They say the two best days of a boat owner’s life are the day they buy the boat and the day they sell it. Yesterday, we sold our small boat, The Muse, but the happiness hasn’t quite set in yet.
Here’s a little back story. One weekend, friends and I were taking in a band on Sunset Marina, the dock that regularly hosts the wildest parties on the water. I overindulged a bit in their hospitality and needed to escape the rowdy mob. So, I wandered the slips trying to find refuge when I saw a little boat that seemed to be abandoned. Upon closer inspection, I saw a “For Sale” sign, so I went up and found that the padlock on the front was broken. I slid open the door, sneaked to the bedroom, and pulled a Goldilocks. I slept like a baby angel until I was awakened by the desperate calls from my friends who’d decided to go home and realized I was missing. I said good-bye to my new boat friend and returned to my own marina.
The next morning I awoke in my own bed and realized that the little boat was the answer to my prayers. In 2012, I decided I wanted to take on the challenge of living on the lake for a full year, but there was no way our boat, Lakematized, could accommodate me, Frank, two dogs, and two cats. And, there was no way we could afford a houseboat large enough to do so. However, we could afford a small 1972 steel-hulled, Cumberland to house the cats, my office, and guests. My dream of lake life could become a reality.
We found out the owner was an elderly man who absolutely adored the lake and lived there until he passed. He had a cat. It was an omen. So, we bought the little boat that I hijacked that July night and named her The Muse. It soon became my haven. Upon stepping on board, I always felt engulfed by peace and safety. Whenever I couldn’t sleep, or was mad at Frank, or just feeling sad and angsty, I would go sit on that boat and let it rock the blues away. Whenever I had to stay here overnight all alone, I'd lock myself in and know that The Muse would protect me until morning.
Yesterday, with hardly any notice a man showed up to look at The Muse. He came back within three hours with cash and supplies so he could stay on it for the night. Selling a boat at this time of year is a huge blessing. I should be thrilled, but I’m so sad. It all happened so fast that I didn’t have a chance to say good-bye. I wanted to bask in the memories of all of the fabulous friends who made it their home for the weekend. I wanted to remember the "before and after" and take pride in all the work we'd done to her. I wanted to take one more nap on that little boat before letting her go.
Maybe I still can. After all, my relationship with The Muse started with trespassing. It should end that way too. The next time I know the new owner is out-of-town, I’m going to break back in, and give the little boat a proper thank you and farewell.
Much like in the prairie days when Ma and Pa went into to town to the Sundry Store to fetch dry goods and gingham, once a week I leave the lake and venture into the big city. Every Wednesday, I gather up all of the laundry and our cans, bottles, and plastics (Burgin doesn’t have a recycling center), pack up the old laptop and some fancy clothes, leash up the hounds, and haul it all into the metropolis of Lexington. Even on a good day it’s a bit of an ordeal that takes three trips with a garden cart. I should mention that the path from my house to my car requires crossing a concrete dock, then heading through the wooden walkway referred to as Spider Alley because of the surfeit of arachnids, then avoiding otter shit while navigating around the bait shop, over another wooden dock, then another concrete pier, across a rickety bridge, and up a ridiculously steep incline nicknamed Hell Hill. The trek is ¼ of a mile. I make it a minimum of four times a day to take the dogs to the shore.
This Wednesday was going to be just another journey into civilization until I noticed that one of my cats was having trouble breathing. Oscar Brown, who was usually Oscar Brown the Meanest Cat in Town, was listless and lethargic and wheezing and rattling. I gave him his favorite wet food. He refused to eat. He refused to move. His eyes were glossy. His little lungs were trying to suck in air. It looked painful. He was pitiful. He needed medical care.
I called my usual country veterinarian, but was informed he was out vaccinating pigs and wouldn’t be available until morning. I couldn’t wait until morning. I had a meeting I did not want to miss in Lexington at 7pm. And, I was not about to leave a distressed Oscar on his own. I called my Lexington vet. He could get me in at 4pm if I could get to town. It was 2:30, the drive was an hour, and I hadn’t even started to load the car.
