Dear Cecily,
I remember your Mother in the kitchen lingering over her home made bread and pates and salads, the living area an extension of the kitchen far more than a place to sit. I was such a timid soul, so felt intimated often by your conversations about cuisine, chefs, authors, musicians, medical situations. Once, I broke a bowl in my clumsiness but each of your family was gracious and forgiving.
I remember, too, that Jean faithfully picked you up in her yellowish orange station wagon. There was an August afternoon when you and I went blackberry picking at the beach and this worried her terribly. I think she found us up the road from your house upon our return.
Five years later, your Mother befriended my friend, Dave Abel, when he built a spacious deck for you all. Between them developed a real connection, a love for conversation, such as I had heard her show with Susan, Ian and you. I found this sweet but not surprising. Like you, Ces, she loved to chat ideas, information, stories...
From her, I took home the voice of Roger Whittaker, a great gift to my folks.
I know the mother daughter thing can be testy. But she loved you truly and you had to replace your father in your courage and steadfast care of her.
