Dear Reader,
The angel of death is apparently on overtime, and I’m pissed, exhausted, and sad.
Last night, my mother-in-love, Cheryl, died.
I called her Mawgy.
Her remarried name was Gohman, and I wanted a special name for her when I married into the family, but I didn’t want to call her Mom because I had my own. So I came up with Maw G. Mawgy, get it?
Eventually, she signed her cards to me that way.
From Mawgy.
EVERYONE loved her, and often people who found out who my MIL was told me what an amazing and gregarious woman she was.
And she was.
However.
I was twenty-one when Barry and I married. Barry was Cheryl’s only son, her eldest child, and they were close. If you have ever married a woman’s only son, who also happens to be her eldest child, well, need I say more?
It’s like you snuck in at night and raided the silver cupboard.
It took a few years, but eventually, I won her over. Or maybe we won each other over.
When Barry and I lived in Nashville, she would take me clothes shopping when she visited, which I appreciated because I had no clothing budget at the time. We had a good time as we hunted for a pair of the then-popular wing earrings. We cooked together, making her signature spaghetti and her “cherry flip.” (I had a poem published about that cherry flip last year.)
Once, Barry and I took her to dinner at a Grammy winner’s house. Mawgy and I were both a little out of our element, so we made each other comfortable.
Apparently, we made each other too comfortable, because before long we were laughing too loudly and embarrassing Barry.
Barry.
Who is usually the louder of the two of us.
And me, the one who was usually more reserved.
She adored our children, and it was mutual. She adored her children beyond belief.
Somewhere along the way, she truly became Mawgy to me.
My Mawgy.
She was gorgeous, fashionable, and multi-talented. When she was younger, she sewed all of her own clothes. She could have been a concert pianist. She loved to paint when she was younger, too, though in all the time I knew her, she only painted one bench, and that was for the town’s park program. I always smiled when I walked past and saw the Dalmatian she had drawn and I wished she would paint more.
She was the last sitting judge for our town. There wasn’t really anything she couldn’t do if she set her mind to it. When she married Barry’s stepdad, she learned to drive a semi so she could team drive with her new husband. They traveled the U.S. in their truck.
She could even parallel park that thing.
I could never.
How can you sum up a 35+ year relationship in a few sentences?
You can’t.
I am glad that we will be able to celebrate her life this coming weekend with family, friends, and people from our community who loved her. The condolence messages are pouring in, and when her ex, Barry’s dad, wants to come to the funeral, well, doesn’t that say it all?
But please, Angel of Death, please pass over us for a spell. We’ve had enough.
I’d love a breath of fresh air about now.
Drema