I ran back and forth across the dock, cart bouncing behind, boob sweat pouring, leaping over duck dung and finally got the car packed up except for the beasts. I wrestled Oscar into his cat carrier and hooked up the dogs. When we got to the car, Doc Grizzly decided he wanted to ride in the front seat, which was where Oscar needed to be. I had to physically lift all eighty-five pounds and shove him in the back. This was not done without much cursing that echoed across the water. I grabbed the cat carrier. Simultaneously, Oscar urinated and defecated on himself. It was now 2:50pm. No time to go back. I dumped the carrier, snatched a Sponge Bob beach towel from the dirty laundry, wrapped Oscar in it, and put him on my lap. On the way out of Norman’s Camp, a giant S-10 pick-up nearly ran me off the road. I swerved into a ditch and out. The dogs fell in the floorboard. Oscar pissed again. This time all over me. Still, I drove and drove, through the Palisades—five miles of the most narrow and windy roadways always riddled with drivers who refuse to stay on their side and tractors that putt along at thirty miles an hour. As I went around a particularly sharp turn, an errant turd rolled out of the carrier and into the floorboard. Still, I drove and drove with a limp and stinking cat on my lap. I made it into town and pulled up to the vet’s office with no time to spare, which meant the dogs had to go in with me. We've established that Doc is eighty-five pounds. Rufus is one hundred and fifteen. So, that means I now must carry the cat and control two hundred pounds of canine.
I sat Oscar on the exam table. He immediately jumped up and began batting at a light cord. Somehow he was dry and all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I was still soaked with urine and sweat and covered in orange fur clumps. The vet put the stethoscope to Oscar’s chest, which was no longer heaving.
“What do you hear? Is it bad?” I asked.
“I really can’t hear anything. He’s purring too loud. But he seems fine. Is he always this chill?”
Apparently, there were two possible explanations for Oscar’s miraculous recovery. Either the adrenalin and epinephrine from the ordeal acted as a natural steroid and cleared up his respiratory tract or it was kidney stones, which he passed when he pissed in my lap. As the smell wafted up from my dress, I demanded, “Euthanize him.” The vet refused, so I loaded cat and dogs back in the rank-smelling car and took them home where Oscar Brown resumed his reign as Meanest Cat in Town. Just another day in lake life.
I just wanted to give you a glimpse into my oh-so-so glamorous world.
Last night during the Emmys, long before the touching Robin Williams’ tribute, I started to cry. And not because I realized I now have Kathy Bates’ physique, but because I realized that it is getting less and less likely that I am going to make my dream of becoming a writer for Saturday Night Live come true.
Now, in my experience there are two different types of dreams. The kind you love to fantasize about on rainy days, but realize on some deep level, will never come true and wouldn’t make you happy if they did. For example, being able to fly. Seriously, you’d have to get all your clothes tailored and wings would be hell to keep clean and you’d either have to sleep on your stomach or alone since they’d take up most of the bed. Then, there are the dreams that, no matter how lofty, you know are...or were...achievable. The ones that you know you could have made come true if you’d just been in the right place at the right time, or worked a little harder, or made different life decisions. Those dreams--the ones you really, potentially could have made them come true, but didn't--are the ones that are hard to swallow—at least, without puking them back up.
In my mid-twenties, I was in New York City. I was meeting people. I was going places. My work was being produced at comedy joints like The Duplex. Then, I came back to Lexington to make a film. And, not just any film…the film that was going to propel me into the career I so desired. Then, the investor dropped out. So, I drained my bank accounts to pay off the cast and crew. The experience not only knocked all the wind out of my sails, but ripped them into rags. I gave up on myself. And, I gave up on my dream of becoming a successful NYC comedy writer. Worse, I stopped allowing myself to dream big altogether. For the last twenty years, I’ve kept my dreams small and manageable. And, I have suffered for it.
This leads me to one of the happiness habits from the Huffington Post article. It claimed that, as a rule, happy people are resilient people. Depressed people are those who give up on their dreams and succumb to failure.
Then during the acceptance speech for Outstanding Writing for a Miniseries, Movie or a Dramatic Special, I had an epiphany. I could still accomplish that. I’m 46, not dead. I could still win an Emmy. Why the hell not? After all, I can still type. I wiped the tears from my eyes—which burned like hell, since I’d been drowning my sorrows in salted, buttered popcorn and still had residue on my fingers—and decided that I don’t want to be a Dream Quitter. I’d rather die trying to accomplish something amazing even if I don’t succeed, than to live without trying.
