Category Archives: Family

My very first lessons in gardening came from my father. More than a book or any actual experience in the world, my Dad is the one who taught me how to begin. It didn’t start with the plants themselves, it started with the earth: the land and the dirt beneath our feet. Before we even thought of heading out to the garden center to procure any living items, Dad showed me to prepare the bed for planting. 

Tilling and toiling over his vegetable plot, he worked the soil skillfully, painstakingly removing every stone or unwanted piece of detritus, until it could be raked through cleanly. He turned over the top layer of upstate dirt into something of deep richness, making the hospitable space for roots to take hold and flourish. He dug in manure and fertilizer, showing me how to enrich the ground and prepare the proper home for good root growth. I learned patience there and then, and the importance of preparation.

By the time it came to actually planting, much of the hard work had been done. What came next was the careful process of planting, and how it differs from plant to plant. He taught me the technical things specific to tomatoes, like how to plant a tomato’s stripped stem sideways in the ground so more roots would grow and it would have a stable structure. He taught me to pinch out early side shoots, allowing the plant to focus its energy upward. He taught me to carefully tie a tender young stem to the support it needed early in its journey, and then to release it when it could stand on its own. Later in the season, he would show me when and how to harvest the ripened results, twisting them off and leaving them on the sunny windowsill of the garage until perfectly red. 

I would take these lessons and apply them to our flower beds – vegetables weren’t as pretty or frivolous as flowers – as that’s where my interest resided. I didn’t see it then, and maybe he didn’t either, but he was actually carving out a way of showing me how to survive in the world. Not in any literal way of feeding myself with homegrown vegetables, but in teaching me that the path to anything good and worthy was in working slowly in service of the end goal. I learned not to hurry things, to take my time and invest diligence and care in every endeavor, being patient and careful, and properly preparing without rush or haste. 

When fall and winter came, the tomato patch wilted and crumbled and fell back into the earth. The wire supports stood forlornly bare, the remaining metal exoskeletons of what they once held high against a summer sky. And every spring, Dad would clear the plot, begin the soil preparation, and start all over again – a circle of life that generations had done before him. 

Yesterday would have been my Dad’s 93^rdbirthday. He came up just short of that milestone, but we honored him with a Filipino dinner last night. It’s a small consolation, but a consolation it is, and it reminds me how he is still here in some way – in spirit, in laughter, in memories, in food, and in family. Our year of marking firsts without Dad has begun – first with my birthday, and now with his – and I’m finding comfort in still celebrating these dates. It brings him back to us, in a strange way. I thought I would be sad or upset by it, and there is an element of missing him that pervades these days, but mostly I’m happy for the reminder of him. Missing him is tangible evidence that his spirit remains strong, that his presence hasn’t dissipated. It’s strange the way some pain provides proof of significance and import – an emotional badge of honor that indicates love was here – and more importantly that love is still here. 

In some ways, our little celebration didn’t differ from the usual dinner gatherings we had for him – my Dad was never one for gifts or hoopla or celebrating one’s birthday with bombast or excitement, and he’d have been the first one to escape from such attention immediately after dinner was finished. He didn’t even need his favored lemon meringue pie – sometimes I felt he was humoring us more than himself during birthdays and holidays, and the older I get the more I think I understand his ways. 

And so our year of firsts continues. Slowly, and a little unsurely, we are finding our way. 

Back in the fall of 1995, my father graciously gave me the go-ahead to find a place to live in Boston – something that would suit me while finishing out college and beginning whatever line of work I would begin, and which would also serve as a landing space for when the family visited the city. Within days, I had set up visits with a real estate agent, and within a couple of weeks we’d located our current place on Braddock Park. 

Because of that, Dad had always been the impetus and charge behind me finding my home there, and I remember him visiting once when I was working at John Hancock, when we stayed in the condo and had a weekend together. Of course he was present for when Andy and I got married in the Boston Public Garden, and told everyone of how I had found the condo for them as soon as I get off the phone from him giving me the go-ahead. That was the last time I was in Boston with him, and I’m so grateful we have that happy memory. As I readied to return to the city for the first time since his death, I wondered if I would still feel that connection. 

For Labor Day weekend, I had promised to take the twins to Boston, and it felt right to have them with me – they are in ways both literal and figurative the seamless continuation of my father – his blood runs through their veins and the memories of their childhood carry him through to this day. They also provided a happy distraction for me: it’s impossible to keep an eye on two thirteen-year-olds who more often than not are going in different directions, and still be pre-occupied with missing my Dad. On our first night, we went to bed fully spent and exhausted from a day of walking. 

