We said goodbye to Mom today. We are happy to know she is finally at rest after a long, tough haul.
In other posts, I've noted her accomplishments as an editor and public relations pro in the toughest spin zone in the world, our nation's capital, as well as the remarkable feat of raising two terribly cantankerous sons on her own after the tragically premature death of my father.
Tonight, I want to express my gratitude for the greatest gift she gave us: the love of language.
In every house in which we lived, a copy of Webster's Seventh Collegiate Dictionary could be found close to hand in the front room. I thought everyone kept a copy of Strunk and White, the Associated Press Style Book and Bartlett's Familiar Quotations. Puns and Spoonerisms were part of our daily diet, and woe betide the child who let slip a double negative.
I am deeply grateful for the many gifts Mom gave us, gifts like the love of music, an appreciation of history and the knowledge of which fork goes where (not to mention the chow those forks lifted), but it was her joy in the language, spoken and written, that was her greatest bequest to us.
If you have ever punched the rec button on something I've written here, I want you to know that the credit belongs not to me, nor even to the many excellent teachers I've had (hello, Stephanie Jenal; respect, Barbara Fletcher), but is owed in largest part to my dearly loved mom, whose absence is felt like a library razed.
Goodnight, ma. And thanks.