For in the words of Mark Twain, “Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”
Recently, my Muse has been on a black-out moonshine drunk, but none the less, I was determined to write a blog today. So, I turned to Holiday Insights, which lists all the bizarre holidays on the calendar, in hopes of finding inspiration. Come to find out, August is “Admit Your Happy” Month. I can’t. For most of this summer, I have struggled with a case of the blues. Not the deep clinical depression that requires immediate medical attention and plagued me throughout my twenties and early thirties, but a low-grade gloom that I just can’t kick. The kind that doesn’t completely paralyze you, but slows you down so much that you can’t get anything worthwhile accomplished. It zaps your creativity and energy, lowers your willpower, steals your inspiration, and makes you vulnerable to that voice that declares, “You’re not good enough. You’re not talented enough. You’re not smart enough. You’re not pretty enough. You’re just not enough to deserve happiness.”
Of course, I’m pretty damn good at fleeting pleasure. But usually it’s the kind of pleasure that is followed by overindulgence, guilt, and often a hangover. However, I’ve never come close to mastering the art of being consistently happy...and it's about damn time I did. I want talking the kind of self-sustaining happiness that comes from an internal sense of peace, well-being, and belonging. The kind of happiness that allows you to navigate through the world with confidence and joy and trust. The kind of happiness that breeds spontaneity and success and smiling at strangers. Experts say it’s a choice, a commitment, a habit. So I’ve decided that, at forty-six, it’s time to take this happiness horse by the reins and commit to learning how to be happy on a daily basis. But, where to start? The Huffington Post, of course. I found an article, The Habits of Supremely Happy People, on the topic and I’m going to make it my mission to try and adopt each of these habits over the next few weeks and share the results with you. What’s the worst that could happen?
I think every author dreams that one day their novel will be made into a film. To learn my dream cast for The Miracle of Myrtle: Saint Gone Wild and get a full menu and soundtrack for your next "Myrtle" book club follow this link to the Dae&Writes Blog.
As a bonus, I shared my recipe for Purgatory Eggs...so good they'll make you slap your mama, then pray about it.
So I wasn’t actually kidnapped by a tribe of Turtle People, but Frank and I have been on an equally exciting and sometimes harrowing adventure. As many of you know, in 2012 I went even more insane than my usual brand of crazy and quit my groovy job at skirt! Magazine, sold most of my shit, and moved onto a pair of houseboats called “Lakematized” and “The Muse.” I fully intended to write a book about the experience called Bourbonista on a Boat: From Glamour Girl to Off-the-Grid. However, a couple of glitches occurred. I envisioned a kind of Eat, Pray, Love journey of self discovery and enlightenment. My experience ended up being more of the Drink, Curse, and Fuck variety, which isn’t nearly as marketable…especially when I’d have to leave most of the best stories out since they involved other residents of the marina. If I told it like it was I’d be chased off this dock with torches in a scene reminiscent of the one with outraged villagers pursuing the monster in Frankenstein. But even though I didn’t get a book out of it, I got something else—a new way of life. Once you go lake, everything else feels fake. So, last year Frank and I bought a piece of waterfront property with the intention of building a floating house. Then about a month ago, a friend sent us a link to a place that was everything we wanted. So, I single-mindedly went about liquidating what we could and getting a loan for the rest. We made an offer, they accepted, and we pontooned down to Gwinn Island to haul our home back. It took six and half hours of playing Huck Finn and drifting down the lake, but we made it here on Tuesday. I spent the rest of last week clearing out the boats, which are now up for sale…come on you know you want…no you NEED a houseboat. The bar is fully stocked. Frank has a Tupperware of soup beans in the freezer. A cat has already coughed up a hairball. The dogs have turned over the trash. Baby Duck and Turtle Turtle have found their way here for breakfast. Frank has made a fool of himself doing the drunken robot (yes, I’m referring to the eighties dance). I’ve made my famous deviled eggs. We’ve made love. And, I have written this blog from my brand new office, which means we are officially moved in to Lakematized II. Let the shenanigans begin!
Moving...Herrington Lake style. Two pontoons pushed, while I sipped a cocktail and watched for logs and such.
In honor of Lexington Poetry Month...The Monster.
The monster comes on big, flat feet,
That beat, beat, beat,
Against the hardwood floor.
Gaping mouth drips with glitter and gore,
From the victims who have come before.
Who left her surgeon husband and life of ease,
To join Cirque de Soleil and learn the trapeze.
