Mom was a red-headed wild child, born in late 1930.  That means that she was 14 or 15 when she picked up the sailors and soldiers that came through Chicago on their way to or from a World War II location. 

Widowed at 35, she raised my brother and myself with honesty and humor.  Honesty in sharing the family secrets (was her grandmother really a madam?) and the death of her teen-aged best friend from drugs (I thought we invented drugs in the 1960s).  She laughed and said that my generation didn't invent sex either.

She took me on waitress jobs while I was in college.  We worked around the clock driving from function to function working the catering affairs around the city.  I'd leave her at a suburban office campus, change out of the waitress uniform and into college wear for a class or two, then catch up with her at an afternoon wedding party in one of  Lincoln Park's tony garden parties. With boundless energy, we'd meet up at 3am from various points and relax at an all-night restaurant in boy's town "where we know we'll be safe at this time."  I'd drive her home while she counted up our cash from the day.  "Was it worth it?" "Yes" I'd laugh in response, but I'm soooooo tired."  "Should I get a replacement for your tomorrow?"  "Heck no, I'll be there."

 When she turned 60, Mom didn't have the energy for the crazy catering jobs. It was difficult to find rides. Her contacts were dying off.  She needed insurance for the diabetes that was a result of her waitress diet of eating on anything on the run.  She got a job at The Jewel, one of Chicago's grocery chains.  She was a bagger. I was working with sales guys in financial services at the time so I had at least one dirty joke for her per day.  She used the jokes like currency, getting the young ones to go out and get the cart, keeping her co-workers amused and making the time fly.  

Mom's phone was always ringing.  She'd dispense worldly advice and end with a joke.  Her retirement party was packed with those that stood up and told stories of her saving their marriage, their sanity, or maybe just making them laugh and appreciate life.  All promised to visit her in the new home that was being built in Las Vegas for her.  She offered a room to all.

My phone would ring at 6am each morning.  Mom would get up at 4am, pour her coffee and welcome me to "another beautiful day."  She loved retirement in Vegas. "Where else can I win more than I spent at the grocery store?  They have slot machines on the way out.  I just put my change in the machine and everything I just bought was free!"

Mom died in Las Vegas only 16 months after moving out there.  Her blood sugar  levels rose and fell, refusing to get under control.  I surprised her with a visit for Mother's Day weekend.  Out of the blue she pointed to the Sunset Mountains as we drove past them and said "when I die, I want to be cremated and my ashes scattered on that mountain.  That's how much I love it here."  She died a month later on Father's Day, peacefully in her sleep (as we'd all like to go).    She already had a burial location, prepaid.  How could we ignore what she said a mere month ago?  Did she know she was dying?  

In August, on the anniversary of our father's death,  my brother and I released my mother's ashes high on the mountain that overlooks the casinos that brought her so much happiness and laughter. It's been 11 years since my phone rang at 6am with a cheery reminder of this being "another beautiful day."

Happy Mother's Day.