Thirty years ago, I was a single mom with the extremely unglamorous job of selling sandwiches door to door in office buildings on Sunset Boulevard. Some of these stops were talent agencies. It was mortifying to be rolling my sandwich cart into the trendy rooms where talent agents were working the phones on behalf of their clients, even though I’d stopped acting when I had my daughter Sophie.
Although I have written ANGEL LADY, our film about a glitch on a TV that may or may ot be a Angel, and hosted for almost five years the HOW TO CONNECT WITH ANGELS podcast, I personally have never encountered one.
Until last Saturday around 2:45 pm CST.
I suggest going to bed earlier as a solid guarantee that you’ll wake up feeling better and more hopeful about Life. It’s obvious that folks everywhere are drained by the horrendous events we’ve endured. Also, drink half your weight in ounces of water. Yet, despite extra rest and hydration, there are lots of days when I’m reluctant to put my feet on the floor.
I lost my Dad when I was in my early twenties. He was only 50 years old when he died of a massive heart attack. I was devastated. He would never walk me down the aisle, never hold his grandchildren. I would never, ever see him again. A huge void yawned before me.
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.