At two hundred feet, she felt her confidence crack,
As the monster whispered from below in the black,
You’re too old and fat to soar so high,
Only the beautiful and young can fly.
In mid-air, she lost the hope once found,
And went plummeting toward the ground.
The monster waited to break her fall
And swallowed her up sequins and all.
Then there was John,
Who traded in his briefcase for a Gibson guitar,
Which he took each night to a Honky Tonk bar.
Where he doled out his heart one note at a time,
To the lonely and lost without charging a dime.
The monster moved through the shadows to the front of the crowd,
And hissed in a voice both soft and loud,
There is nothing special about that song,
The melody’s weak and the chords are wrong,
And the verse has nothing new to say,
You’re just a pathetic, off-pitched cliché.
The minstrel continued to croon and strum,
Until the monster struck him dumb,
With a simple statement,
You are such a disappointment to your mother.
The monster devoured him right there on the stage,
Washed him down with a shot of Ancient Age,
Then wiped away the despair and drool,
And challenged the bouncer to a game of pool.
And now, the monster comes for me.
On big flat feet,
That beat, beat, beat across the hardwood floor.
It stands at the foot of my bed...
With eyes burning red,
Boring a hole,
Through sheets, skin, soul
Teeth like razors.
Dripping down the creature’s face,
Are John’s talent and Gabrielle’s grace.
In horror, I gasp, “What are you?”
Silence engulfs the room,
It becomes cold as a tomb.
Then, the monster speaks:
You can call me conformity, greed, slayer of schemes.
Ignorance, complacency, destroyer of dreams,
Apathy, organized religion, a corporate career,
But most of my friends just call me Fear.
Make yourself clear.
What do you want from me?
Your forlorn flesh between my teeth.
No meat tastes as sweet as that of a carcass sucked clean of creativity.
If you don’t want to feel my wrath,
Step back onto the beaten path.
Instinct kicks in…
From my bedside, I grab my trusty pen
And search for a chink in his scaly skin
I intend to stab him again and again!
But a voice from somewhere deep inside demands,
Don’t fight, write!
My Mont Blanc becomes a sacred sword,
My notebook is my shield
I need no greater weapon,
It is words that I will wield.
As Ink pours onto the eager page,
I feel the monster’s enveloping rage.
Do you really think your drivel will stand the test of time?
No one cares about your insipid rhyme.
And the novels you’ve penned are an outright crime.
I keep writing.
So, you plan to spend your days weaving stories at the lake?
I ask you, how many hack writers does it take…
To actually earn a living.
I keep writing.
He continues his rant right up until dawn,
But still the words march on and on,
Strong, secure, and sure as a sage.
Until they fill the entire page…
And then the entire tome.
When they have nowhere else to roam.
Each word breaks free like a killer bee,
And makes a feast of the beast.
Adjectives and verbs sting him until he yells and swells,
Exclamation points gauge out his eyes until he cringes and cries.
A Sentence wraps itself around his neck like a noose.
He writhes to get loose.
But, a cavalry of nouns riding wild hyphens drags him across the floor and out the door.
As he staggers to his feet and stumbles down the street, I yell,
“That’s what you get for pissing off a poet.”
Welcome to tête–à–tête Thursday with the eclectic and enigmatic Erin O'Donnell Reynolds, the proprietress of Fox House Vintage, which will celebrating its Grand Opening this Saturday.
The Bourbonista: So, tell me, how does one become a vendor of vintage?
Erin: I was diagnosed with compulsive shopping disorder when I was 15. It's not a joke, it's a real disease and I have it. Thankfully, about 5 years ago, one of my friends introduced my to the wonders of thrifting, so my disease is not also a credit card problem. A few years after that I used my compulsive shopping to open a magical thrift kingdom, called Fox House Vintage. And now, my life is perfect. In your face, compulsive shopping disorder!
The Bourbonista: I have a problem with online shopping. Particularly, drunk eBaying. I once bought a dress intended for a Barbie doll thinking it was an actual evening gown in my size. It was very disappointing. So, tell me more about you. This time, at least one word must begin with the letter “X” and none can begin with the letter “S.”
Erin: Xanax makes me puke. I'm obsessed with organization, but I think it's a minor control issue. I love going to therapy, because narcissism is accepted. I will go for a month and not brush my hair. I think I'm good at quite a few things, but have yet to master anything.
The Bourbonista: If you were a circus performer, what would you be and why?
