As Mother’s Day approaches Sunday, I think of my own mother. She passed away on Christmas morning of 2009, three months before her third grandson, Luke Patterson, was born.
I have always hated the thought that Luke never got to meet his grandmother. He didn’t get to meet the woman, who sacrificed much to raise two boys.
He never knew the woman, who worked two jobs for the longest, and never took a dime from anyone. Later, she finally got a good job and spent many times working double shifts.
He couldn’t know how, when it snowed, we would be excited because our mom had to stay home and couldn’t make it down the mountain. We didn’t know, or understand, the stress she felt because of that. No work meant no pay.
Luke has a little toughness in him, like her. She could work on any vehicle, changing the oil, a flat tire, or just get it running.
She could use a hammer and nail as needed, and, just being honest, outdrink any man. She could also be the catcher for a 10-year-old learning how to pitch.
She was always that safety net, when you needed a little money until payday. Oh, we always swore to pay her back, come Friday. But she never brought it up.
Lung cancer took her, because it takes everyone. But she fought it every step of the way.
It bothers me Luke never met her. But I know he has some of her in him. And that makes me know he will always be ok.
It’s been almost 11 years since that fateful Christmas Day. I still miss her daily. I miss those Sunday meals of fried potatoes and pinto beans, or that pot of goulash. I miss her opinion. I miss knowing she always had my back.
Happy Mother’s Day.
DeWayne Patterson is the editor and publisher of the Sentinel. He can be reached by email to email@example.com.