My Golden Girl

My mother would have been 68 today.

She would have just been hitting her prime as a sassy senior with all the strut and promise of a woman who’s lived a life full of family, laughter and love.

Both of us were born on Friday the 13th something that might seem to be unlucky to most, but not us. We always thought of it as a reminder that we were special. Nobody lifts an eyebrow if you were born on the 3rd, 18th or 23rd. But tell them you were born on the 13th and you always get a hair-raising reaction.

If I try to sum my mother up into one thing it would be impossible. She was so many things to so many different people. She made an impact wherever she went and with whomever she came in contact. The “IT” Factor can totally be applied to her, people were drawn to her, they respected and admired who she was and not just because she threw one hell of a party. She was the party.

I can remember as a little girl watching the parties my parents threw, my sister and I would sneak down the hall in our footy pj’s to peer around the corner into the grand room. Dad would be at the piano playing some swing tune that made everyone dance like no one was watching. Mom would be whirling around making sure everyone had what they needed, the laughter and the smiling faces of friends and neighbors are still as clear today in my mind as they were then. Or if my parents went out on the town, again my sister and I would be spellbound while watching Mom put on her make up and her fancy dress. Shalimar and Old Spice bring me right back to those moments.

She loved pecan ice cream and chocolate turtles. Old movies and popcorn made on the stove. She loved to dance and even won a swing contest or two with my father. Dancing with her in the kitchen between unending rounds of holiday baking used to make us laugh so hard my sister and I’d fall to the floor.

Her most treasured possessions, other than her family, were the pictures she took. She used to tell me if the house ever caught fire to grab the albums and run. She was meticulous is printing on the back when, where and who was in each shot. I guess she thought she would be spending hours pouring over the past and reliving those Kodak moments. Now they serve as the only way back for me to remember the family that seems all too distant.

My sense of humor is a mix of my mother’s and father’s both cards in their own right, but in very different ways. Dad was silly and goofy, slap sticky with a smidge of stooges, and mother was the best of what dry; witty, smart, perfectly timed English humor is at its finest. She loved to read, and when I say read I mean everything, she read books like I eat potato chips. As a young woman she wanted to go to college and be a chemist, but forgo it so her brothers could go because they would have to support families. Truly a waste since they never finished.

We planed to write children’s books together after I graduated from college and even finished one that I used in a creative writing class. Unfortunately she got sick the summer before my senior year and that dream got shelved. We all traveled that last year together, after I graduated, doing and seeing as much as we could. Packing in all the life as a family before we knew it would all disappear.

I try to think about what life would be like if she was still here. How different I might be or if I would have made other choices due to her influence? Where and who would I be if things hadn’t gone so terribly wrong? She was my best friend; the one person I know loved me just for me. Even with all my flaws and insecurities she never made me feel like I didn’t matter. Her pet names for me were, Missy or Princess, to unlikely words to describe the Brandy of today.

Being from the south nobody really went by their given names. My father went by Doc, my mother was Rea or Aunt Rea, my sister until puberty was Scooter, and I forever and always will be Brandy. None of which appear on our birth certificates. My parents even had nicknames for each other, Pooh Bear and Boo Boo Bear…which naturally just became Pooh & Boo. I think that’s why people with out nicknames worry me. It’s almost like nobody cared about them enough to make them their own, to put a stamp of affection on your relationship is to me the highest form of flattery.

November 13th, 1939 (The year both Gone with the Wind and The Wizard of Oz premiered) my mother Mariea Gladys LaCone Rowell pushed her way into the world. I miss her everyday, and on this day especially, so I try and do something we would have done together. After work I am going to see a show, she’s the one that introduced me to the theatre and supported my every endeavor in my pursuit of finding my light. My only regret is that she never got to see me perform.

Well, that’s not true, she saw me entertain at the dinner table, and when we where out with friends. But that’s not the same as standing alone on stage at Caroline’s in front of a packed house. She probably would have been so nervous for me that she wouldn’t have been able to watch. Wringing her hands until that first wave of laughter burst forth; yeah I would have liked her to have seen me shake my jelly.

She would be so proud of all the fears I’ve conquered, but frankly there are many more and while I know she’s watching out for me, I wish she was here. I wish I could remember her voice. I wish she could meet all the wonderful people I have in my life who are my family now. She was the greatest birthday present I ever got and I’d trade anything to hear her call me Missy just one more time, I love you Mom, Happy Birthday!