I grew up in a broken home. Though I had a mother, my oldest sister and my father were my parents for the most part. My mom had a rough life. She was born to an abusive father, and was manically depressed.  She was in and out of hospitals most of her life. Now, you’re thinking, “How depressing!” Or, “What a way to start a story!” Well, I tell you this because my mom was not the typical soccer mom, but she did love her children.

My mom was poor, and lived off the state. She shopped mostly at food banks, or churches, or Goodwill. She didn’t have much at all. Even though she was poor, she was a very generous woman. Many years she donated her time to the Salvation Army. Barely a stocking on, or a coat that didn’t button, she would stand in the cold winter air ringing a bell to collect money for the homeless – people less fortunate than her.

We gave her food, money, and clothes all the time, but she gave it away. She’d cook the food for her neighbors, and she would give the clothes away. We’d fight with her, “Why are you giving this away?” She’d simply say, “They are less fortunate.” So we decided to ask, “What can we bring you? What do you need?” She’d say, “Red lipstick.” I guess those essentials are not sold in church basements.

My last day with her was a great day. It was a sunny day in March – still a little chilled, but a beautiful blue sky with the warming sun. We headed out for some clothes shopping; she needed a winter coat. I wanted to take her to the mall to get a new coat; not a used coat. She said, “No! I want to go to Goodwill.” So, we did. She was looking for a long-red coat. Funny, as I write this, I can’t remember if she ever found one. That is sad to me – a simple memory that is slipping away.

Afterward, we went to eat. As we finished, I pulled out my lipstick and put it on. She noticed, “You can put on your lipstick without a mirror?” She watches in amazement, “That’s talent!”

A few short weeks later, I get a call that my mother is in the hospital with pneumonia. As I sat there holding her hand, she realized, “I missed your Birthday.” I said, “That’s okay.” She said, “No it’s not!” She died later that night.

That was a decade ago, and I can still feel her hand in mine, I can still feel the warm sun from the times I had with her, and I will cherish the small moments as long as my memory allows me.

Cherish your mom! Even the one’s that are not so normal; because in their last hour, they will be thinking of you.

It’s 1977, and I just moved onto a newly developed, dead-end neighborhood; the kind that all the homes lookalike. Only a few homes are completed, and there is this one house across the dirt street with a family pulling into their driveway. It’s the Truschel’s.  I didn’t realize at the moment, but I was introduced to a family that would be a big part of my life forever.

On April 2, a man who lived in that home, passed away in that house that I played, skipped school, had parties, sleepovers, and great memories of family. He was my best-friend’s father, but he was like a father to me.

Some called him Truschel; some called him Mr. Wilson; and some called him Dick. Whatever you called him, he was a loving, genuine man who touched our lives.

I count myself fortunate to have had the opportunity to spend time with him in his favorite place on earth, Las Vegas. Last June 2009, my best-friend and I, went to Vegas with him. Of course, we pissed him off on the last night because we were drunk and it was only three in the afternoon. He was yelling at us as if we were 10 years old again. It was quite comical.

To Truschel! I love you, and I’ll always remember you working in your yard sportin those cut-off jean shorts.