“You grab my waist, I’ll grab the fish.”

Today would have been our mom’s 92nd birthday. We celebrated her last birthday with us 19 years ago, I remember it so clearly, brilliant sunshine, many faces around the table, mom at the head of the table, smiling. Six weeks into radiation and chemo for palliative treatment of pancreatic cancer, but she was smiling. Her birthday and St. Patrick’s Day were always linked together, and celebrations could last a week. I would watch for when the daffodils came in from Ireland, they were extra special, and we would fill vases with them. Mom loved daffodils, she would call them her Daffy-down-dillies, so bright and cheerful, yellow heralds of spring.

The treatments left mom weak and tired, but she never lost her sense of adventure. She lived with us and hers was a gentle spirit to have around. We always had at least one fish in a bowl and her last summer we had goldfish from the local carnival who were remarkably healthy. We also had a collection of cats. Penny was a buff colored stray that came to live with us and he was an avid fisherman. He would spend endless hours watching the fish and attempt to scoop them out of their bowl. We had great fun watching his antics, he was never successful, except for the afternoon when it was just mom and I home.

I came around the corner to the kitchen to find one of the small goldfish flipping and flapping on the kitchen floor and I tried to pick it up, at the same time yelling for mom. Dear soul, she comes out, she had been resting, nightgown and robe, socks on her feet, and she tells me the obvious, “Theresa, pick up the poor fish!”

I can do many things, I was the one they called when a dead mouse was found at work, he was in a bag of chocolate, I believe he left this world happy. I have three older brothers and two sons, lived for seven wondrous years on a farm, crabbed off piers for hours, mucked stalls in exchange for riding lessons, but my Waterloo would be live, wriggling fish. I love watching them, but I do not like holding them all wiggling and cold, gives me the shivers.

Mom loved all creatures and truly nothing phased her, “grab my waist” she says, “I’ll grab the fish.” I remember grasping her around her waist as tight as I could and holding on for dear life, while Doris the Brave scooped up the frantic fish in her hands and dropped him back in his bowl. We were laughing so hard by now, her little socks wet, I was afraid we would both slip on the wet floor, and it just got funnier and funnier, we must have sounded like loons. Moments frozen in time, we were mother and daughter, but also the best of friends. I remember getting her tucked back into bed, still laughing, both of us better for the laughter and the fishing expedition.

She was fearless, would drive anywhere in a heartbeat, rode her first horse when she was sixty, and withstood a regime of radiation and chemo treatments like a warrior, a warrior with matching socks and outfits. Always a lady, but not above telling someone to go scratch their ass with a pineapple if they had crossed a line with her. I miss her.

Happy birthday Doris Claire, may there be countless daffodils and merriment this day for you. I hope my boy is with you.