I was five years old the last time I saw my Mother. She was dying of cancer though, of course, I didn’t know that.
I don’t have many memories of my first mother but one was a warm one, literally. We lived on a farm in Etowah County, Alabama, and she cooked on a wood stove. I was the youngest of seven and everyone else was at work or school when I got up to eat breakfast. It was winter and our three-story house, which was heated by a fireplace and the wood stove in the kitchen, was cold.
The fire in the stove was out but the stove was still warm and she sat me on an eye –the best seat in the house– and put a plate of eggs in my lap.
When I turned five, on June 4, 1947, I celebrated my birthday in her room at Holy Name of Jesus Hospital in Gadsden, Alabama. When the party of was over she told me, “Be a good boy.”
I never saw her again. She died on June 15, 1947.
Coming tomorrow, an extra but not a story: “Advice To A.T. Thru-Hikers, Class of 2017”
Coming Friday: “Were They Talking About Me!?”