My mother at nineteen, with me as a newborn.

Seventy-five years ago today, the 18th of January in 1932, my mother was born, and today those who love her celebrate that event and rejoice at the generosity of the grand scheme that allows us to continue enjoying the world with her in it.

Like most lives, my mother's has followed a meandering path through hills and valleys full of events great and tragic, small and trivial, seemingly inconsequential but actually life-altering, with unexpected twists and turns that presented dramas from birth to death, and on that scale of the monumental, much in between.

From an idyllic childhood in small town America, through marriage, motherhood, universities, impressive career achievements, some fame, a bit of fortune, and all the way around to an idyllic retirement in small town America, Mom has plotted what she could with dogged determination, and gone with the flow at those times events swept her off her feet and turned her world topsy-turvy.

Because it's her birthday, I am re-posting a poem I wrote for her some years ago because it will make her happy. Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you.

Bread rising under dishtowels
on the white enamel stove
Cards shuffling on red Formica
while Grandma and neighbors laugh
Flat on my back, my head in the sink
want to see the lather
show me, show me
My mother's hands

The top deck of the Bay Bridge
gave a view of Alcatraz but
Larry liked the bottom deck
(you could choose in those days)
Stretched across the bench seat
head resting in a lap
stroking my hair
My mother's hands

Wedding rings and
Grandma's amethyst
in countless turkeys
Cranking the grinder clipped to a board
Pressing pretty paper, sheets and bras
Hanging tinsel strands
ONE AT A TIME
My mother's hands

Cash registers
keyboards, phones and calculators
clothes pins and bluing and White King D
Popping blisters, pulling slivers
needles and pins and hooks
keeping busy
My mother's hands

Bathing my baby
for the first time
imparting the wisdom
Sharing secrets of favorite foods
stuffing, Portagee beans
taught me, held me, saved me, soothed me
My mother's hands

Generations in photos
spread before me
annotated and explained
show my place in the line
Why at the end of my arms
I begin to find
My mother's hands