Every person who had ever met my mother loves her. She is the proof for me that God exists and she is a woman. Time's that I was sick either with a simple cold, or chicken pox, I remember the healing comforting hands of her stroking my brow. Sometime in a fever I would swear it was her wings doing it, because I just knew she was an angel in a mothers body.( but aren't all mother's?) During these times she would tell me stories of when she was a girl growing up in magical land's called Scotland and England. Stories that including her using her brogue ( that sing song way scottish people have) that would and still has me smile. Exotic food's, well exotic to me being 7, I mean, sourdough bread slathered in butter and chocolate sounded like heaven compared to the Special k crap she had me on. Or still gross food's like 'Black pudding" which ended up being fried blood. My whole existence has been these stories, and my love of everything anglophilic.
I have always wanted to share these experience's with her, but her fear of flying would never let it happen. So I had to come to the resolve to start this blog so she could read of Tim and I's adventures abroad and somehow relive them thru our eye's and words. Imagine what I felt when she did in fact dug down and despite her crippling fear, said she would go with us this time, with my father. They say you can never go home again. They are wrong. My mother was and did go home, while I found mine.
So thank's to Nancy Nystrom, perhaps the best therapist in the world (her office is in Illahee, Bremerton if you ever need one, she is the only one I would ever recommend for anything) and thank's to medical mild stress leveler's, and thanks to my father for being the constant rock to her that he is, we had lift off.
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