MOM in memory

When I was a little kid.
Old enough to walk to school.
With an older, by one or two years, brother.
We did just that.
To school.

When the rain fell down.
Soaking us to the bones.
My mom would warm up the big ‘ol car.
Some kind of giant machine.
And she would gather us up.
All our things.
Load them in the car.
And drive us.
To our school.
Keeping us nice and dry.

On some of those days.
My mom would pull over.
At the bus stop.
And ask the kids standing there.
Soaking to the bones.
If they’d like a ride.
To school.
Instead of waiting for the bus.

Yes they did.
Want a lift.
So they’d jump into our car.
Our big ‘ol car.
And my mom would drop us all off.
At the curb.
In front of our school.
Ready to learn.
Instead of worrying about how cold we were.

My mom made those days easier.
For me.
For my brother.
And for the other kids who wanted a ride.


When I was a kid, a little girl, I was surrounded by 9 boys and another girl. My siblings. There are so many things about being raised in a family full of boys that, I believe, crafted the way I think, feel, see the world,

and dress.


You see, I prefer to wear jeans and t-shirts, anything boy-like, which frankly, I believe stems from diving into a pile of clothing laid out in an unorganized way on the floor. The California cool, laid-back pile of garb was an offer, a gift, or (what my mind didn’t consider until years later), most likely charity from an aunt who may have assumed my parents needed help in outfitting us kids.

Interestingly, and another thing I didn’t consider back in the ’70s, was that the casual wear was made to fit the boys, not us (two) girls. And, I’m guessing here, but I don’t think my sister was interested.


Heck yeah!

For real.

I sure didn’t care that they didn’t fit correctly.

I was in love.

I was only 10 or so, and anything new, and wearable worked for me, regardless of who those pants and shirts were meant for. Sign me up. I wanted a piece of the action. I had to have at least one pair of those Levi’s and one Hanes crew-neck. So, I saw the pile of blue and white as a free-for-all,

and in I dove.

Somewhere, there is a picture of me, sitting on a long metal bench, squeezed in with three of my brothers, our hair long, blond, and straight. So hippie-looking. Especially with the bell-bottom jeans and the plain ‘ol white t-shirts.

I’ve never given up on that style

and you can only imagine my joy when the world caught up with my thinking (and better yet, added stretch! to the garment) and began buying piles of jeans to wear whenever, wherever, however.

All. The. Time.