"It's never too early nor too late to reach for your dreams...
but it's always too late to quit."
"It's never too early nor too late to reach for your dreams...
but it's always too late to quit."
“Why? Why would they do this to people?” I was on the phone with my sister Karen. It was a bitter cold January afternoon in 2005.
I was still in our nation’s Capitol, attending a conference, a sharing of the evidence around the contested 2004 presidential election that was decided in my home state of Ohio on November 2.
Just as our mama Sylvia was a clothes horse, she was also an ardent correspondent. Receiving a stamped envelope, address handwritten, a card with a landscape or a silly cat, graced with a few thoughtful words, was a “big boost” to her day.
Something has occurred to me. As I have mentioned before, our mother was timid. And shy. In groups of more than two, her stories and jokes were as wobbly as her confidence.
Those of you who met my mother, or saw her photos online, would all agree that Sylvia Myers Willoughby was a determinedly fashionable woman. In the rehab hospital, healing a cracked pelvis at 88, mama (pronounced as in “Downtown Abbey” with emphasis on the second syllable) chose her outfits carefully and always added accessories.
I am here to disperse my mother’s final remains on paper. In the few short weeks after her death, I have unearthed a small mountain of cards she stored away – received from family and friends.
So picture my dear mama (emphasis on the second syllable – as elocuted in Downton Abbey) Sylvia Myers Willoughby, age around 88, sitting comfortably in a corner of this settee, crime novel in hand. It’s cocktail time at the Lake, which invariably involves gin and tonics and a tray of sharp, sweating Vermont cheddar perched atop Triscuits.
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