Our current house is kind of half-packed-up into storage because of the need to make room for the twins, so although I could probably find a picture if I went around ripping open a few boxes, I also need to get some sleep.
The reason I wanted to have a picture of my mother on this site today is
because it's my birthday, which means I'll turn 49 a bit after 3PM ET.
I shall explain.
I have very strong memories of certain days in those thirteen years she shared with me. I remember that my sister and I always used to receive our supper from our mom in the kitchen, give her a kiss and thank her, and then proceed to the table in the dining room. Dad would then do the same and join us, and the two of them would always made sure we said grace before every meal.
I remember my mom had a really cute laugh - and was rather shy about laughing, actually. I remember her Scottish accent never really came out until she got angry (and it wasn't always at me).
I remember vividly the night I had a really bad bout of whooping cough,
and couldn't catch my breath. Both my mom and dad were with me in the bathroom, using water to try to cool me down and maybe break the fever, and console me any way they knew how…and then my mom, while holding me in her arms, became so upset by what was happening to me, that she fainted - and in that instance, it was I who was then holding her up, while my father, always quick-thinking, grabbed smelling salts and revived her. I seem to remember, in that moment, that the whooping cough had been scared out of me for good.
I was a Boy Scout when I was thirteen, and on one very rainy weekend in October,I went away on what we referred to as a 'Survival Hike'. Out in the woods we'd go with our sleeping bags and napsacks - and 39 cents worth of candy (I'm not kidding) to split between 6 kids and two Scout leaders - some jackknives and a hatchet to build our lean-tos and cut firewood. What we hadn't counted on was how intense the rain was going to be. We lasted through Friday (it was summer vacation, so we had ventured out on Friday morning) and half of Saturday, but the leaders weren't comfortable keeping us out in the conditions. However, this was back before the days when parents might actually sue Scout leaders for subjecting their kids to seriously inclement weather. The leaders were genuinely concerned for our safety, and brought us home. I arrived home completely beat on Saturday night, and Dad met the Scout leader and I at our back door, exchanged pleasantries with him, and helped me put away all my wet gear.
As I entered our living room, I saw my mom was lying on the couch, not feeling well, and dad asked me to get ready for bed quietly so as not to disturb her. She heard me anyway, and asked me to give her a kiss good-night. I leaned over her awkwardly, from one end of the couch, and kissed her kind of upside-down. We laughed about it for a moment, and I went to bed.
No one wants to awaken to the sound of their father crying, or the sounds of
a stranger's voice (the family doctor, as it turned out) in your house on a
Sunday morning, or their father calling the minister.
Trust me on that.
I heard it all from my room, where I lay petrified of the events happening just outside my bedroom door.
"Margaret. Come on, Margaret. Wake up. Breathe, Margaret."
I heard my father say it over and over, his voice shaking.
The words are burned in my mind as if it were yesterday.
Margaret Raith (nee Smith) Biggs was 48 when she had to leave us.
I'm 49 today, and it feels unfair to me. I've now lived longer than she was allowed, and she was a far better person than I could hope to be. I think God made a mistake.
...and I still miss her.
There is a new mother in my life now, pictured here, holding our little girl,
one of two little miracles we share. Janne started by making my life worthwhile again, and then turned around and gave us these two perfect little babies.
So Happy Birthday to me -
son of Margaret and Maurice,
husband of Janne,
father of Liam and Morgan,
and one very lucky man.