In the early hours of the morning, right before I woke up, I had a dream.

I was at my parents’ old house while my Mom was out. On the side porch, an early Christmas present had arrived for me – flowers and a Betty Buckley doll – the random and bizarre details that let us know it was only a dream. Slightly confused about the gift, I left it there so Mom could think that I was still surprised. I went back inside and heard someone in the downstairs bathroom.

Looking in, I saw two people – one facing me and one with his back to me. The man facing me was my father, in his much younger years – hair entirely black and brushed back in his usual style, and without the glasses that would become a mainstay later on. He was talking intently but happily with a gray-haired man whose back was still to me, until he turned around and I saw that it was an older version of my Dad, the way we knew him as adults. 

I rushed in, confused but happy that somehow he had returned. I started crying immediately, and reached my arms around both of them. And then something that has only happened to me once in all my life occurred again in what I then fully understood to be a dream: I physically felt his arms around me. He held me there as I sobbed.

My crying was messy now, and I was hysterically trying to tell him how much we missed him and loved him. Still, I felt his arms enclosed around me, tangibly and physically embracing me and somehow letting me know that he was here. I asked him to please watch over us, especially Mom, and kept crying. 

It must have been my wailing that woke me up. I felt for my face, rubbing the actual tears away. Through my hazy, tear-stained vision, I saw a double figure move off into the distance like some floater that sometimes moves across one’s gaze. At first I was devastated by the realization that it was only a dream, and then I was comforted by my Dad’s arms around me, still here in his own way, still loving me, still silently supporting us and letting us know he was ok. 

This was my first trip back to Boston since Dad died, and I had been unsure if I would feel him there. While he was integral in purchasing our condo and he visited a handful of times, I only have those few memories of him being there with us. Yet on this first night back, this is where he chose to visit me. A sign that this was still home. 

On the morning that we were set to depart, Emi called me over to the window. A cardinal had landed in the tree in front of the condo. I watched its scarlet feathers as she remarked that Lolo was visiting. Smiling softly, I knew that he already had. 

I drive over the back roads of Amsterdam and Fort Plain and Perth, unsure of where precisely I am, following a road that my father once stopped at to show us ducks at a little pond after breakfast at Windsor’s restaurant. The pond is still there, and there is a sign near the road that says ‘Duck Crossing’ with a family of ducks pictured on it. Dad used to bring us here on Sunday mornings to look at the birds, knowing how they would fascinate me. Slowing the car, I see that there is a swan and several ducks still there – different animals, obviously, than the ones I saw four decades ago, but the scene is the same, and I go back in time to be next to my father again. 

Before heading home to Albany, I drive out past the Thruway exit into Florida, past more farmland, past the veterinarian where our first dog, who belonged to Dad before Mom or Paul or I arrived, was given shots and finally put to sleep. It’s still an animal clinic. The afternoon sun is low in the sky, lending a rosy warmth to its light – the most beautiful times of its journey bracketing the day. 

For some reason, these roads and this land always felt more like Dad to me than his birthplace in the Philippines. He certainly spent many more years here, though I understood that the formative years of youth sometimes supplant time and distance. Seeking any way to be close to him again, I drive along the roads he once drove along, trying to feel my way into his previous life, trying to feel my way back to him. 

A wild turkey flies over the road in front of me, landing in a cornfield. Its wings and feathers are beautiful in the evening sunlight – browns and creams, ribbed with power and might. I wonder what my father saw on his early trips here. What did he find that might make it seem like home? A job and career, sure, but that could happen anywhere if one looked. How did he know this would make such a good home for us?

I remember my first and only trip to the Philippines, and the way I tried to find my father there in the landscape and streets and people. There was reverent talk of him by his relatives, and whispers of admiration almost tinged with awe, all glowing. He was my protection and talisman against injury even in his absence. My Uncle left me mostly on my own on that trip, but family took me in and showed me around. I understood Dad just a little better then, had seen where he was born and grew up, and compared it with where we grew up. Children wouldn’t have noticed enough of a difference to be bothered by it, but maybe it’s easier to say that from my privileged side of things. 

In upstate NY, the roads feel like my father to me. A mystery imbued each, as I didn’t know where they led, or what secrets they had hidden in the expanses of corn or leaves or forest or streams that meandered by their side. It was all beautiful though, and it would be beautiful even when the desolation of winter arrived. Did he stay here because of beauty? 

