appreciation of the canine.  Especially the sweet, small, loving canine that curls up in your lap.  Mom always wanted a lap dog; many of hers apparently were too rambunctious or aloof.  Luckily, her last dog, Penny, a "lemon" beagle (mostly white with a tan "penny" on her head), was a snuggle bug and fit the bill quite nicely.

So today, I wish to acknowledge my Mom (who's reading this up in heaven from the laptop she's checking in on at St. Peter's Starbucks and Angellery, while she's sipping a mocha - another gift of interest she's bestowed upon me) for her gentle humor, her cleverness, the way she peppered her language with a few phrases she learned from her Czech parents (still not sure of the etymology of "crinchy" though), how she was always my biggest fan and support, how she'd make the most superb rum balls every Christmas (I used the same recipe again, Mom - although I added double the rum this time.  I'm not sure how I feel about that), how put-together she'd look with her clip-on rhinestone aurora borealis earrings and Max Factor burgundy lipstick, and how she loved my dad and me more than anything chocolate, coffee or canine.

Mom likes to drop by at times, and often her visits come in threes.  I'm listening today for a trio of her small, quiet winks.

Love you, Mom.  Signed - your best pal.

UPDATE:  As of 4:57 this afternoon, I had a call for a likely job and two calls for possible bookings.  Sounds like a "three" to me.  Thanks, Mom.

UPDATE AGAIN:  I guess angels, since they can't receive bottles of Ralph Lauren perfume in heaven, give gifts on their birthdays.  I'd never heard this song before.  It's by Sean Lennon, about losing his dad.  31 years ago today, my Mom gave me the devastating news that John Lennon was killed.  She half-joked that I'd never be able to think of December 8 the same way again... she was right.  And all I can do right now is thank Mom yet again for having me visit Facebook just this moment to see this posted - and for hearing my words earlier, about her leaving those little "winks".    Because, as Sean sings, "The dead don't speak, they listen."