Author of Award-Winning Originals

Writing letters to my departed mom seemed like a great idea in the Fall of 2020. I awoke one morning with a curious impulse, created a website, and drafted a note regarding my first solo Thanksgiving. Initially suspicious of pandemic inspired prose, I persisted. Writing, instead of Facebook fighting, baking misshapen confections for one, and emptying bottles of chardonnay at an alarming rate, seemed like a healthier choice. Magically, she reached out, and rekindled my love of writing after countless years of neglect.

Mom, also known as Sparkie, left this world in 2005 with a lifetime of wisdom I'll never know. And now that I've come to accept the dull ache of her loss as much as anyone can, I decided to ask the questions I never did when she was alive.  I'm not expecting any answers. Okay, I am. But I thought it would help lighten the grief load in some cathartic way. And it has. Occasionally.

As for me, I’m one of six children in the middle of the pack that includes two sisters and three brothers. Mom had three children (including me) with her high school sweetheart, divorced, and married my beloved stepfather, and had three more children. Yes, three-more-children. I’m the oldest daughter, and now make my home in Western North Carolina, along with storage containers bulging with family photos and memorabilia decaying in heartbreaking humidity. One of six keepers of the family archives, sharing embarrassing secrets that may help, amuse, or induce nausea.

So, I share with you my mom, the Big Cheese, Big Kahuna, Department Head, who co-created our tribe, but passed away long before I was wise enough to take notes. But writing to her and imagining her response is a surprising comfort, even when I'm wreaking havoc with one of her beloved recipes or considering world peace.