Today would have been my Mother’s 90th birthday. She passed away October 1st.
Birthdays have always meant a family gathering. Last year we celebrated her birthday at the farm. This year we won’t.
Her arthritis made it difficult to climb the front stairs to get into the house and her poor vision made it difficult to see the house once she was inside, but she loved her visits here anyway. She saw the house before we started the renovations. She could see the potential, but as mothers do – she worried. She worried about how this would ever come together, worried if we knew what we were doing, worried where we would live while the house was being renovated, worried about how we would manage to move everything, worried, worried, worried.
We moved into the farm last October. Our first family get-together was for her 89th birthday. She was happy to see it finished, but still worried. She worried how we were going to keep up with the property, she worried about the big trees that line the driveway, she worried about the poison ivy that seems to find me if I even look at from afar, she worried how we would manage when it snowed.
Despite her worries, she liked hearing about the garden and the birds at the feeder and the deer that roam through on a regular basis. She liked to know about her great-granddaughter collecting the chicken eggs, and how, try as she might – she can never catch Fiona the goat. Mostly she liked knowing that this is our home.