A little wistful, it hardly seems possible but my mum died a year ago today. Life has changed so much for me since then, in very good ways, but she’s constantly in my thoughts– especially so while Joe’s been here. So much of her day-to-day life was wrapped up in ours and the years are full of memories. She loved the driving trips from California to Washington. Always the trouper, she’d sit in the back seat happily watching the scenery, flask of tea at her feet. She particularly liked it when we stopped for carry-out pizza to eat on the way and complained far less than I about Joe’s driving and his reluctance to stop for anything once we were underway. While Joe’s been here, we’ve reminisced a lot about about Dotty stories. The memorable restaurant scene when someone had the nerve to serve her fish and chips with waffle cut fries instead of real chips, her semi-serious claim that Joe made a habit of stealing her cheese, but also the bottle of Drambuie she’d give him every Christmas.
It’s still hard to believe she’s gone.
And tomorrow–after a great month of seeing France, and a bit of Spain (more about all that in a future blog) and far too much eating and drinking– Joe returns to the States. A month ago it seemed as though we had so much time, but the days and weeks have flown by. So, a little sad today, but we’re going to have a good Sunday lunch. I’ve got a pork roast . . . in the toaster oven, that tells you something about the size of my apartment . . . and am cooking some cabbage, the dark green crinkly kind that my mum cooked when I was growing up in Ramsgate. Just now, I lifted the lid and caught the smells (good ones) of my childhood. No Yorkshire pudding, I’ll leave that to Carolyn when she arrives in a few weeks and makes Xmas dinner. We’ll also open a bottle of port. If we had the Drambuie, we’d raise a glass of that instead. Cheers, Mum. We love you.