My brother and I are now roughly the age my Dad was when he had us. I cannot imagine the idea of having a baby at this point in my life, though my brother has just done that, forming a perfect little continuation of Ilagan lineage. Time becomes tricky when you lose someone – tricky in ways that can be both troublesome and comforting. The older I got, the more I could understand and relate to my Dad – and it’s one of the greatest gifts in my life that we grew ever closer as we each grew ever older. There was still more to do, but there would have always been more to do. It only ends in small part now. At least I tell myself that, to make it easier, to make it bearable. 

Winding back along the fields nearing their harvest, I drive through my tears, watering the memory of my father, paying tribute to the beautiful life he gave to us, searching out some meaning in missing him, and grateful for the grief, grateful for the love. It was still there between us, still there in the sublime evening light. 

Dear Dad –

When I was very little, you used to peel grapes for me. Maybe you remembered how sour the skin tasted when you were a kid, or maybe you just preferred them skinless yourself – whatever the reason, you would peel them and give them to me as we sat on the couch together watching television. At the time, I just remember how lovely it was to be next to you, and to taste the extra-sweet grapes shorn of their tart wrapping. Only now, decades later, do I feel how much love and care there was in this little act. And that’s how so much of my childhood went with you. Little, quiet acts of love that made me and Paul and Mom aware of your affection for us.  

When I was in first grade, I used to get homesick in the few hours I had to be at school. Looking back, it was probably the first signs of social anxiety, coupled with whatever separation anxiety I was feeling. Mostly I missed you and Mom, and I simply felt lost without you. When it got bad, the tears would well in my eyes, and I would look up at the fluorescent lights, opening my eyes wide and hoping that would dry them faster. As long as they didn’t start falling, I thought I would be ok. 

Some days proved too much, and I would have to go to the nurse and be sent home. On one of these days, you had to get me in between your hospital cases, then bring me with you to St. Mary’s while you went in for an operation. I sat in a wood-paneled room while one of the nuns talked to me a little to try to figure out what was wrong. It wasn’t something I could put into words – I just needed to be close to you and Mom. You came back and brought me home, explaining the importance of going to school, and though you were stern, you also managed to comfort me. You could tell I was scared, and as much as you worked to toughen me up, you somehow did it with kindness and care.

You were also our protector. I remember the night we returned from OTB or work while Mom was at school, and the door to the house was unlocked and slightly ajar. You told us to stay close to you while you took a knife from the kitchen, shushed our immediate and persistent questions, then rushed us back out when you thought someone might be in the house. We stuck close while walking around the corner of the house in the near darkness… feeling a slight tinge of worry, and then the reassurance of you in front of us. 

And I remember the front of the house, and you trying to hang Christmas lights – our very first string at the tail end of the 1970’s, the kind with the big hot bulbs that modern technology could never quite touch or replicate. It was always an ordeal, untangling and finding which ones weren’t working, but in the end they always ended up perfectly hung and displayed for the season. It was not an ordeal without swearing and frustration, and neither was the opening of the pool every year, back when you did it yourself with our hapless help. The memories now feel happy and sweet, and our own frustration and misunderstanding falls away. 

There is also the joyous memory of you going swimming with us – once a year, for Father’s Day usually – and it made those days that much more special. Even during family vacations, we couldn’t always get you on the beach, but every once in a while you’d come down with your hat and sunglasses and a paper in your hand. That’s the way you were in our childhood – a source of consistency and support, if often unseen. Most fathers are a mystery, and you were no different. 

When your parents died, you went back to the Philippines for the services, and I remember being so scared that your plane would crash that I couldn’t concentrate on anything. Losing you or Mom has been my primal fear since I was cognizant. There was a day when Paul wanted you to go bowling but you complained that your arm hurt. You took him anyway, and I spent the entire afternoon certain that you were about to have a heart attack. I never told you that because it seemed so silly. 

You told us a few stories from your childhood in the Philippines, most of which were designed to make us behave and be grateful for what we had here, but so much of it remains shrouded in mystery. When I went there for the first time with Uncle Roberto, I saw the places and life you were talking about, and I understood a little better. Still, I wonder what you felt there, whether you missed it ever, and what it might mean to you all these years later. It wasn’t your way to talk so directly, so we never found out. 

We learned not to need your direct engagement, but we always wanted you there. In so many ways, you were our foundation – quietly strong, consistently supportive, even if not outwardly demonstrative. And somehow, we never doubted your love, because it was there always, in all other ways. 

