Dear Mom,

Happy birthday, Mom. Lorraine. Lani. Marcella.

Part of what we leave - you left - is your five year diary - in your own hand.

I value that portion - the slide of ink on paper - our own force driving the words on the page - "The force that through the green fuse drives the flower Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees Is my destroyer. And I am dumb to tell . . . " Ah, the poet your bore in me.

My mother would read, out loud, poetry, plays, stories. The word was the beginning of everything - for me. She and I read with my brothers; later I would read with my children so that words mattered. If we were painters, it would be a pallet heavy with crimson, vert, white and all the shades between. Lorraine did not leave out the nuance - although she could be heavy handed. Here she is - just a girl - a girl - loving her children - discovering herself.

Here she is in a another light, perhaps a fantasy light but one where she was full of joy.

She gave me some remarkable take-aways:
1) You will never be beautiful; you must create an illusion (ah, writing)
2) Men like women, pretty women. You can be smart or pretty; go for pretty smart.
3) Learn to cook (she never did and I was slow coming into my few special dishes)
4) Don't worry about things. Things are what you pawn when times are tough.
5) "You can be anything you imagine." And she believed it. So I did.

So, there is my mother. Don't misunderstand - my mother had many faults - but when she regarded her children - they would be kings, presidents, writers, explorers, rock stars, whatever could be imagined - she believed in them. If there is any energy from my loving mother's soul - it is still true.

You put a child into the atmosphere; anything can happen. But you have a choice - to make it strong. Lorraine made strong children.