Epiphany: I've become my mother! But not quite

                For nine days straight, I had to leave the house to go somewhere––a doctor’s appointment, a friend’s funeral, bell practice, church, a monthly luncheon with friends, a monthly breakfast with other friends, the hospital for an out-patient procedure, another bell practice as a sub, a writers’ group meeting. Nine straight days I had to get clean, apply make-up, dress (according to the place/event), be sure I had my phone and keys and purse. And gasoline.

                Afterwards, I re-dressed to my everyday garb and laid my clothes on whatever surface was available in either the bedroom or bathroom. I would likely wear everything again.

                One day, it hit me: I had taken over one of Mom’s characteristics the way she took over Dad’s after his death. Many’s the time I visited and her clothes were layered on the recliner. Some on the back, some on the arms, some in the seat. I don’t remember saying anything to her about putting away her clothes. And I’m glad I didn’t.

                Mom always wanted to look her best even at her advanced age, so she kept her magnifying mirror and her Avon beauty products on the breakfast room table. Sis Carolyn would do her hair between perms. I often laughed that Mom was vain, but now, I do the same thing. Am I also vain? I’ll need to consider changing the description from “vain” to “wanting to look nice.” Yes, that’s it. Even into old age. Especially into old age.

                A third way I have become “my Mom” is that I religiously—no, that’s not the right word—diligently work the crypto-quotes and the crosswords, even if it’s the last thing I do before retiring. Even if it’s nearly midnight. Toward the last, Mom sat in her recliner (moved to the breakfast room where a TV sat) with a crossword book and pencil. Talk about diligence.  It wouldn’t have been right to go behind her and check her words and point out that she didn't do it right. Nope, not for one in her early nineties.

                I’ve followed her and Dad’s life-long penchant for subscribing to the state daily—the Arkansas Gazette, and then the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. They also subscribed to the Benton Courier, as do I, only now, it is the Saline County Courier. So many folks do not get a state paper—only the local one, if that. But I have to remember: most folks get their news from TV and I don’t.

                Also, like Mom, I keep house plants, including her African violets, which have grown and multiplied. I’ve shared them—like I did the pears—with any who want one, and still have babies growing in the kitchen windowsills. One of her two hanging baskets of common begonia is still thriving, though I’ve divided it into two. Her split-leaf philodendron is growing, despite the year I nearly lost it to the cold weather. Even on the back porch.

                But I’m not like Mom in other ways. I don’t attend Sunday School. And I attend church until after the anthem. Even when she couldn’t hear very well, she sat with the other ladies and sang and “listened” raptly. She liked the projection screen; she didn’t have to manhandle the heavy hymnal with her arthritic hands. People adored her.

                I can only hope to enter heaven on her coattails.