I called you once from my first semester at college, and you must have sensed the desperation in my voice. I only needed to hear you or Mom talk for a bit to get myself together, but you asked very earnestly if I wanted to come home. You’d gone to schools on your own in entirely different countries halfway around the world from your home – you knew how lonely it could get, you knew how soul-crushing is might feel, and you offered comfort. Somehow I knew if I said yes I’d never grow up, and it was enough to know you had given me that option. 

A couple years later I’d come down with mono and frantically call you and Mom from my dorm room because I knew something wasn’t right. After making it to the infirmary and passing out, I woke up the next day to see the both of you at the foot of my bed, and even in my confusion I felt your concern and love. You drove three hours because you knew I’d been calling. 

At every family event and gathering – wedding or anniversary or funeral – you would be my safe person – the one I could count on to share a moment in silence, or laughter, or complaint, and you made me feel ok and less anxious. Just by being there. 

For my whole life, you’ve been that silent supporter – sometimes literally shoving cash in my hand after you won big at OTB, and sometimes in ways more vast and substantial. Throughout it all, we never doubted your love, and that love saw me through whatever difficulty I was facing. That’s what the very best fathers provide, and for me you will always be the best father. 

This is a goodbye for now, but more than that a letter of thanks – for all the love you have given me over the years, even when I didn’t always deserve it. You respected me in the same way that I respected you, and I always felt it. We have been lucky to have you in our lives for this long – and 92 years on earth is an amazing achievement.

I am going to miss you, Dad. It feels like you’ve been slipping away for a long time, that we’ve been saying good-bye for several years, but there was always the chance you would be your old self, and every once in a while your smile would come back, your focus would return, and the glint in your eye would catch mine like I was a little kid again. We won’t get to see that anymore, but you’ve put in a long stretch here, and it’s ok for you to let go of the work. You have fought hard and well, perhaps in an effort to be here for us, knowing how difficult it would be for us to let you go. We will always love you for that, and for everything you have given to us, but it’s time for you to relax, and you’ve earned the right to a rest. 

I love you, Dad.

~ For my father ~ Dr. Emiliano Ilagan (1930 ~ 2023)

Dear Jaxon – 

How fitting that in the days leading up to your first birthday you were valiantly beginning the first efforts at walking. You can stand up on your own without any assistance, and you are unmatched in crawling speed. Walking is a just a step or two away – and there is happiness and excitement and hope in that. We need all those things right now. 

You’ve come quite a long way in your first year on earth. Some philosophical fool once bestowed the following message upon our hapless souls: “May you live in interesting times.” Personally, I hope the times get a little less interesting for your journey. There will be drama and interest through your own machinations alone, and I will be here for it every step of the way.

For the sake of posterity, I will put down here how difficult it was to find a formula that worked for you, and for a few months you gave us all some concern when you wouldn’t gain the weight of a typical baby. You’ve pretty much caught up since then, and I simply take that to mean you are taking after your old Uncle Al, who sometimes takes his time in getting things too. Don’t let anyone rush or push you until you are ready. There will be more than enough time to astound and delight. 

Beyond that, you’ve been a joy – a happy baby who deigned to be held by your Uncles at the dinner table, or babysat by Lola, or doted on by your Mom and Dad, or even, on occasion, bounced about by your older brother and sister. In other words, you’ve become an indelible and beloved member of the family. You will hear it many times over, and it will still never be said enough: you are loved. 

For my small part as your Godfather, I will do my best to guide and protect you. There is so much ahead of you – and as all the world unfurls before your eyes I have a feeling you will come to be my guide as well. Happy 1st birthday, my little Jaxon Layne. We love you. 

There is often a key event in the onset of dementia or Alzheimer’s that clues an onlooker in to the insidious arrival of one of life’s more debilitating conditions. It isn’t always seen until looking back, and it’s often the simplest and smallest of events. Sometimes it is a misplaced item, a key object that has never gone missing before and is suddenly found in the most unlikely of places – car keys in the freezer, socks in the desk drawer, an orange in the medicine cabinet. Sometimes it’s a sentence or phrase that makes no sense, has no relatable context in the conversation, one that forced the listener to pause and check their own hearing and perception because who knows who is losing their faculties first? 