Erin: I'd be the seal with the ball on his nose. They make weird noises and are under the circus radar. I love a good seal.
The Bourbonista: I am a fan of the pinnepeds, too. Especially walruses. It seems, if you were having a bad day, wallowing with a walrus would make it all better. What would you do if you won the lottery?
Erin: I'd call my accountant, cry a little over the taxes and then never buy a ticket again.
The Bourbonista: I'd buy a walrus. If you were on death row…don’t act like you don’t know who you killed to get there…what would be your last supper?
Erin: My last supper would be a Lucie Meyers (of the A La Lucie phenomenon) catered smorgasbord. I would eat anything she made.
The Bourbonista: Smorgasbord...smorgasbord...that word makes my mouth itch. Seriously, I have to scratch my tongue, now. Weird. So, describe yourself in three words all beginning with the letter “B.”
Erin: Beguiling, Blithe, Blunt.
The Bourbonista: Blunt is one of my favorite qualities in a person. Screw PC, and give me some CHT--cold, hard truth. If your life had a theme song, what would it be?
Erin: "Land of the Freak" by King Khan & The Shrines.
The Bourbonista: Oh yeah, good groove. Give a shout out to the deaf girls. Now, write a short “Thank You” letter to your future self for all the cool shit you’ve done twenty years from now.
Erin: Dear 49 Year-Old Erin, Thank you for never going to jail. Love, 29 Year-Old Erin
The Bourbonista: Miraculously, if I can avoid the slammer for three more years, I'll be able to write myself that letter too. Finally, If you were a booze, which would you be and who would you want to drink you?
Erin: I'd be bourbon so my family could finally benefit from having me as a member.
Don't Miss the Grand Opening of the new Fox House Vintage located at 123 W Sixth Street. Al's Block Party will be happening right next door. This Saturday, May 24th. All day food and fun, deals and drinks!
We crossed the bridge and stepped onto the wobbling walkway that lead to Royalty’s Fishing Camp. Splinters and renegade spikes plagued each step.
“They should call this Tetanus Way,” I said.
“Actually, they call it Durham Row. For years, it’s been occupied by members of the Durham family. Old Man Durham, his son and then their sons and some uncles and cousins. I swear there were so many Durhams that you couldn’t swing your dick around without hitting one.”
“I’ve seen your dick. There must have been a bunch.” I flicked the crotch of his shorts for emphasis.
“Are any of them still here?”
“Yeah, I think Bobby Gene is.”
As if on cue, a voice with a tenor twang cut through the warm June air, “Well, bless my soul and call me Etta James, is that Frank Rose?”
The question came from a man sitting on the front of a small houseboat with white wicker patio furniture and a rainbow flag waving in the breeze. Tied next to it was a deck with an array of terracotta pots in all sizes and shapes sprouting with herbs, vegetables, and flowers. Bobby Gene was a tall man of about sixty with a hawkish nose and close-cropped, gray goatee. His blue eyes sparkled with welcome and wisdom, but most of all mischief. He wore swim trunks and a matching polo shirt, both the color of lemon curd.
“I’ll be damned.” He stood, put his hands on his hips, and took a longer look. “It sure is Frank ‘Flaming Ankles’ Rose.”
Frank stuck out one foot to show off a ring of yellow-orange flames that shot up from his calves. “Hell, yeah, dude. I’m back.”
“Get your ass over here.”
Frank took off across the walkway. His dog, Rufus ambled after.
“Let’s go say ‘hello,’ baby,” he called back over his shoulder.
“Come on, Grizzle, let’s go.” I reached down expecting Doc to be at my side. He was what some referred to as a Velcro pet and never strayed more than two or three feet from me. “Doc…Doc Grizzly…Doc Grizzly?”
I looked back. He was flattened out halfway across the bridge like a giant, fur starfish.
“Doc, come. Come on, Grizzly, you can do it.” I tried to sound calm and comforting.
He whined and inched forward, then pancaked out again.
In the end, the only way to get him to proceed was by getting down on my hands and knees and crawling with him along the pier.
Bobby Gene and Frank took turns seeing who could laugh louder.
When we finally arrived at Bobby Gene’s floating abode, Frank was reclining on a chaise lounge and Rufus was pacing the edge of the slip, barking at the water in anticipation of a swim. Bobby Gene had moved to his garden and was fussing with a tomato plant.
