Fond reminiscences about my mother

    In a few days it will be Mothers Day, and it is only natural that I have thoughts of my mother. About five years ago I finished my book on the events in my life from birth until I was 21, about growing up during the Depression, meeting a girl, falling in love, my education years, and finally when I was walking up the gang plank of a ship in New York Harbor with about three thousand other young soldiers headed for the war in Europe. The book was written for my grandchildren and was completed just in time to give a copy to each of the children and grandchildren for Christmas. The bad part was that every time I had a few chapters finished I took them to a 45-year old Illinois State University Professor’s secretary to proofread and correct. When all was completed I paid her, but soon discovered she hadn’t done a thing, telling me that she didn’t want to change anything, it was fine, and was just as if her father had written it.
    I had written about my dad throughout the book and on one of the last pages I wrote about my mother; that page is as follows:
    I have written a lot about various activities I had with my dad, and now I think it is only fitting to write about my mother. She was my mama for about seven years, then she became my mom for the next ten years, and then I finally called her Mother. My mother was the best: she was patient and caring, she was always willing to listen to her children. She was one who understood and made your problems be her problems; she always had her suggestions (call it advice, if you will) and most of all she loved her family.

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