The first time I noticed a tangible change in my Dad was five or six years ago. It was a beautiful summer evening, and I’d driven to Amsterdam to drop off something for Mom. She was out somewhere, so I rang the doorbell to Dad wouldn’t be surprised when I walked in. Through the glass door, I could see him walking toward me, with a puzzled look on his face. As my visit was unannounced and unexpected, I first thought that was the reason for his confusion. 

His gaze was usually sharp, keen and intently analytical when he focused on something. That night his face held a hazy and somewhat quizzical smile, and for a while I wasn’t sure he knew who I was. It was a large and dramatic leap to make, especially as this was the first time I ever noticed it, but looking back I see it was the beginning of the slow but steady debilitation – the long decline had begun. It pained me more to think maybe it was the first hint of him not knowing who he was, and rather than scare me he fixed a weak smile on his face and let me into the house. 

His gaze would return to its sharp stance the next time I saw him, and stay there for a year or two. But it had begun, and slowly the eyes grew gray and faded, losing their focus, losing their recognition, losing the joy we once might have elicited from him. 

That first day it happened I think was the hardest. That’s when the grieving for me began, and in the following years it has been a slow and constant grieving, a sorrow I fight against in finding little bits of hope that grow ever more scarce and elusive. 

It is the longest goodbye yet it comes with the danger of not having the closure that most endings have. There will likely not be a goodbye of recognizance, at least not one that will be transmitted to those of us left behind. Maybe that’s for the better, maybe that removes the sadness of the occasion for the person transitioning. I don’t know – this is well beyond me, and it will always be beyond me. 

As the years progressed, and the days grew dimmer, the space and the world that Dad occupied grew ever-smaller. Before, he had the run of the world – his reach extended as far as his means could take him – and that was entirely around the world. Though he wasn’t big on travel, it was always possible. That was one of the first things to go, as he lost his ability to safely drive. He still had our magnificent house and yard to traverse, and someone was always on hand to bring him to wherever he needed to go.  That slowly came to an end, as his ability to make it up and down stairs decreased, limiting him to one floor, and then one room. Soon enough it will be one bed or chair. 

Worse than the physical decline was the mental deterioration. Always one of the sharpest people I’d known, Dad was never easily fooled. He saw things and voiced his take on them, not always in the kindest manner, but you always knew where he stood, and he always stood on the side of honesty and bluntness, cushioned by a keen sense of humor, ever ready to laugh at whatever nonsense his sons or the world was throwing at him. Watching those aspects drain from him may be the hardest part of seeing him get older. 

As the bad days began to outnumber the good days, and Dad was confined to a single room, I searched for glimmers of hope, any little thing that brought him slowly back to the man I once remembered. 

‘Are you in there, Dad?’ I wonder like a little boy, sometimes out loud, contemplating my own decline and wondering at my own sanity. I trust he is, even if he doesn’t say it, even if he doesn’t recognize things, even if we don’t recognize what is happening in his head. There is so much in shadow now, but I still hold onto that belief because it’s all we have. 

On Father’s Day, the only way I have of honoring him is to share this in a silly blog post, in words he will never read, in sentiments of love he may never feel, but I will never stop trying, never stop sharing how much I have admired and appreciated him, never stop loving him. 

Happy Father’s Day, Dad – I love you. 

{Fun fact: the text chat group name for me and Noah and Emi is ‘The Queen and Two Clowns.}

The Ilagan twins stayed with us for an overnight a day after Jaxon’s christening, and it was a lovely kick-off to our summer activities. Starting off in the pool (which Andy had heated to a jacuzzi-like 90 degrees) we exhausted ourselves with handstands and jumps and rating them all before heading inside for a batch of smores (via the microwave). It was the preamble to a viewing of that long-forgotten 80’s cheese-flick ‘Troop Beverly Hills’ featuring Shelley Long, which didn’t quite hold up the way I thought it did. Movies have changed since the 80’s, and kids today have a very different appreciation for pacing and storylines. The costumes were a hit, however, and that’s all that mattered. We had popcorn with Reese’s Pieces, we made ‘s’mores, and we had all the movie candy boxes we could have wanted (except for Sno-Caps). 

The next day I took them out for boba tea (because why not tempt the caffeine fates when children are about?) and we went for another swim. On the stereo, this epic version of ‘I Knew You Were Trouble’ played, and it swiftly became the anthem for all of our antics. As the three most fun people in the family (according to our own estimation) Emi said we know how to enjoy life while everyone else is too worried and careful about everything. Not sure what that says about my caretaking skills regarding children, but what the fuck ever. We had a grand time, and made plans for a summer Boston trip like the one we made last year. Not sure we can top that Boston Harbor boat ride, but we’ll try.

