Just When You Thought I'd Fallen From The Face Of The Earth...

It seems that I share a birthday with England's Queen Mother, Louis Armstrong and President Obama. My accomplishments as a mere mortal pale in the presence of these luminaries, however, I can happily report being alive, educated, a decent friend, concerned citizen, reasonably well travelled, an avid reader, bilingual, an animal lover and a fan of football as it is played outside the US.

While you might think that being alive is no great feat, in my case, it was. My then not quite twenty-one-year-old mother was told shortly after my early arrival to prepare for my demise. Instead, she waited until I gained enough weight, took me home, divorced her disaster of a husband, and got us both back to the security of her parents' home across the world in Central America. They worked for the US government abroad, and in growing up there, I became what is called a Third Culture Kid. Those of you who are interested can Google the term.

 Long before I heard those words, I knew how to hold my own in a conversation with anyone, had a broader view of the world and silently wished the notion of borders did not exist. I have always felt vaguely like I did not belong here, despite my birth certificate and citizenship. This has not improved with time.

Today, I worry for neighbours and friends who have lost work or face retirement in uncertain times. I think the leaders in both major parties are out of touch with average citizens' concerns and are not doing enough to make our lives liveable here. They also put too much effort in rhetoric and political agendas and not enough in reforms that make sense for everyone.

At almost 52, my life is not what I thought it would be nor is it what was planned. That said, it is still very worthwhile, and I must decide what the second half will contain, no easy feat.

Until Next Time...

A Birthday: November 10, 1938

If she were still amongst the living, my mother would be seventy-two today. The photo here was taken in the mid-sixties, in her twenties. I would have been about seven or so.

A complicated woman, she was the first person I ever knew who could stop traffic, holding herself bolt upright amid cheers, catcalls and other exclamations. She could alternately curse like a sailor or hold her own with the most cultured, and she placed high value on manners.

Her eyes were a blue green that darkened with her mood, and when her eyebrow was raised without a smile beneath it, I learned to beware as a storm of anger could quickly ensue.

She endured much, including an early divorce, the death of a child and being a single, working parent before that became commonplace. My stepfather, whom she married at thirty, was the love of her life.

Widowed without warning at forty-two, I watched as her life imploded, never to be the same.

We were both like gathering storms, two forces of nature determined to have our own way. She loved but did not understand me, and I understood but sometimes failed, to appreciate her.

She was the first person in her family to attend university, an opportunity she was more than happy to extend to me, and one of which she was most proud.

Sarcastic, funny, irreverant and often surprising, she walked with her head up, rarely bowing to sorrow in public, a trait we both share.

She died at 59 of cancer. Her name was Sarah.