Saturday, July 31, 2010


Wayne and the girls went over to John Hauck's house to help him paint a fence, although I suspect the girls are there primarily to pet Sassy, his horse, and offer little more than distraction when it comes to actually painting. But it was blissfully quiet in the house when I got up this morning.

It's a beautiful July morning. The sun is streaming into the back porch, and the shadows cast from the elm trees make it flicker and dance on everything it touches. The only thing I hear is the A/C when it comes on, and then blissful quiet again when it shuts off.

I can't believe it's only been two weeks since we got home from Michigan the first time. Trains, Planes, and Automobiles, throw in a boat, a trolley, a couple of cabs and an emotional roller coaster... what a whirlwind these last three weeks have been.

I was uploading the pictures off our camera yesterday. There was a picture on there of a place in downtown Chicago called "The Redhead Piano Bar" and it reminded me of you and Aunt Lola - you for the piano part and Lola for the redhead part. I never got to show it to you. You never got to see the video of Elysse's ballet recital (she did such a wonderful job!) or of her at her riding lessons, or Ronnie at gymnastics. You never got to see the guest house I designed, or the living room remodel that we did.

But I'm grateful that you got to stand up with us at our wedding, and be the "Mother of the Bride" at our reception. That you were there when my children were born, and the first one to hold them (after Mommy and Daddy, of course). And that you were there at my college graduation, and when my first boyfriend broke up with me, and when I tripped and fell in the driveway and got a goose-egg on my forehead at 4 years old. And I'm glad that out of all the baby girls you had to choose from, you chose me and made me your own. We may not have always understood each other - as mothers and daughters often don't - but I know deep down in my heart that no matter what was said or done over the last 48 years, you loved me unconditionally.

So now when something happens and I think to myself, "I wish Mom could see/hear/be-here-for that," I'll tell you about it on here and we'll share a moment of blissful quiet together.

I love you, Mom.

-- Julie