Any godchild of mine is preordained to cause a commotion at any given church ceremony, and as a former altar boy who was subjected to the rigors of a strict Catholic upbringing, I’m all for conjuring an unforgettable religious experience.

It was a beautiful day near the end of May on which our family had Jaxon baptized, with a strong show of sunshine, warm temperatures, and the promise of summer in the air. By all estimations he behaved remarkably well – didn’t cry at all when the water and oil went all over his head. The deacon’s behavior was another story altogether, but that’s a tale for another time, maybe when Jaxon gets confirmed, and it made for the unforgettable aspect of the day.

More than anything else, it felt like this day was a chance for Jaxon to be given his first choice at a spiritual path, offering the tenets of a Christian faith should he one day decide to keep to that road. It was a celebration of joy, and an opportunity for both sides of his family to come together. To that end, it was a resounding and happy success.

Andy expressed consternation at what I might choose to wear to the ceremony, even I understood that this was Jaxon’s day to shine, so I went with a basic linen ensemble for a summer baby, a traditional Barong Tagalog shirt worn at formal Filipino occasions, and a necklace that formed the only bit of ostentatious bling to remind Jaxon that I was still me under all the understated elegance. He’s already bringing out the best in all of us.

Dear Jaxon – 

It is reportedly the duty of a Catholic godparent to provide spiritual guidance in helping to bring up their godchild in the Catholic faith, and though this tidbit of information came to me long after I accepted the wonderful offer to be your godfather, it is not something I am taking lightly. To that end, I am gifting you a silver rosary (silver being the color associated with your birthday and sun sign) which our friend Doreen is having blessed by our local priest. I also come equipped with enough Catholic knowledge to make your head nod and fall back asleep, having been an altar boy for far too many years than most, and I’ve received the sacraments of Holy Eucharist and Confirmation, so technically we’re good. 

As for the rest of it, we will have to make that spiritual journey together. When you grow up, you may wonder at the state of the world around you. We will keep you shielded from the awfulness for as long as possible, because if you have a good, solid start, you’ll be better adept at dealing with the disappointments later on. As you grow up, you may question how God would let terrible things happen to good people, and you may doubt whether faith is enough to sustain a person. I will never lie to you, so I have to let you know that I still grapple with such questions, and I honestly don’t think there is one true set of answers. 

What I do know is that one’s spiritual soul is nourished and fed by those around them. To that end, you are already blessed. True, we are a flawed bunch of characters – your Godfather alone carries enough foibles and faults to trip everyone up from time to time – but our intent and love is always true, always noble. You are loved beyond what we can ever completely express, and there is God or religion or spirituality in that, as there is in all the good and beautiful things you will encounter on earth. Your journey is just beginning, and there is hope in that – the kind of hope that makes the most jaded among us believe in something. 

And so my little godson, as you begin to make your spiritual journey, surrounded and emboldened by those who love and adore you, remember that you are supported by not only your parents, but by all of us. You will come to form your own belief system, and whether that’s faith or religion or the memory of a mother’s embrace, it’s all the same magnificent stuff, cut from the same sacred cloth of love. 

The world needs more happy posts like this one, which captures our recent Mother’s Day dinner in Amsterdam, at Mom and Dad’s new digs. It was very much a family affair, proving that home is wherever the family heart beats, and it stretched from Dad in his 90’s to little Jaxon Layne who is only in his 10th month. It was Landrie’s first Mother’s Day, and it was Mom’s 47th. Here’s to many more!

From the day I was born until now, my Mom has been the person who has kept our family together and strong. These last few years have proven especially trying, and she has rallied, showing us all how a matriarch runs things with grace, steely strength, and compassion. As Dad has declined, she’s put her nursing skills to work, and she remains the reason he is still comfortably at home. For that we are all grateful. 

She’s never complained, and never asked for much, even if we’d like her to express her wishes. She’s part of a generation whose goal was service and good work in and of themselves. Both she and Dad were medical professionals who genuinely believed in taking care of others – saving lives and improving the way people lived afterward. That sort of dedication in the medical field seems to be going by the wayside. Happily, we still have it in our home. 

Reinvigorated by a new grandson, and still kept busy with her first two grandkids, she has a full plate, and somehow she is still able to take care of everyone. We appreciate her every day, and especially on this day. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you. Thank you for everything you do for our family.