“Man,” Frank said, looking around. “Everything has changed since I was here last.”
“Everything but the people. Same old queers.”
“So, Don and Darryl are still here?”
“Yeah, they’ll never leave.”
“Who exactly are this Don and Darryl?” I asked, and perched on an Igloo cooler.
“They’re a couple. They’ve been together since the seventies and have had a boat here since the early eighties. I think they might have met at The Bar back when it was Johnny Angels,” Frank explained. “They’re not your typical homosexuals. They both love Nascar and bass fishing—“
“And, Bonanza reruns,” Bobby Gene jumped in.
“So, does Michael still have that boat?” Frank asked, gesturing to an impeccably kept white Stardust Cruiser with orange trim and ornate tapestry curtains visible through the front sliding glass doors. As an aside to me, he added, “He’s gay, too. He used to date my friend Jamie.”
“Really? He’s gay, too?”
“Gayer than a Key West tea party.” Bobby Gene moved to a pot of cilantro and began picking off the stems that had already begun to flower. “The seeds produce coriander. It’s a wonderful spice. I use it in a lot of my Indian and Thai dishes.”
“Who else is down here, now?” Frank inquired.
“The two boats next to Michael are owned by these really, pleasant lesbian couples.”
“Cool. This dock needed some skillet lickers.”
“Skillet lickers?” Bobby Gene asked, obviously unfamiliar with the term.
I leapt into the conversation. “Why would you refer to a vagina as a skillet? It makes no sense. Plus, it’s just downright offensive.”
“Honey, have you met Frank? His middle name is offensive.” Bobby Gene waltzed over to a container overflowing with dill.
He pulled a sprig and held it beneath his nose giving him the appearance of having a bushy, green mustache. He breathed in deeply, savoring the scent. “Mmmmmm…”
He handed it to me. I rubbed it between my hands so it would release its oils. The fragrance of freshness wafted up.
“Dill is the secret ingredient in my deviled eggs. It’s also heavenly in fried potatoes. Have you ever tried it?” Bobby Gene asked, then added, “It is damn tasty.”
I took on my most lascivious voice and pumped my eyebrows. “Tasty enough to make you want to lick the skillet?”
“Honey,” he said with a snap, “ain’t nothing that tasty.”
I know our relationship has not been a close one for a very long time. I realized we have only seen each other three times in the last twenty-five years. I’m not entirely certain why this is, but it is not your fault. After the pain and difficulty of my childhood, I just wanted to leave it all behind and, unfortunately, I think that in the process I left you behind as well. The physical distance between us made it hard to reconnect. When you add in our very different views on the world and religion and right and wrong, it felt impossible. But with all of that being said, I just wanted to take this letter to thank you.
Thank you for nurturing my love of words and buying me all the books I could read. That reading led to my becoming a writer. Thank you for the multitude of opportunities you gave me growing up in the form of dance, piano, riding, gymnastics and other lessons. Thank you for always taking an interest in my education and making sure I had the supplies and support I needed to learn and complete all my school projects like: my wonderful costumes for “I Love to Read” Day and plays; art supplies for poster and pumpkin decorating contests; and gifts for favorite teachers. Thank you for pushing me to be better and believing that I could accomplish great things. Thank you for taking time to drive me to my many activities even when they were miles away from Mt. Sterling. Thank you for putting together scrapbooks and saving my memories. Thank you for getting me involved in Girl Scouts and sending me to summer camps where I gained independence, met new people, and learned new skills. Thank you for always attending my pageants, performances, and programs.
Thank you for dressing me up and putting me on the church bus every Sunday. The faith I found in Sunday school as a child is still with me. And though my spirituality is not traditional, my relationship with God is strong and alive. Thank you for the research and hours you spent helping me fill out college applications, scholarship forms, and financial aid so I could attend a university. Thank you for making certain I always had stylish, clean clothes and a comfortable bedroom. Thank you for the beautiful birthday cakes you had decorated for me each year. Thank you for exposing me to music and filling our house with your song. Thank you for making me use good grammar and not use “at” to end a sentence. Most of all, thank you for loving me even when I was difficult and distant.
In closing, I just want to say that although we don’t speak often, you are in my thoughts and prayers. And I will always love you and be ever so grateful for all of the things you did back then to make my life as wonderful as it is now. I hope each day of the rest of your life is filled with peace, prosperity, health, and joy. Happy Mother's Day.