When Bob's mother died in Pennsylvania, we were unable to attend the memorial service, and his sister asked him to write down a few memories to be read aloud at the service. His mother suffered from Alzheimer's at the end of her life - it is others who now hold onto her memories. With Mother's Day only one day past, it seems an appropriate time to share and honor Bob's memories of his mother, Frances Weimer.

As I write these few words I am sitting at our front window looking out over our meadow at Woodcock Mountain. Mist covers the mile high mountaintop and the autumn leaves of Cottonwood and Douglas Maples color the slopes. The air is cool and dusk is approaching. Soon I will have to light one of the kerosene lamps. I think Mother would have enjoyed it here.

Every day we see things that would remind her of her childhood – like the stray cows from the farm down the road that seem to prefer our meadow to their own pasture, and the occasional fox checking on our now empty chicken coop. And there are some surprising things that would certainly have delighted her; black bears climbing in the crabapple trees, moose prancing in the meadow, and mountain lions ghosting through the deep woods.

But Tracy has asked me to share a few of my memories about our Mother, so I have been sorting through some six decades of memories about her. Some are true. Some memories belong to other people but have been told so often that I have adopted them as my own. Others are the way that I wish that it had been. Here are five memories that I trust, and that mark for me the long path of a remarkable woman.

The first memory is from the day I fell from a tree that I was forbidden to climb and broke my arm. I took my broken arm, my broken pride, and myself to our apartment. Mother was there alone. No lecture, she just assessed the damage and started to improvise a splint and sling. A dishtowel served as a sling, but there was nothing for the splint. So she pulled out a dresser drawer, emptied it, and broke out the bottom – bam! – splints. Then off to the ER where the MD on duty was my Father. The lecture came later.

The second memory is from the time when we lived at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. My dog Laddie accidentally got the leg of a Colonel's daughter in his mouth while she was swinging (my version). I was just explaining this to my Mother when two MP's showed up at the door. "I'm sorry ma'am, but we'll have to take the dog…" which meant of course that he was about to lose his head. Mother said, "No, sorry but that's not going to happen," and firmly closed the door. I'm pretty sure that those MP's must have felt the same sense of awe that I did on seeing my Mother in high dudgeon. There was something about her absolute certainty that won the day. Laddie remained my trusted companion for many years to come thanks to her.

The third memory is also about a dog and was only a decade and a half ago. I was home for a visit and while reminiscing, mentioned Ypsi, my stuffed dog from early childhood. Mother said, "Follow me," and led the way up to the attic. Opening a small cardboard box, she pulled out a plastic bag full of mothballs, and Ypsi. Ypsi now sits upstairs in the glass bookcase over my desk. Thanks Mom.

The fourth occurred during Mother's visit to Oregon in 1996. Mother and I were on a grand tour of the northwest part of the state when she suddenly announced that she wanted to meet an Indian. Okay. I had done some consultation with the Grand Ronde Native Americans, so I suggested that we stop at their Spirit Mountain Casino, which was nearby. "A gambling casino?" Yes. She very reluctantly agreed and we decided before going in that we would only be there a few minutes. Once inside, she started getting interested and wanted to know how the slot machines worked. I ended up suggesting a ten-dollar limit on the quarter slots, and when it was gone we would leave. She played for a few minutes and was quickly down to six quarters. No problem, we will be back on the road in no time. Then she won. Not much. But she was back in the game. Soon a small crowd gathered, cheering her on. Sixteen dollars. Twenty. Twenty-five. "I think we ought to get going," I suggested. "But I'm winning, and you said…" We stayed.

She finally leveled off at 27-dollars, a gross profit of 17-dollars, but it might as well have been the jackpot. At last I talked her into leaving the slots and getting some souvenir T-shirts for the grandkids. And we finally met a genuine Indian, the sales clerk in the gift shop. But for the rest of the trip she would not let me forget that I had dragged her away from her "winning streak."

This last memory really is my last memory of Mother. I talked with her by telephone on her birthday, just before her death. She seemed bright and cheerful and remarkably in touch. It was truly a very happy day for her and she said that everyone was wishing her a happy birthday and singing to her, and that there would be a cake later. At some point I asked about what was new and she became very serious and said, "You know my husband died?" "Ah, yes." I wasn't sure where this was going. "Well, I went out and bought a new car." The only thing I could think to say was, "What kind of car?" "A Ford, of course. We always buy Fords." No, we didn't always buy Fords. But when Mother was a young girl, I'll bet the James family did.

And while this is about my memories of Mother, it is comforting for me to know that at the end of her life her memories were happy ones; memories that reconnected her to her James family roots.

Now it is dark and the mist has descended into the valley. So I will close with the same words I spoke to her at the end of that last telephone call – "Goodbye for now Mom, I love you."

… Bob Weimer