"All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother"
Abraham Lincoln
Today, 14 years ago, my mother died. Her name was Joyce Ballard Bostwick, she was 59, a native Texan who was born in the western part of that state, a mother of two daughters, wife of the same husband for nearly forty years, devoted Christian friend to many. She had a terrific wit and even though she often struggled with depression, she never failed to think of those around her.
She wasn't perfect, and she would admit that. As a mother, she was often hard to please, but part of that was because her own mother had been impossible to please. She was one of the smartest women I've ever known, was a registered nurse with her Master's Degree. She loved her family and her dogs, and there were many over the years, Willie Nelson and antique shops. She instilled, finally, in me the understanding that remaining true to your "raisin'" was one of the most important things in life. She always said to me, "Sissy, when you sell your first novel, we will do that..." No matter what that was....she believed in me as a writer and, after our two boys were born, she told me, "You are a good mama" and that meant more to me than anything else.
I was 37 when she died. I was devastated and spent the first 6 months feeling as if I loved under water. I moved through life like a robot, our boys were just 2 and 5, so maybe they didn't notice too much. Part of me, that part of the mind that protects the rest of us, could say, "the next time we are in Texas, Mama will be home...."
She died two years before the birth of her only granddaughter, the baby girl she had longed for...none of her grandchildren had red hair, like her own Daddy did, although she would look at their little cue-ball heads and say, "come on, I know you have it in you."
She supported me when my first husband turned out to be just the kind of man she said he was....and she said, "I told you so," but I guess she had earned that. She gave people second chances, after that it was not so easy....
She didn't live to know many of the things I am not so happy to admit, she didn't know I would become addicted to narcotics and alcohol, something I believe I started abusing after her death, to put a haze on life's reality. She didn't have to endure many surgeries I went through, or a very difficult last pregnancy, or the loss of three other babies we were expecting.
From her, I hope I found some of the strength I have now, strength to struggle everyday to stay sober, today is nearly 6 months clean, strength to imagine the rest of my life without her, strength to go on even when life seems too hard to navigate.
And, from her, I also got much of her enthusiam about life, her crazy sense of humor, her delight at the first bluebonnets in Texas each Spring, her joy in the lives of our children, her grandchildren.
My Mama died 14 years ago today, March 21, 1994.
In many ways, in the best ways, she is still right here.
I will see you again one day, Mama.
