Long live the queen

 

I write a lot about my dad - his history and his influence on me. That’s often the way it goes when you lose a parent before their time. Writing, journaling - it’s how I keep his memory alive in both my mind and my heart.

But my mom?

She is the QUEEN.

She was born and raised an hour’s drive from New York City - a far cry from the Midwestern cattle farm where I grew up.

The daughter of a police chief and a homemaker, she enjoyed a childhood that included boat trips off Long Island and along the Hudson River. After high school, she attended trade school and earned a certificate in cosmetology. She worked the makeup counter at the Macy’s in White Plains and spent evenings with friends - going dancing, laughing and living a full, vibrant young life.

But the tall, willowy brunette with the million-dollar smile - who once turned down an offer to appear in a toothpaste commercial - yearned for something more.

That desire to spread her wings took her down the East Coast, eventually landing her in a mid-Atlantic coastal town in Florida, where she could escape harsh New York winters. She found a job as a restaurant hostess and soaked up beach weather and coastal life.

Then HE walked into her restaurant with a couple of buddies.

My dad.

On a weekend pass from the military base up the road in Jacksonville, they were just looking for lunch.

It took one look for my dad to fall - and he fell HARD.

He asked her on a date.

They were engaged three WEEKS later.

They were married three MONTHS later in Ormond Beach, in a small spring ceremony at a Presbyterian church still decorated with Easter bouquets. Dad wore his Marine dress whites. Mom wore a delicate white lace dress.

She was almost 23; he was just a few months younger. Family and friends took bets on how long the marriage would last. Anyone who bet that it would walked away with a nice payout.

This photo was taken during their first year of marriage. Dad was stationed in Fredericksburg, Virginia, attending classes at Quantico. He stumbled upon a private house divided into three apartments and immediately signed the lease.

Mom later said, “We lived on the top floor, and there was no air conditioning. The first thing we invested in was an air conditioner.”

That pretty much summed up their marriage: a balance of Dad’s impulsive decisions and Mom making them work.

The Marines soon sent them to Lubbock, Texas, for flight school. Other assignments followed - North Carolina, Florida - bouncing them around the country in true military fashion.

Then Vietnam called.

My brother had arrived by then. While Mom had the option to accompany Dad to Okinawa, they decided it wasn’t safe with a young child. So Mom stayed stateside with my grandparents in Florida - 26 years old, chasing a two-year-old along the beach while her husband was overseas fighting a war.

Dad was gone for over a year.

This was before Skype. Before FaceTime. Before Zoom.

Military spouses are a different breed - hearts full of humility, spines made of steel. My mom was no exception. They survived years when many military marriages were broken by distance, death or divorce.

One of my favorite stories from that time comes shortly after Dad returned home. Overseas, the guys would head to the O-Club (Officer’s Club) after work for a drink - no wives, no families, no obligations waiting at home. That routine didn’t change right away once Dad was back stateside.

After about a week, Mom had had enough.

She knew the O-Club had an unwritten rule: if a wife called looking for her husband, that Marine would be responsible for the entire bar’s tab.

“It took one phone call,” Mom says with a smirk, “and that put an end to your dad going out for a drink every day.”

A queen move - if there ever was one.

People sometimes ask how a farm girl from north-central Missouri ended up with such non-stereotypical views.

I only have to point to my mom.

Her favorite saying to my brother and me was, “Small-town doesn’t have to mean small-minded.”

She and Dad made sure we traveled, went to museums and the theater, watched the evening news and read the newspaper - every single day. They taught us that there was a big, wide world beyond the little valley that held our farm and made sure we knew we - and everyone else - belonged in it.

I will be forever grateful to that carefree but thoughtful New York girl - the woman who taught me that the color of someone’s skin, their sexuality or their religion does not define them. Kindness. Compassion. Showing up when help is needed - those are the true measures of a person’s worth.

As we enter a new year, I hope we can all learn something from my mom: to be brave enough to leave what’s familiar, strong enough to hold steady when life gets hard and wise enough to make things work - not just for ourselves, but for the people we love.

Long live the queen.