Holding Momma's Hand. . .

I’d like to tell you a story.  

We’ll start on April 3rd, 1974.  We lived in an older house on South 1st Street, not far from the Kentucky Fairgrounds and what would become ground zero for an EF-4 tornado that would be remembered with horror for years to come.  I have only vague memories of the house, as I was just a bit over a year old, but I do have memories of that night.  I remember noise–howling winds and crashing sounds.  We were in a dark place, obviously the basement, and I recall being held, tightly-wrapped in a massive blanket, my mother calmly singing “Song Sung Blue”.

It was no secret that mom hated bad weather.  As a young child, she rode out a tornado in a mobile home, getting a massive scar on her knee and losing a pet parakeet, but she and my grandparents managed to survive the ordeal.  Any time the weather got bad, she would project calm as best she could, but was always frantic about making sure everyone was tucked away, safely.

Like so many other people, my mother was my first best friend.  We watched Star Trek and Battlestar Galactica and Scooby Doo, and she would read me stories of Uncle Scrooge and his adventures, and Agatha Christie mysteries, which I would later read to her, after I had learned how.  She gave me a love of both stories and storytelling, science and science fiction, and a sense of adventure that started in the backyard and expanded to a realization that bikes were for more than just riding around the block.  I learned how to operate, tear apart and rebuild a sewing machine just by watching her and, of course, how to read a weather map and how to get to safety.  She could always find a reason to be happy, and would dance around the house with me on her hip, to the music of Elvis or Neil Diamond.  I clearly remember her singing along to “Canta Libre”, never once stumbling between the English or the Spanish.

She was proud of her Kentucky roots and, though she was rather quiet and reserved around people she didn’t know, wouldn’t hesitate to speak her piece.  She was always crafting and learning new crafts, which also became a part of me.  She could knit for weeks on end, and would donate piles of winter hats and scarves for no other reason than she loved doing it.  She loved to ride, and to camp, and to read, and to play Scrabble.  She loved burnt hot dogs and flat Coke, and was fiercely proud of me and all of her grandchildren.

The last time I saw her smile was when she got to see her great-granddaughter.  I held her hand for the last time tonight.

Song sung blue

Weeping like a willow

Song sung blue

Sleeping on my pillow

Funny thing, but you can sing it with a cry in your voice

And before you know, it started feeling good

You simply got no choice

Goodbye mom.  I love you, dearly.

Donna Jean Wilkins

October 30, 1946-September 25, 2023